Checkmate!(A Short Story based on True Events)Ankle deep in browning slush; moving side to side to keep warm, hearing that squish and suction as the cold brown ooze covered my shoes. A leather coat wrapped tightly around me; cold winter wind howled fiercely its warnings, tore at my exposed face. The street corner was all but deserted; a drunk or was it two passed; begged change, I had none to give, so they moved on. I flapped my arm, a strange bird, stretching wings, never taking flight; shook chilled fingers prepared to play a nonexistent instrument, but replayed the game again. I had to play the game in my mind, he was not at his familiar post.
Today, student would defeat the master, it is inevitable. Every night with few exceptions, I had ventured to that corner, regardless; whether it was cold or windy, wet or sunny; fog or blizzard. I knew "he" would come; he always came, there were no exceptions. He would come; wheeled basket in tow. Here, he would set up several boards and sets of pieces. I'd watched him play; one, two, several games at once. He would win them all!
In a cold dark alley, an old man lay, curled on the ground, beneath wrinkled cardboard, his blankets against the elements. Beside him stood a wheeled bundle buggy; his belongings; his life and experience filtered, reduced down to a few bags and small boxes, all neatly stacked. A cold sleep, kept him grounded this night or was he ill? On the winter hardened concrete he lay, shivering, seeking that small area of respite in the back of his mind, where the elements could not reach him.
The wind increased, howled more fiercely, a layer of his shelter lifted then dropped back into place. He instinctively squeezed them tighter, a more foetal position. Slowly warmth trickled down his back, drew a small smirk across his face, he dreamed on. He sank deeper in that dark warmth, falling endlessly into darker corridors. Sleep. Eyes moved, back and forth, searching; seeking.
Checked my watch, now 11:00 pm, danced in place, warm the blood; play the game again. I was destined to beat him; maybe this time. No longer would I be one of the casualties. I had been an apprentice, his assistant, his pupil. He was reluctant to take me on at first, but I was persistent and respectful. That respect would always exist between us, even if I defeat him. Three years, almost; hours of countless instruction, game after game, unending; all under the master's tutelage. I would win tonight! Masters never loose and never teach all they knew. The constant battles fought and always lost.
I remember that first night; my late teens, hanging around after the bars had closed. Friends and I had taken off for the weekend. School was tedious, boring, we needed to let loose. We stumbled around a street corner, chess pieces bounded across the pavement. The old man in the worn woven red and black sweater, screamed. His accent, European, was barely recognizable.
We apologized; he stacked two milk crates, reset the board and pieces, and walked off, his mind already engaged in another game. Friends laughed and walked on, left me standing there. I'd see them at school tomorrow. I stayed, watched that old man, he walked in and out, between several stacks of crates, multi coloured, all setup for chess. At that instance, he was weaving through three games, three opponents, varying in age and skill.
He'd pause a moment, made his move, then on to the next game and so on. I watched, amazed. He won them all. Each challenger paid a dollar and he reset the boards. Six boards, all told with more crates for seats. I took a seat, waited to be noticed. On his approach, he laid down the rules and set a clock on the board.
I had all the time I needed to make my moves he would take three minutes. Three minutes was all he needed to defeat me. A single game, winner would gain a dollar from their opponent. I agreed and set my pieces in motion. I moved; he moved and so on till few pieces remained. Concentration takes time when pieces are few and prised, he walked away. Barely second had passed, I checked the clock. How could this be? I studied him, snaking through the crates, starting a game, ending a game, all with a flourish.
He stuffed another dollar in his pocket. He smelled; his beard was filled with crumbs; a meal long past. His hair hadn't seen a comb in some time and his clothes were in tatters; torn, and stained. He made a few more moves and all was done, I reluctantly gave him a dollar and he moved on after resetting the board. The chill on the breeze brought past to present. I'd returned several nights each week, to learn more from "this old man."
In a darkened hall, a single table accompanied two chairs; spotlighted by a single bright beam, its source unknown was not unusual for this sort of game. The table surface alternating squares reflected little of the glare. He'd like that; he would be able to concentrate. A game clock precisely placed to his right, just at the proper distance for quick reflex motion. The time set, 3 minutes, no more, no less. The sixteen pieces glowed, yet didn’t reflect the light.
