Mr. Barazo

 Mr. Barazo must have been really proud of his Volvo. Every day, instead of parking in the lot, he pulled it right onto the playground between the school and the park, like it was part of the scenery. It was summertime, and as the head of recreation at the park, he was always the first one there—except for me.

I lived across the street, so most mornings, I was the first kid at the park. If no one else had shown up yet, I’d sit at one of the picnic tables outside the equipment locker, waiting for someone to come by who wanted to play football. One morning, I was alone when Mr. Barazo arrived. His Volvo had already caught my interest (that’s a story for another time), but this was the first time we actually talked.

"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," I answered.

He unlocked the ballroom, disappeared inside for a moment, then came back out and walked over to me.

"Do you want to play chess?" he asked.

"I've never played chess," I admitted.

"Do you want to learn?"

"OK."

He was already carrying a chess set. He sat across from me, opened the box, and laid out the board. As he placed the pieces, he explained what each one could do. The only ones I really understood were the pawns, so I stuck to moving those while he patiently explained his moves. The game didn’t last long—he won quickly.

"I’m thinking about setting up a tournament," he said. "If I can get enough kids to sign up."

I nodded but didn’t say anything. A chess tournament didn’t sound like my kind of thing. I was here for football. Besides, I knew I’d just lose.

The next day, it was the same. I played chess with Mr. Barazo in the morning, then switched to football when other kids showed up. He never let me win. As time passed, I noticed him playing with other kids too, and it was the same story—he never let anyone win. Our routine continued for weeks. I got better, but I never won a single game.

Then, one morning, after yet another loss, Mr. Barazo looked up and said, "You're getting pretty good."

That stuck with me. Maybe I was getting better. When he asked again if I wanted to sign up for the tournament, this time, I said yes.

For the next week, I caught myself thinking about chess a lot—strategies, moves, and how Mr. Barazo never gave anyone an easy win. When tournament day arrived, there were only six of us. We paired off, and to my surprise, I won my first game ever.

I remembered what Mr. Barazo had said: You’re getting pretty good. And for the first time, I started to believe it.

I won two more games that day. Against all odds, I was the chess champion of Westmont Park.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?