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I played chess this morning against a friend, two games in fact.
It was something of an experiment. My pain was bad, so I had taken the opioid medication prescribed for me. Part of me hoped for a Queen’s Gambit moment. Perhaps the ceiling would reveal a giant chessboard and show me the winning moves.
Instead, I got thumped.
The medication helped the pain. It did not help the chess.
Beth Harmon became a chess genius. I seemed to do the opposite.
It seems that pain and anxiety medication is not quite the unlocker of brilliance for most of us that Netflix portrayed.
Getting hooked to become a world-beating chess player does not look like it will be a good route for me.
My ceiling remained stubbornly ceiling-shaped.
