Many Places

The queen's knight had a slight chip.

On closer inspection, it was clear the tip of the right ear was gone.

What's more, the wood at the top was unevenly stained.

The pattern continued counter-clockwise down the nag's mane.

What was most interesting was how it resembled the tornado that took Dorothy and Toto off to the Land of Oz...

It's truly amazing where your mind can wander while you're waiting for the other guy at the chess board to make his move. Given enough time, you can go many places.

We had left the opening some moves back, and were in the part of the middle game where Black had to make some evaluations, weigh some decisions, and put together some kind of a plan.

The extra pawn on his side of the board, for example: had he won it fairly, or had I sacrificed it? Even at an accelerated time control, it was something worth taking his time to figure out.

What about that piece on e6, too: was it perched on a strong outpost, ready to deal death and destruction; or was it over extended, and liable to sue for non-support?

And that troublesome queen's knight: had it slipped from a player's hand and broken that way? Or had some irate Club member hurled it across the room?

Clearly, what I needed was a strong cup of coffee to boost my attention.

I scanned the board, reviewing the highlights of my position (and his), to be sure my unconscious mind would keep working while the rest of me hung out a temporary "Off Duty" sign.

Then I headed for the hall, leaving my opponent in a deep think.

A fistful of coins later, I was looking carefully into and sipping cautiously out of a cardboard cup. That done, I had another.

My reverie was blasted by a sudden, wracking cough behind me.

"It is a little known fact," squeaked a voice, struggling to climb back down a few octaves. "The reason for the rise of Soviet chess was the lack, at their tournaments and training centers, of coin-fed coffee vending machines."

Perry, the pawnpusher. Just my luck.

"Or, so I'm told," he continued, with either a nervous twitch or a wink. I wasn't sure which.

It didn't matter. I had a game to get back to.

"Busted again, are you?"

He polished his wire rim glasses with a loose corner of his sweater. It didn't seem to me to help, but there was satisfaction in his eyes when he put the lenses back on.

I knew one thing for sure: if Perry disliked my game, that was proof enough it must clearly be in my favor.

If he thought I was busted, a win must be just around the corner.

I took another swallow of coffee and reminded him slyly, "It's not good form to be discussing a game while it's still going on, you know."

Actually, there was little risk, from a sporting point of view. I had a greater chance of getting assistance in my game by paging through a copy of Mad magazine than I did from a short chat with the Club's preeminent patzer.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you," he chided, shaking a finger in my face, " 'take care of your pawns, and your pieces will take care of themselves'? Look where you're at now."

"For your information, I sacrificed that pawn. My compensation is clear - to anyone who knows anything at all about chess."

I folded my arms, daring him to challenge me.

A manic smile filled Perry's face, which glowed to the edges of his scraggly hair. He crossed his arms casually.

"How do you think your position compares, say, to that of Pillsbury - Meises, 1903?"

I swallowed, and raised and eyebrow. Okay, let's see.

It took a few moments.

"That was an Albin Counter Gambit, if I remember: it went into an endgame in 4 moves. Completely irrelevant to the case at hand." Wise guy.

"What about Reshevsky - Pilnik, 1945, then?"

That was tougher, and took a little longer. I sat down on a battered folding chair.

"No way, Perry. That was a Catalan. Pretty game. No outpost on e6, though." So there.

"Seirewan - Mecking 1989?"

That was a stumper. I stood up and paced a bit, and then sat down. I pushed my palms into my forehead.

Finally, I gave up.

"Are you sure it's 1989? Not 1992?"

"Maybe, maybe not," he chuckled and his face grew quizzical. "I mean, those games I was asking you about, I just kinda made them up. Put together some players I read about in Chess Life. Fudged a year."

Idiot.

I spun on my heel and was halfway down the hall when I heard him challenge, "What about the exchange sacrifice? Do you think it holds?"

I told myself this was just another verbal gambit. Another hassle. Another harangue. Another waste of time.

But I was already half-way back when I spit out my first line of analysis. Refute that!

He choked and coughed and suggested an alternative.

It was a nice try, but I slapped it away like an annoying house fly: I go here, he goes here, I go here, and he's a goner.

He tried again. I ball-batted his idea: here, here, here, here, There!

A third time, he argued. It was interesting, but I demolished it, down to the fifth move alternatives.

Then I remembered the game itself. The real one.

I hurried inside.

At the table, our clock was stopped. My opponent was gone. He had signed the score sheet, and marked it 0 - 1.

It took me a minute to understand what had happened.

While I had been outside in the hall arguing with Perry, inside my flag had fallen. I had lost the game on time.

Seconds later, a white knight whistled through the air and rebounded off the far wall.

I think I might have chipped its other ear.
 

Perry the PawnPusher Index