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talonkarrde"Pawn to e4," I start, and push the piece forward two places. I grin confidently at the old man, but he doesn't look at me, simply staring at the board. After a few moments, he counters with his knight, threatening my pawn.
This wasn't in the script — when I had sat down, I figured I'd be able to get an easy win on the old man, who looked like he was at least seventy. After all, I had won game after game with my seventh grade classmates, and so what challenge would a random stranger in Washington Square Park pose?
Eight moves later, I had lost, with his Queen standing proud on my side of the board in the f2 position, supported by a Bishop on c5. Ten moves in total.
"Young man," he said gently, "Shall we play another game? And, if you don't mind an old fool talking, perhaps a story to go with it."
I was young, and I was headstrong, and if it had been any of my classmates, I would've angrily declared that I was better and ill for the day. I remember almost walking away — but the ten move checkmate intrigued me and I stayed.
"Okay, but you have to tell me what you just did so I can use it on my friends."
The old man smiles. "It's called the scholar's mate — but it's usually something that white plays."
-
His name was Samuel, and he learned to play back when he was a boy during the Great Depression. It was a game that often passed the time better than anything else did, requiring hours of concentration but not too much exertion, which would lead to more hunger. When food was scarce and his stomach started complaining, he would dip into the world of a chess problem from a small book he had purchased for five cents and concentrate until the pangs passed.
Occasionally, he was able to get one of his family members to play him, but it was only rarely; they had more important things to do, and often, so did he, even at ten. It was hard times for everyone, and money was scarce.
But he realized one thing — even in the worst of the Depression, people would place wagers on chess games, five or ten cents at a game. And if he could win a few games, that could be enough to buy some food for his family. So he started hanging around the chess players, watching their favorite moves, their openings, their habits.
Eventually, he realized that he was legitimately better than a few of them, mostly the one-trick ponies, and learned about an interesting four-move checkmate with the queen and bishop. After studying it at home for a bit, including the variations of it, he felt ready.
He started challenging those who played, and won a few times — but not a lot. It wasn't enough to just know one opening, he realized; as soon as they knew what he was trying to do, they would block it, and he would almost always lose.
So he started learning all the other openings, until he could play — and play against — all of them.
-
"Knight to f3," I state, moving the marble piece over my pawn line and to the square two in front of my bishop.
"Ah, the Zukertort, Bobby?" Samuel responds, and I blink. He laughs and continues, "It's a flank opening, designed to draw out black's pawns and react aggressively to them."
I had hoped he didn't know about it, as I was trying something new — but I focused on the pieces, instead of the dismay I was feeling, and the game was on.
Twenty moves later, we had traded bishop for knight, two pawns a piece, and were still relatively even. Somewhere in there, he even nodded approvingly, with a "Good move, Bobby," and I was feeling pretty good.
And then — and then — Samuel made a critical error, one that I couldn't help smiling at: his queen had moved to a square that I was already attacking with my bishop. I was going to win, I was sure, and it made me feel especially good since I hadn't won one in a few months. It had been hundreds of games since the first one, and I was still losing the vast majority of them, but this was going to be another hard earned notch on my belt.
...and then he moved his rook down the empty file to my back line, and now without a bishop to protect it, I had nowhere to go. Checkmate, Bobby.
Samuel smiled, and I groaned out loud, though without any malice.
"Young man," he started, as always. "Shall we play another game? And, if you don't mind, an old fool telling a story to go with it."
"I think we both know better than that by now, Samuel," I responded, and he just smiled, eyes twinkling.
-
Samuel was in the war — almost everyone was, of his generation. But he missed getting a post on the ships, missed piloting the planes, missed driving the tanks. Apparnetly he didn't quite score high enough on the test for any of those, he told me, and instead was one of the boots on the ground, moving through Italy, France, and eventually Germany, through two years of battle.
But the story he told wasn't of a specific battle; it was just about pushing through the Italian countryside, his platoon alongside hundreds of others that were spread out to clear the rolling hills a yard at a time.
There was a particular hill, though, that had a machine gun nest on it — and it was every bit as terrifying as the scene in Saving Private Ryan, where the gun is simply tearing people apart.
They were pinned down, he said, about a hundred yards in front of the bunker, and no other platoon was close enough to respond. They had cover, but it was slowly being shredded, and if they just made a break for it, they would almost certainly die.
As they hunkered down, looking at each other, the platoon lead — a captain — dropped everything but his gun and a grenade and told them to use the time wisely. He sprinted out of the debris they were sheltering behind, heading for another pile of metal about fifty yards away to their right.
