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Chessville
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Confessions of a PawnPusher By Rick Kennedy
Seeing me, you might have slipped away, fearful of intruding. A groundless worry, that! At such times, all the world exists for me in 64 black and white squares.
For a couple of hours I can presume to reign as king, fearing no nagging boss, facing no raging inflation, awaiting no family crisis. Deep into a world of valiant pawns, stalwart rooks and errant knights, my blood-curdling plans frighten Napoleon and stagger Einstein. When the game ends, abruptly, the world, having waited patiently, returns triumphant.
Alas. The most effective way to silence a post mortem attack is – another game!
Still, it’s hard to quit, even if I were so inclined. Chess play is neither expensive, illegal or immoral. There are few known side effects. The paraphernalia are still legal in most states. And I do have the comfort of knowing that there are over 10 million fellow addicts in this country, alone; some, perhaps, right in your neighborhood.
So, if you should stumble upon one of us, locked in a chessic stupor, don’t
bother with “Hi.” Try “pawn to king four” instead. It just might
work. (This story
originally appeared in the October/November 1982, Index of Chess Fiction at Chessville
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The
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It
is a struggle to recall the first time someone discovered me staring
vacantly ahead, slumped over a table, apparently lost. Scattered in
front of me must have been the tools of my addiction. The chess
pieces.
No
doubt, you’ve heard that “chess has the power to make men glad”? I
might add – And the enticements to drive one mad! Alas, it has assumed
the power of a mind-fogging obsession. “First the player takes a pawn;
then the pawn takes a pawn; then the pawn takes the player.” Against
such force, what is mere will-power?
How
else can I explain the ability to recall the Second Bulgarian Variation of
the Schliemann Defense to the Ruy Lopez opening, while forgetting my regular
appointments, impending anniversaries and familiar birthdays? My
brother’s birthday, for instance. My twin brother’s birthday.
Or
maybe not quite yet. My temples pound. I should have made this
move, they tell me; he would have made that move; and if I had tried this
variation… Sleep is no escape. Phantom bishops and queens attack
in the dream world just as well.
Inevitably,
tolerances to play have developed. Once, one game relaxed me.
Now, I need three. No longer is a human opponent enough – a
computerized one is a better fix. Games by mail must now supplement my
over-the-board habit. The life of a pawnpusher is hardly one of fun
and games.