Fingers moved instinctively, the pawn, an opening move. Felt for weight; unaccustomed to so elaborate a piece, replaced it on the board. The piece was intricately carved ivory, without the encumbrance of volume; smooth, unmarred, not a scratch; flawless. These were well kept pieces. A light bloomed off in the near distance, a figure entered, crossed the room; all other lights diminished. Silence, no footfalls, no heel click of shoe contacting ground; nothing could be heard. He sat opposed.
"The board was set. Begin the Game."
The old man placed a hand on the pawn he’d examined, slid it forward two squares and tapped the gold pin, start the tic; tic; tic, of the clock. In deafening silence, it mimicked the beats of his heart. 20 moves planned ahead at least, a grandmaster's master; he'd be victorious, surely. Many games had been played; against the best strategies, his worst could defeat them.
Never the thought that he would not emerged victorious. Besting the world's greatest players, there was no recognition or acclaim for his prowess. He could compose several victories, vanquishing opponents together or at one time. Playing the best they could, they were banished in less than three minutes. All...
Given all day to divine a winning stratagem to best this master, there came futility; he always triumphed; was always victorious. This opponent countered with unexpected moves; a rare gambit, yet accounted for with contingency. He played in rare form, he tap the clock pin. The two exchanged pieces, at times retreating; other times advancing. Both played aggressively, this savage, brutal game. His hand moved, lighting, from piece to pin, then the opponents, hand would flash.
Pawns moved forward cautiously, knights parried, lances at the ready. Bishops protected with angular attacks; while castles protected the King. The Queen dashed about, cutting a swath of destruction across the board. Pieces would fall, some unprotected, some not. Others were held in reserve; offence as defence or defence as offence, none knew.
The game advanced and withdrew time and time again. Each in turn, pressed forward. Strategies planned well in advance were executed and in turn countered. Advance, withdraw, advance, withdraw; the count of pieces in the board thinned. Fewer pieces on the board meant a greater chance for error.
"On went the game."
I moved from side to side, drumming, wiggled cold toes, ankle deep in the slush. I could go for coffee, warm up. The thought was banished in a clatter of teeth. I returned to the game in my head; setting aside the feeling of my toes. I made the next moves, confident, precise, in anticipation of his next move. I'd practiced within his time limit, focused on those three minutes. Each placement precise, he played into my hands. I would have him soon, I would be victorious.
"CHECK!"
The word rang out; hung in air, driven silent by the bang of the clock pin. Tic and Toc grew louder. The opponent looked up; no visible face within that darkened cowl, no eyes to belie intent; no countenance to evoke emotion; just the silhouette.
Emptiness darker than any background swallowed any light that drew near from the playing surface. It seemed an eternity had passed, the clock ticked; time marched slowly past, the game had reached climax. Victory or vanquished; the finale would be chosen in the next few moments. Heart beats quickened, he made the next move.
A smile, it snaked across my face; I had him now. The master was about to be defeated, I had played honourably, valiantly, courageously. I'd built those highways and bi-ways, he'd taught me. My pieces moved about freely. A few more moves would herald my first victory. The master always won.
"If you await his move, to make yours, he's already won. Think ahead; play the game in your head, out think your opponent there. If you've planned far enough ahead, victory will be at hand. Never second guess yourself; the first option is usually the correct one, other possibilities may prove fatal to your plans." I still hear his voice ringing in my ears.
The opponent raised a black robed hand, it absorbed the light. He'd not noticed that before, when the game was in earnest. He was so deep in concentration and planning ahead. The "Check" resonated still; hung in the air, still. Surrounded in the throbs of the clock, seconds moved as minutes. That hand moved the next piece. That robed hand glided closer to him. He watched the board and his positioned pieces. Little, but the black robe could be seen. What was he up to? He waited for the shadow to recede, watched it fade.
"CHECKMATE!"
