So, we devoted last weekend to competition. Kind of ironic because I’ve been researching the effects of competition on young kids for an article, and the news isn’t good—but that’s another topic.
Ty’s competition was a big one—the elementary state chess tournament, held in Redmond. Some 1400 kids and their families (6000 people or so) gathered at a massive church for a day of chess. Picture it. Crowded halls, noise, lines for T-shirts and coffee and sandwiches, kids, parents, strollers, camping chairs, laptops. And then periodically, waves of humanity all trying to get to the same place at the same time.
By the end of the day, we were spent. I can’t even imagine how kids can concentrate enough to play chess, but they do, and I’m utterly impressed. Perhaps it’s actually more peaceful to sit across from a kid your own age and play a game you love than to deal with parents in the aftermath.
And at the state level, you can bet there are parents who care about the outcome. Really care. These aren’t the parents who value speed or teamwork or hand-eye coordination—they’re the ones who value intelligence. You can practically feel the brainpower at work in this kind of setting. (But there are lots of regular parents, too, who are there to support their child’s love of chess.)
For me, coming from a sports background, it’s all eye-opening with its own set of vernacular. You hear such things as “Aiden, you’re white on board 36,” and “Now take it slow, don’t just think about your move—think about what he might be setting up.” I say “he” because the tournaments are dominated by boys. There are girls, too, but not nearly as many. The other thing you hear—way too much—is “Did you win?” My personal twitch.
In contrast, Leah spent Sunday afternoon trying out for the Whatcom Development League—that’s the more competitive soccer league for 5th and 6th graders. Leah doesn’t typically like competition, so Curt and I were surprised she wanted to try out. She doesn’t really mind if she doesn’t make it because then she'll have more time for horses, her other love (she'll find out in a couple weeks). When we arrived at the fields to register, the woman behind the table told Leah everything would be fine and the most important thing was to relax and have fun. Leah and I looked at each other. “She is relaxed,” I said.
Completely different setting from chess but no less competitive. I could tell by the way the coach addressed the parents he was trying to head off potential tantrums. “Your daughter’s score is purely numerical,” he said (read: objective). “If your daughter doesn’t make it, you can contact us and we can give you her scores, let you know what things she needs to work on.”
Okay. Huh. This competitive stuff feels like such a slippery slope. You think it’s for fun, and then suddenly it’s not.