The captain made it to the cover, but not cleanly. He was hit in the side in the last few yards and pelted with razor-sharp shards from the rocks around them, and collapsed into cover. But now the enemy had two targets to shoot at, and dividing their attention between the two meant that they could rush the front and be successful. The captain pulled himself up, raised three fingers, counted down, and then tossed the grenade over the cover and poked his gun up, drawing fire as the rest of the platoon moved forward.
That one action bought them the ability to close the distance and flush out the nest, but it was a deliberate sacrifice, and one Samuel remembered.
-
"Queen takes rook." With just four pieces left, I make a daring play. I know he'll see what I'm trying to do, but I wonder if he'll see the secondary threat, the forced mate in three.
"Rook to b2," he responds, and smiles gently. "Check."
And only then do I see my error, and in my mind's eye, I see the rest of the game play out. A brilliant play, luring me into the trap. I resign, of course, as I should.
"Bah!" I say, though I'm still smiling. "I thought I'd be able to beat you today, at least; it's been two games since I've won." It's the day of my high school graduation and Samuel's older now, but he's still been playing as well as ever. I've been improving though these last few years, though, and our win rates are almost even across the months.
"Was that really your goal?" He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.
I pause, thinking about it for a second, and then I realize that it isn't.
"No, I guess. I want to win, but more than that, I just want to learn, and keep learning, as I have been all these years."
"And that," he says, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his cashmere vest. "Is what I wanted to hear. No more games today, I think, but do you mind if—"
"—you tell me a story?" I complete his statement. "Please, Samuel; I love your stories."
"The endgame in chess is about a lot of things. It's about setting up your pieces right and knowing your openings and responding to the opponent correctly. It's also about your midgame gambits and sacrifices and outmaneuvering your opponent. But once you have those in place, it's important to remember that each game isn't something that exists in a vacuum — there's always a next one. And so it's important to learn from each and put that knowledge to use in the next game..."
He pauses, looking back at me.
"...Until you recognize that someday there won't be more. And then, I think, you try to teach someone else. Because in a way you live on through each game they play, you know? So remember to keep playing, Bobby. Keep playing, and keep learning, and I know you'll be a grandmaster, one day."
-
A/N: This is my love story to the chess. I've never played it too seriously, but I've never really stopped playing, either. The names in here are references to Samuel Reshevsky and Bobby Fischer, two great names in American chess history, and the openings and moves are all real, though I didn't want to get too deep and require chess knowledge to follow the story. The topic was actually fairly hard; I had some other ideas about the topic, but the longer I thought about it, the more I think this felt right, as a historical-fiction/slice-of-life/bildungsroman around an activity that I've always enjoyed.
This wasn't in the script — when I had sat down, I figured I'd be able to get an easy win on the old man, who looked like he was at least seventy. After all, I had won game after game with my seventh grade classmates, and so what challenge would a random stranger in Washington Square Park pose?
Eight moves later, I had lost, with his Queen standing proud on my side of the board in the f2 position, supported by a Bishop on c5. Ten moves in total.
"Young man," he said gently, "Shall we play another game? And, if you don't mind an old fool talking, perhaps a story to go with it."
I was young, and I was headstrong, and if it had been any of my classmates, I would've angrily declared that I was better and ill for the day. I remember almost walking away — but the ten move checkmate intrigued me and I stayed.
"Okay, but you have to tell me what you just did so I can use it on my friends."
The old man smiles. "It's called the scholar's mate — but it's usually something that white plays."
-
His name was Samuel, and he learned to play back when he was a boy during the Great Depression. It was a game that often passed the time better than anything else did, requiring hours of concentration but not too much exertion, which would lead to more hunger. When food was scarce and his stomach started complaining, he would dip into the world of a chess problem from a small book he had purchased for five cents and concentrate until the pangs passed.
Occasionally, he was able to get one of his family members to play him, but it was only rarely; they had more important things to do, and often, so did he, even at ten. It was hard times for everyone, and money was scarce.
But he realized one thing — even in the worst of the Depression, people would place wagers on chess games, five or ten cents at a game. And if he could win a few games, that could be enough to buy some food for his family. So he started hanging around the chess players, watching their favorite moves, their openings, their habits.
Eventually, he realized that he was legitimately better than a few of them, mostly the one-trick ponies, and learned about an interesting four-move checkmate with the queen and bishop. After studying it at home for a bit, including the variations of it, he felt ready.
He started challenging those who played, and won a few times — but not a lot. It wasn't enough to just know one opening, he realized; as soon as they knew what he was trying to do, they would block it, and he would almost always lose.
So he started learning all the other openings, until he could play — and play against — all of them.
-
"Knight to f3," I state, moving the marble piece over my pawn line and to the square two in front of my bishop.
"Ah, the Zukertort, Bobby?" Samuel responds, and I blink. He laughs and continues, "It's a flank opening, designed to draw out black's pawns and react aggressively to them."