The word peeled loudly; a bell, it roared. He had been assured of this victory. The word circled his mind. Victory had been snatched from him in the last moment. There sat the King with a vulnerable flank. There the opponent's Queen stood two squares away and no protection for the King. He bowed, graciously. Beaten by a grandmaster, He lifted the clock. Wondered, how long had they played.
Shock and surprise marred his kind, elderly face. The clock had no face; on opposing points, two bold words; "Life" and "Death", on its front and a metronome arm had moved back and forth betwixt them. The arm had stopped now; stationary. He looked up at his opponent, smiled, his warm smile. Warmth flowed through him.I hung my head, shamed; I had not seen it coming. The game should have been mine. I started to play it again in my head. Each move again, precise, I had made no mistakes. Where was my error? Where was the weakness?
In a cold dark alley, an old man lays still upon the pavement. A smile etched his face. His long grey beard stiff, solid with ice or had rigor had set there too. His hair fragile to touch broke in places. He had never been late for an important game. He would play any opponent and he always wins. He had never been beaten.
I looked at my watch again, 1:32 am. Time hadn't moved quickly, crawling by in this freezing cold. I would wait another 20 minutes, then take the 2 hr trip home. The Master was never late, never for an important game. I was his best students; our games would go, on and on. I was allowed to play for free, when others paid for the privilege to lose at his hand. Few were worthy of his teachings and many would ask, only to be refused. Inside, I was not worthy; he'd wasted his time and talent on me.
The following morning, school as usual. Another day, followed by "the Chess Club", and then home to dinner. My father sat watching the News. The voice on the television droned on, as I entered. The night’s news erupted reverie. From a report from a local scene, the voice droned, “…homeless old man had been found frozen, had died during the night. He was sometimes seen on the corner of Yonge and Gould Streets in Toronto, Ontario. The old hermit was known to play chess frequently in the downtown area. Anyone knowing of or the whereabouts of next of kin please contact...."
The words trailed off in the distance as I staggered up the stairs. Sadness fought terror for control of emotion. A slipped step brought clarity. I had waited for him, almost 3 hrs; well passed 2:30 am. Caught the very last bus home; played that game over and over in my head. I'd waited and he never arrived. I would never be able play him again. I would never beat him. The master had never lost a game.I still go down to that corner from time to time. There stands a monolith, engraved. It designates the corner, a chess corner. There is no mention of the old man; no mention that he'd played everyday for more than four years. No mention that he'd broken the Guinness record for playing chess. Too few even recall him playing or his existence.
Playing chess was the way he made his living. How many would challenge? How many would pay? They all paid his price. He taught me the game. He was the best the world had, played the world’s best and won. He knew their game better than they did. He played everyday and night for over four years; unrecognized by the media; not heralded in any record books for his feats. He was just a lonely old homeless man, who vanquished everyone.
“The kill as you go, gambit, on a chessboard.” I will miss him, more than anyone will know; chess was life to him. The passion for the game was given me by the CHESSMASTER, "Joe Smoley."
The Municipal Government placed cement Chess-boards there, which were moved in the spring of 2002. Joe died during the 80's, and those cement tables and seats went up three or four years later. A small placard acclaims and designations to some unknown person.
I would stop, play a game or two, but never will there be the challenge. The challenge I had with Joe. The games are boring and simple. Those who play now don't remember that corner the way I do. Many of them are drug dealers, street people, addicts or just hanging around. None of them are worthy of a good game.
The Chess Board Tables have been moved to the front of a Church on Queen Street. There, a lot of unsavoury people that hang out. It doesn't look like they will get much use there either. Sorry Joe, they won’t learn the game the way you played it. I'll miss you. The master never lost a game.
In fond Memory of "Joe Smoley;" the greatest Canadian Chess player, I've ever known; shunned by the greatest city in Canada. He and I played the best games.
"THE KILL AS YOU GO, GAMBIT"
Written by R. Anthony H. Rock, On November 14th 1999.
Revised on May 12th 2003.
This Original Short Story won 2nd Prize in the Ve'havta / Na Me Res. Street People Short Story Contest.
© copyright R Anthony H. Rock
