Playing backgammon with my dad

There was a time when I was serious about backgammon. Not great, but serious.

At the serious-but-not-great level, backgammon is played with the reptile brain. For every situation, you learn and lock in a specific right response.

Roll, move. Roll, move. Fast. Confident. You parry when you should parry, zip when you should zip. I played a fair amount that year. I was hitting my personal peak ’gammon, as it were. And then my dad came to visit.

Growing up I had a terrible track record playing games with my dad. That sounds negative. Let me rephrase: my dad had a fantastic track record playing games with me. He played with a light engaged smile: cheerful, thoughtful, victorious.

As we set up the board that day, I felt a little guilty. He hadn’t played since he was a kid, growing up in Israel. I imagined him at age six, rolling heavy stone dice, sitting in some shady spot in the sands of the Negev. I was going head to head against my six-year-old dad and it didn't quite seem fair.

I imagined him at age six, rolling heavy stone dice, sitting in some shady spot in the sands of the Negev.

On his first roll, he went through every possible option. He chose the right one. I was impressed. I rolled, I moved. Boom.

With his second turn, he took the same kind of excruciating approach, considering every imaginable option before making his selection.

Then me: roll, move, boom.

That was the rhythm of the game. He had none of the moves locked in, but he had crazy patience as he worked through a million scenarios. His moves were usually “the right ones,” but every once in a while, he’d make a surprising choice. I watched with horror.

So I didn’t win that game. Or the one after. We shook hands, put the board away, and turned our attention to lunch.

What the hell had happened?

Looking back, I think his triumph came down to three things: he was methodical, he was patient (did I mention he was patient?), and he was fully engaged. I was locked into my automatic moves. He was locked into the moment.

I try to remember those games with my dad when I find myself getting into too much of a roll, move, boom state of mind.

We often prize speed above all. And no doubt, the reptile brain has its place. It’s the one I use, for example, when I’m leaping from boulder to boulder, or evading lions. But now and then, in the rush of the day, it’s great to take a breath and summon forth the awesome power of being a present, patient primate.

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