The king moves backwards. It is a blunder, and he does not know it yet. I push the bishop forward, making my win inevitable. There was depression all over the board, his face dispirits like a bulb blowing out. He knocks his king over and extends his hand out, shaking his head from right to left. I won. I reassembled the pieces and went to the bureau to give my score sheet, again. He looks at me from across the hall; we both knew the unavoidable. I was playing him right after he defeats the shivering boy sitting in front of him. A crowd surrounds his table. The men stare at his board as he stares at me. It is cold in this room. My hands are numb. The announcement passes on, and I head to table thirty-three. The old man sits there, stinking of cigar. He mutters some words under his breath and stares at the messy board, daydreaming the game. I start to pick up the pieces and put them in order. I pick up the timer and set it to ten minutes each. He frowns at me and makes a gesture, ‘Sit. Down.’ I take my seat as he grins, I am playing black. I rub my hands back and forth, eagerly waiting for the bell to chime. I look at his wrinkled face, his bushy eyebrows and the cold, relentless eyes. He had eyes of sapphire, big and blue; they watch every one of my moves. I look around me, at the walls, the ugly floral wallpaper, the high ceiling, the gently swinging chandelier, the black walnut flooring, and the squeaky shoes walking on it, then the bell chimes. I do not get a warm handshake, in fact, no handshake at all. I press the clock. He plays pawn e4 and scribbles it down, glaring at me. The classic King’s Pawn Game.
I’m quite sure I picked up a chess piece before I even picked up a toy, the same way writers must have picked up a pencil before they picked up a doll. I challenged everyone. I defeated everyone. I defeated my friends, my teachers, my tutor couldn’t even stand my presence across the board. Why do I need a tutor if my father is my father? Because I never played him! I was never good enough. He played in Sicily, in Moscow, in Washington, all the way across in Tokyo, but he never played at home. I never played at home. He always found the game tedious, but he never let go, he never told me to let it go either. Winning is an addiction, and he was addicted. I simply played. Whether I won or lost, there was nothing to be proud of. The whole town congratulates me? It does not matter. He never cared. I just flooded myself with towers of books, educating myself on every single conceivable way there is for a game to develop into. There is nothing unknown within the sixty-four squares. I know every move like the back of my hand.
He moved his queen to align with the rook. My king is safe, however, I don’t need to distress much. The bishop will approach next, attacking my queen, but then I just move it to f4, threatening his knight. I only have five minutes left on the clock. I have never had this much before.
It is like music, chess. It flows and flows and swings back and forth until the end when you feel satisfied enough to play it again. That’s how it works. Once you’re done, you have this ceaseless desire to replay the record: move the pieces, click the timer, scrawl the moves onto the paper. There is music in it. He doesn’t listen to mine. All those trophies, certificates, and medals are nothing but pieces of paper and masses of metal hanging up on the wall to whisper into my ear every time I pass by, “You are nothing.”
Two minutes and twelve seconds left. It’s just me and my king and my knight. Everyone knows it’s impossible checkmate with only a knight. My king sits trapped in the back rank by his pawns. He will ladder mate me. What a common checkmate! How did I not see this coming? Maybe this is why he never challenged me… he knew that I would never win. He gently clicks the clock. I lost.
“Good…game” he said.