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Chessville
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Perry The PawnPusher "Have you seen my draw with Fine?" I looked up. My concentration was suddenly dragged away from the Shakmatny Informator and dumped abruptly upon a short, fuzzy, bespectacled old man. "Really, you must see it." As a reflex, I stretched to guard the Club's chessboard and pieces in front of me, where I was struggling with Anand's latest treatment of the Exchange Slav. Too late. He took the position apart like so many puzzle pieces, flipped a few around, and put back the ones he wanted. "There. Seen it?" Of course, I had. Many times before, in fact. It was a position from an old Horowitz primer. Mate in four. If this guy had even played Reuben Fine, then my name was Kamran Shirazi. The kludge's name was Perry. Below expert, they don't have last names. "Been working on my book, too. See?" Two grimy hands frisked his own pockets nervously. They discovered several pages of heavily-inked notebook paper, poked them under his wire rims for inspection, and then smoothed the pile out on the table. "It's called 'The Terrible Two-Step.' Going to send it to the Chess Federation one of these days." Despite myself, I looked. He set the pieces back in their starting positions. "You begin deviously, with 1.e3!" he winked, "And when Black falls for your trap with 1...d5?, you hit him between the eyes with 2.e4!! Wham!! Pow!!" Perry's chuckle exploded into a loud guffaw, and died in a coughing fit. I groaned. He had "discovered" a reversed Englund Gambit. Any book worth its ruples would tell you the thing was a bust from move one. How could the guy write pages on it? "Bet you're ready," I grinned, "to take Black against me, so when I open 1.d4, you can nail me with 1...e5, huh?" Perry's face clouded, and for a moment I saw his eyes forecast rain. "Why would I want to do that? Where's the sense in that?" I started to explain that I was merely offering to play the same opening he had shown me, only with the white pieces instead of the black ones. Reverse his reverse, as it were. He brushed me off. "Never mind. Got something else here, too," he said in a low voice, his face suddenly closed up and hard. "A new chess manifesto. Sure to set the boards on fire." More ink-filled pages appeared and were unfolded. I winced. The title said it all: "Patzers Anonymous." It was even sub-titled, "Chess From The One-Down Position." Swell. I mean, really. Luckily, I was spared further exposition by a couple of Club regulars two tables down who chanced to draw their game loudly at that moment (no doubt, both stood worse) and who each beckoned to Perry for his unbiased assistance in deciding who had escaped punishment, and who had failed to mete it out. I returned to my study of Vishy's game. At move 17 he moved his bishop a single square, instead of the recommended, but now clearly incorrect two - an astute refinement of rare, elegant and breathtaking beauty. Suddenly it was - "box, box, box, bust." "Playing in the tournament this weekend?" Perry, back again. He probably had adjudicated both sides as lost, and was looking for new chessic frontiers to conquer. Manifesto, indeed! "I was thinking about playing myself," he continued. "Wanted to check out the competition tonight. See if it was worth risking the entry fee. "Wouldn't mind taking home a few bucks, don't you know." He practically snarled that last sentence out, and I did a comic double-take. Then, I leaned back in my chair, rubbed my temples slowly, pinched the bridge of my nose and deliberately shook my head. With my high Elo rating, I'm routinely seeded into the finals of the Club championship. I have no need to bother with the weekend tourneys. Perry misunderstood. "Probably a good thing to stay away from me. No need to contribute to my winnings. No matter. No shortage of fish around here, in any event." His gall astonished me. If it was gall. If he wasn't just plain nuts. Feverishly I grabbed up a half dozen of the unused sets that were lying around, and forcefully screwed the pieces into their places, one after the other, until several tables were filled. Then I reversed a chair and sat on it. "Take the six boards, old man," I commanded. "I'll play you tonight. I'll play you on them all. I'll play you blindfolded." When the coughing fit behind me subsided, Perry moved to his place, and called off his move for board one. Then, his move for board two. And so on. His voice swelled so much, you would have thought it was he who was putting on the exhibition, not me. In ten minutes, I had recorded a win on every board, each one a miniature. My opponent had fallen for one of the simplest attacks known to every beginning chess player, a variation of the Scholar's Mate. Worse, he had lost all of his games the same way, since he had played the same exact moves in each and every one of them. "Only seemed fair," he patiently explained, "seeing as how I had the chance to see the pieces, and you didn't. Then, again, I was cluttered up with 96 pieces in front of me, and you only had to keep track of 16, you know. Still, you did pretty well." I couldn't believe it. If I had been humiliated like he had just been, I'd have hid away from the Club for weeks. I'd have considered busting up my sets, burning up my books, and taking up backgammon. Here he was, crowing away like nothing had happened. What kind of a chess player was he, anyhow? It was time to go. I got up slowly, gave him a stare that would have melted Tal's sunglasses, and marched out into the evening air with the tatters of my victory dragging down about my ankles. I could swear, as I left, I saw him sidling up to the Club
president, and asking him, "Have you seen my draw with Fine?"
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