THE PATHETIC PATZER

Hello chess friends...

Ever felt super confident in your preparation? So strong that nothing could go wrong? Well, reality has nasty surprises…Here’s my chess story:

Mad Dog Attacks Monkey’s Bum. Monkey scampers up the Variation Tree—straight into the fire breathing Sicilian Dragon. Badly burnt, he falls down on his dog bitten bottom; landing on top of The Hedgehog. Howling in agony, he calls out to his friend, The Orangutan, who was busy laying bets on a Blitz Battle between The Lion and The Hippo. The Elephant Gambitted away all his money on the fight and trumpeted so loudly that …I woke up!

 What a ‘wild’ dream. But not surprising. Here’s why: My opening repertoire growled, screeched and hissed with animal-named moves. Their ferocity would crown me as the apex predator of the chess jungle.

That was my hare-brained idea to master blitz and rapid games.

I memorized obscure openings twenty moves deep. Like Tal, I too wanted to take my opponents to a deep dark forest… where my ‘opening beasts’ would tear them apart. Unlike Tal, I ignored tactics.  I ditched strategy. Endgames…you must be kidding. My openings will end games.

So, armed to the teeth (and claws, antlers and horns), I joined my first rapid chess tournament. Kids roamed everywhere. Yaay!!...easy wins for me. Little did I know that chess is a young person’s game. Children today break master level before breaking their pre-pubescent voices.

I didn’t know it then, but my nightmare had just begun.

Game one. My opponent is a little girl of nine. I put my game face on and give her fierce Kasparov glares. Oblivious of my attempts to scare her, she innocently asks me “Uncle, what is your rating?” I nearly fell off my chair. They say life begins at forty. Mine just flashed before my eyes. Am I uncle-ish old? Is my youth over? Is my bladder full or is it incontinence? Pondering existential questions about a midlife crisis at the start of a chess game is not exactly a recipe for success. What seemed to be seconds were minutes wasted in a numb stupor. On recovering, I frantically blitzed out the moves.  

She checkmated me with 5 minutes to spare.

The game ended; my misery did not. My conqueror, elated with her victory over an adult, gathered her friends. Then her hand rose up and the dreaded finger pointed at me. She was the hunter; I was her big game, literally. What’s a trophy if not flaunted? The hall was big but escape was impossible. She transfixed me with her stare from even the furthest corner; just like a fianchettoed bishop on an open diagonal.

Shell shocked, I went out for a breath of fresh air and approached the notice board outside. As soon as the pairings were listed, the excited kids swarmed in to check out their opponents. Their rush was a pawn-storming minority attack which crushed me against the wall and trampled all over my feet. Ouch!!

A similar fate awaited my poor chess clock in the next game. My opponent had the nasty habit of slamming down hard when a gentle press was sufficient. Bang! Bang!! It was disorienting, to say the least. Only a clock of military hardware can take so much pounding. I am seriously considering armor plating my device. Thanks to his barbarian antics, I lost all concentration…and drew a winning game.

Then it was downhill all the way.

The rest of my miserable day was a blur of reckless moves, missed mates and head-slapping blunders. My ‘animal’ openings, prepared so thoroughly, were just as thoroughly slaughtered. Oh! They did end games…with my defeat!

Bruised, battered and beaten, I limped to the last round. Resigned to my fate, I waited for the ordeal to be over. My aggressive adversary greeted me with a scornful snarl. The game started and he turned out to be a chess bully who stares more at his opponent than the board. However, his mind games backfired and midway through the game he made a moronic mistake.

 He forgot to press his clock.

I could not believe my luck. Finally, there was a heaven-sent opportunity to salvage some of my tattered dignity. Let sportsmanship be damned! I fervently prayed to Caissa to keep him distracted.

My good fortune lasted for a full thirty seconds. He sensed something wrong, noticed his error and threw me an angry look. Then slammed the clock with a loud bang! I winced. It’s my turn now. I hold my bishop and pause for five seconds, contemplating my move. My opponent warns me “Touch to move… “. Well, I had no intentions of not moving it, but disturbed by the warning I hastily place my bishop on the wrong color! Damn…illegal move one. The next will cost me the game.

Caissa!…Oh Caissa!… have you forsaken me? It seems she had not. For out of my confused, foggy brain, there sprang a sacrificial combination which would win me a queen. What luck! But only 10 seconds on my clock. Without verifying the variation, I went for it…and snatched up the queen. I raised my hands. Victory!

But wait…my opponent, instead of looking crestfallen, yelled “Arbiter!” The arbiter soon came round and examined the position. Slowly, his eyes went to my hand which was still clutching the Queen. With the special look which he reserves for idiotic imbeciles, he declared, “Illegal move two…Game lost!”

I had ‘captured’ my own Queen!!

That night, in my dreams, I found myself chained inside a castle. “Torture him!” ordered King Philidor and Queen Lucena. No animals came to my aid.