I had hoped he didn't know about it, as I was trying something new — but I focused on the pieces, instead of the dismay I was feeling, and the game was on.
Twenty moves later, we had traded bishop for knight, two pawns a piece, and were still relatively even. Somewhere in there, he even nodded approvingly, with a "Good move, Bobby," and I was feeling pretty good.
And then — and then — Samuel made a critical error, one that I couldn't help smiling at: his queen had moved to a square that I was already attacking with my bishop. I was going to win, I was sure, and it made me feel especially good since I hadn't won one in a few months. It had been hundreds of games since the first one, and I was still losing the vast majority of them, but this was going to be another hard earned notch on my belt.
...and then he moved his rook down the empty file to my back line, and now without a bishop to protect it, I had nowhere to go. Checkmate, Bobby.
Samuel smiled, and I groaned out loud, though without any malice.
"Young man," he started, as always. "Shall we play another game? And, if you don't mind, an old fool telling a story to go with it."
"I think we both know better than that by now, Samuel," I responded, and he just smiled, eyes twinkling.
-
Samuel was in the war — almost everyone was, of his generation. But he missed getting a post on the ships, missed piloting the planes, missed driving the tanks. Apparnetly he didn't quite score high enough on the test for any of those, he told me, and instead was one of the boots on the ground, moving through Italy, France, and eventually Germany, through two years of battle.
But the story he told wasn't of a specific battle; it was just about pushing through the Italian countryside, his platoon alongside hundreds of others that were spread out to clear the rolling hills a yard at a time.
There was a particular hill, though, that had a machine gun nest on it — and it was every bit as terrifying as the scene in Saving Private Ryan, where the gun is simply tearing people apart.
They were pinned down, he said, about a hundred yards in front of the bunker, and no other platoon was close enough to respond. They had cover, but it was slowly being shredded, and if they just made a break for it, they would almost certainly die.
As they hunkered down, looking at each other, the platoon lead — a captain — dropped everything but his gun and a grenade and told them to use the time wisely. He sprinted out of the debris they were sheltering behind, heading for another pile of metal about fifty yards away to their right.
The captain made it to the cover, but not cleanly. He was hit in the side in the last few yards and pelted with razor-sharp shards from the rocks around them, and collapsed into cover. But now the enemy had two targets to shoot at, and dividing their attention between the two meant that they could rush the front and be successful. The captain pulled himself up, raised three fingers, counted down, and then tossed the grenade over the cover and poked his gun up, drawing fire as the rest of the platoon moved forward.
That one action bought them the ability to close the distance and flush out the nest, but it was a deliberate sacrifice, and one Samuel remembered.
-
"Queen takes rook." With just four pieces left, I make a daring play. I know he'll see what I'm trying to do, but I wonder if he'll see the secondary threat, the forced mate in three.
"Rook to b2," he responds, and smiles gently. "Check."
And only then do I see my error, and in my mind's eye, I see the rest of the game play out. A brilliant play, luring me into the trap. I resign, of course, as I should.
"Bah!" I say, though I'm still smiling. "I thought I'd be able to beat you today, at least; it's been two games since I've won." It's the day of my high school graduation and Samuel's older now, but he's still been playing as well as ever. I've been improving though these last few years, though, and our win rates are almost even across the months.
"Was that really your goal?" He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.
I pause, thinking about it for a second, and then I realize that it isn't.
"No, I guess. I want to win, but more than that, I just want to learn, and keep learning, as I have been all these years."
"And that," he says, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his cashmere vest. "Is what I wanted to hear. No more games today, I think, but do you mind if—"
"—you tell me a story?" I complete his statement. "Please, Samuel; I love your stories."
"The endgame in chess is about a lot of things. It's about setting up your pieces right and knowing your openings and responding to the opponent correctly. It's also about your midgame gambits and sacrifices and outmaneuvering your opponent. But once you have those in place, it's important to remember that each game isn't something that exists in a vacuum — there's always a next one. And so it's important to learn from each and put that knowledge to use in the next game..."
He pauses, looking back at me.
"...Until you recognize that someday there won't be more. And then, I think, you try to teach someone else. Because in a way you live on through each game they play, you know? So remember to keep playing, Bobby. Keep playing, and keep learning, and I know you'll be a grandmaster, one day."
-
A/N: This is my love story to the chess. I've never played it too seriously, but I've never really stopped playing, either. The names in here are references to Samuel Reshevsky and Bobby Fischer, two great names in American chess history, and the openings and moves are all real, though I didn't want to get too deep and require chess knowledge to follow the story. The topic was actually fairly hard; I had some other ideas about the topic, but the longer I thought about it, the more I think this felt right, as a historical-fiction/slice-of-life/bildungsroman around an activity that I've always enjoyed.
