The Prologue
X to middle. Strong opening, but basic. Establishes instant control, but gives up the subtlety and assassin-like precision of starting with an edge or corner-square.
What was the correct response? Aaron had told me, weeks… no, months before. Had it really been months?
X’s, O’s, X’s, O’s…
There are only five pieces of each letter and just a few on the board, but to my eyes, they merge together and then explode outward in all directions, a flurry of shapes swirling around my vision.
Focus. I’ve gotten this far. Only one person stands between me and the national title.
Off in the distance, I hear the faint ticking of the timer. A droplet of sweat runs down my nose, hovering just above the dropping point, as if studying the board along with me.
three seconds…
two…
The droplet, seemingly having given up on the game, falls, beginning its descent toward the table below.
two…
Bottom right corner. A desperation move, but it turns out to be the right one, as my opponent responds with bottom left, starting a stalemate sequence. I finish the game, sighing in relief as we tie to set up the rematch. I had panicked, exactly what I had been working to prevent for the past four years.
It can’t happen again.
As I prepare for the next match, I hear Aaron’s voice in my head…
The Gym
…“That’s three. Seriously, how do you expect to win anything if you can’t get used to the timer?”
“Come on… it’s barely any time,” I say. “Why even have a timer anyway? I can’t play at my best if I’m this rushed.”
“The timer is what differentiates a master from a good player,” Aaron responds. “Tic-Tac-Toe is an art. It requires full commitment from the player. You have to be willing to give everything you have to this art. Let the game flow through you, and before long you’ll forget that the timer is even there. If you can’t do that, then maybe this isn’t the game for you.”
“Maybe it’s not.”
Aaron scoffs at that. He knows the same thing that I do. As much as I despise Tic-Tac-Toe, I will keep coming back to it every time. We both know that at the end of the day, when everybody else has left the gym, I’ll be sitting at the table in the corner, playing game after game against myself until the X and O tiles have dried out my hands, leaving cracks branching out across the skin of my fingers.
“Whatever,” I say. “The chess club is looking for new members anyway.”
“Yeah, like chess is gonna get you anywhere,” Aaron chuckles. He resets the game.
“Come on, let’s…”
The Resistance
“…play another round. Do you hear me? I will not let you play another round of that horrible game,” my mom yells across the kitchen.
“Are you serious?” I exclaim. “It’s just a game, what’s so dangerous about it? Besides, Aaron says I have a lot of potential. I could actually go somewhere with it!”
“Uh huh, just like your grandfather did?”
“Mom… I don’t even know what happened to him. You never tell me!”
She goes quiet.
“Mom?”
She sighs. “The game, it… consumed him…”
“What?”
“He was just like you,” she says. “Optimistic, convinced he had potential. He had dreams of a national championship, but Tic-Tac-Toe took over his life. He spent hours upon hours in the gym and racked up debt to trainers. He won a championship, but he lost his family and friends in the process.”
“That’s not me, mom. I’ve worked for this for my whole high school career. Ever since dad gave me my first board, I’ve wanted to win the championship. Now that I’m this close, I’m not stopping!”
“Yes,” she says with a sad smile. “I remember him saying that too.”
The Rematch
The referee sets up the board. Perfectly in the middle of the table, parallel to all four edges. My opponent sits across from me, unmoving and calm, at least on the outside.
We are surrounded by people and cameras, waiting semi-patiently for the match to start. It will be over in less than 30 seconds, but this is still one of the biggest events of the year. I should be grateful simply to be a part of it and make it this far. I try, but something within me cannot accept the thought that I could leave without the championship. I want to win.
I hold four of my pieces in my left hand, piled up. The fifth is held between the fingers of my right, ready to be played.
I let the noise of the crowd fade out, focusing inward on my breathing, the unbalanced weight of the pieces in my hands, the feel of their smooth ivory. I cannot make mistakes. I must be smooth and precise. Precision is speed.
The End
The match is over before I know it. I do exactly as Aaron had said, I let the game flow through me. The tiles are an extension of my hand, falling into place just as I command. My mind envisions the game before it even happens, four, five, six steps ahead. I see what my opponent plans before he himself even knows; I have won the game before the first tile has even been played.
I am one with the game.
I slowly stand up and shake my opponent’s hand. I can tell that he feels my newfound control, how little chance he stood. I barely hear the roar of the crowd as I calmly walk over to the nearby podium to accept my trophy.
Tic-Tac-Toe National Champion. I like the sound of that.
At the end of the hall, I see the doorway into the press room. A sea of clamoring reporters, trainers, and agents awaits me, ready to transform my life as soon as I sign on the dotted line.
It’s what my grandfather would have wanted…
…I think.
