Backgammon Under the Plane Trees

There's a small park near my apartment with a few stone tables under big plane trees. In June, I started bringing my backgammon board there on hot evenings, the same wooden board my father carried from Tehran in 1979.

At first, I played alone, practicing. Then an old Greek man sat down across from me without asking and started setting up the pieces. We didn't share a language. We didn't need one. We played for two hours.

The next evening, he came back with his friend from Lebanon. Then a young Turkish couple. Then a retired Armenian schoolteacher. Every one of them had grown up playing this game with their own fathers, on their own boards, in their own countries.

Now there are five or six boards going every summer evening. We slam the checkers down and shout and laugh in six languages. Someone brings tea. Someone brings sweets. Kids watch over our shoulders and learn the rules.

Last week, the Greek man, whose name I finally learned is Yiannis, beat me seven games in a row. He patted my father's board gently and said, in English, "Good wood."