I had a fifth grade teacher who taught a bunch of us chess during math class or during lunch.
Somewhere between multiplication drills and worksheets, he introduced us to the game, and I got hooked fast. By sixth grade, I was playing in local tournaments. If you've seen The Queen's Gambit, picture a much less glamorous version of that. A school gym. Long folding tables. Vinyl boards. Chess clocks. Kids trying to look calm. Parents in the stands pretending they weren't as nervous as we were.
It was my first tournament, and I had no idea what to expect.
In my first match, I got paired against a girl my age. Early in the game, I had a chance to end it. I could see the move. I had the sequence. I had the win.
And I passed on it.
I felt bad for her. Or maybe I just didn't want to win that quickly. Maybe I wanted to prove I could do it another way. Whatever the reason, I told myself I'd find another chance later.
I didn't.
I lost.
I remember walking back to my dad in the stands, completely deflated, trying to explain what happened. I told him I could have checkmated her early but didn't. I thought I could win later.
My dad got very intense, which was rare enough that it stayed with me. He got down to my level, looked me right in the eyes, and said, "Spencer, if you have an opportunity to take your opponent out, take them out."
Then he made sure I was looking at him and said, "Do you understand?"
I said yes.
And something clicked.
I went back out with something settled in my head.
I remember sitting down for the next match and feeling different. Not less nervous, but clearer. Like the noise had dropped out and the game had simplified.
No more trying to be thoughtful in the wrong moments. No more waiting for a better opportunity. No more convincing myself there would be another shot later.
I started playing differently.
I moved quicker. I looked for pressure early. I stopped trying to build something perfect and instead focused on what was already there. If I had an advantage, I leaned into it. If I saw a sequence, I trusted it.
And when the opening showed up, I didn't hesitate.
I took it.
One of the games ended almost immediately. A simple trap, the kind you only fall into if you're not paying attention. I saw it, played it, and it was over in a couple of moves. No second-guessing. No letting it pass.
The others followed the same way.
The games ended fast. Faster than I expected. A couple of minutes each. Not because I was playing reckless, but because I wasn't passing on what the board was giving me anymore.
I won my next three matches like that.
Clean. Direct. Decisive.
Later in the tournament, I got matched up against one of the smartest and most accomplished players from my school.
And I beat him.
I still remember doing it with a queen sacrifice. The kind of move that looks reckless until it works. The kind of move that only works because you see the opening and trust it.
I didn't continue with chess for long after that, but that moment with my dad has lived rent free in my head ever since.
Because it was never really about chess.
It was about what to do when the window opens.
For a long time, I've thought about strategy as mostly positioning. Seeing the board clearly. Understanding the market. Anticipating the next move. That matters. It matters in chess, and it matters in business.
But that framework breaks down in one important place.
Strategy is not just about seeing the opportunity. It is about taking it.
That sounds obvious, but it's amazing how often people miss this in business. A competitor stumbles. A key account opens up. A great hire becomes available. A product starts working. A market starts leaning your way. Demand shows up. A real opening appears.
And instead of moving, people hesitate.
They overthink it. They tell themselves they need more certainty. They wait for a cleaner moment, a safer moment, a more comfortable moment. They assume the chance will still be there later.
A lot of times, it won't.
That was the lesson in that gym. I thought I could win later. I thought passing on the obvious move was harmless. It wasn't. I confused opportunity with permanence.
Business does this all the time.
You see an opening and assume it will still be there next quarter. You get a shot at distribution and don't support it aggressively enough. You see pricing power and fail to use it. You spot a weak competitor and still choose to play cautiously. You get invited into a room you weren't sure you belonged in and waste energy wondering whether you're ready instead of deciding how to win.
Years later, I heard Richard Branson speak in Chicago, and he gave language to the other half of this idea. He told the story of building Virgin Airlines, which, on paper, made no sense. He wasn't the obvious person to do it. He didn't have some perfect setup that said he was guaranteed to win.
And he said something I've never forgotten:
"If somebody offers you an amazing opportunity but you are not sure you can do it, say yes — then learn how to do it later."
That line stuck with me because it perfectly complements what my dad taught me years earlier.
My dad's lesson was about what to do once you're in the game.
Branson's lesson was about what to do before you even feel ready to enter it.
Say yes before you're ready.
Then, once you're in, don't hesitate when the moment to win shows up.
That, to me, is a huge part of competition and strategic advantage.
Most people miss opportunities in one of two places. They either never step into them because they don't feel ready, or they get there and still hesitate when it is time to act.
The real advantage comes from doing both well.
Having the courage to say yes when the door opens.
And having the conviction to move when the board gives you the chance.
This is not about being ruthless for the sake of ego. It is not about forcing every situation or pretending every moment requires aggression. Plenty of moments in business call for patience, humility, and restraint.
But some moments call for decisive action.
Some moments are the whole game.
The hard part is that hesitation rarely feels like fear when you're in it. It feels like prudence. It feels like kindness. It feels like keeping your options open. It feels like waiting until you're more prepared.
Sometimes that is wisdom.
Sometimes it is just a missed move.
I still think about that tournament. Not because of the wins, and not even because of the queen sacrifice. I think about it because it taught me something simple and durable at a young age:
Opportunities do not stay open forever.
So when an amazing one is in front of you, say yes.
And when the winning move is there, take it.