The Brutal Game

I went to school in England during the early 1970s. School was quite different back then. The chances of finishing a day at school without a beating from a teacher or another pupil were about 50/50. With this daily stress, fight or flight became the norm. I was twelve when I was introduced to boxing and became quite successful locally and junior county standard. Bizarrely, as my boxing improved, my need for flight soon diminished. Bullies weren't interested in someone who could fight. Unfortunately, boxing didn't improve my behaviour in school and out, and I was subject to detentions and corporal punishment regularly. By the time I was thirteen, I was making a name for myself on the streets, and the consensus was I was no good and destined for a life of crime and prison.

The use of corporal punishment is now outlawed in English schooling. But in the '70s, the fear of physical punishment was an everyday part of school life. Officially, the punishment was a cane (thin stick), metal ruler or a slipper (usually a worn-out gym shoe). The punishment was metered out between one and six forceful blows to each hand or buttocks or sometimes both. In the 1970s, teachers were free to use whatever punishment they saw fit…. But that's another story!

Detention was designed to take away your freedom. On this occasion, I was sentenced to five consecutive Tuesdays of after school detentions. That first Tuesday, I belligerently entered the classroom and sat down with a humph. The teacher in charge, Mr Bartlett, who in fact was equally sentenced to look after us unruly cohorts, was staring at a chessboard. He gruffly looked up, duly pointed to the blackboard and the algebraic problems, then at the single piece of paper on the desk in front of me. Without a word, he returned his attention back to his chessboard.

I was fascinated. I watched his furrowed brow as he read from a book and moved the pieces around the board. I was equally fascinated that he was playing alone.

That hour dragged by, but I was still drawn to the chessboard and his concentration.

 "Right, you lot, papers at the end of my desk and make your way out… QUIETLY."

 There was a scraping of chairs and a mass exodus to the door. I remained seated.

 "You! too." He pointed directly at me.

 "What are you doing, Sir" All male teachers were addressed as Sir.

 "Never you mind… begone."

 I walked to the desk and placed my blank algebra paper on the pile; detention wasn't about doing anything constructive like learning. It was about restricting a child's leisure time.

 I stood and stared at the book and chessboard. Mr Bartlett sighed loudly, stood up. I backed away just out of striking reach, but instead, he went to his store cupboard and huffed about. He came out with a paperback book, handed it to me.

"Take this and read it, you won't understand it, but if you are interested, the school chess club is from 3:30 pm to 5 pm every Thursday."

The book was titled "Every Great Chess Player Was Once a Beginner" by Brian Byfield & Alan Orpin. That very same book is still in my possession. Gifted to me by Mr Bartlett when I left school at fifteen.

That night I secretly read the book cover to cover. At the time, the working class didn't play chess. It was for the aspiring middle classes and the rich. Also, it was impossible to grasp the concepts without a chess set. Still, the illustrations allowed my imagination to run wild, and it scared me. I was frightened because something had been established, something strange and even worrying. There was a great mystery here, where pieces roamed a divided battlefield in a vain attempt to protect a King. I didn't realise it, but chess was about to change my life.

That Thursday, I entered the math room where the chess club was held. The room didn't go quiet when I walked in. It was quiet, no shouting, arguing, or fighting. A library hush prevailed. A few looked up and quickly dismissed my loutish presence. I walk to Mr Bartlett, who was pointing to a board between two kids. The kids were wide-eyed and fully attentive. I had the intention of handing the book back and saying thanks, but no thanks. But when he saw me, he smiled. No teacher had ever done that. He beckoned me to an empty desk and placed a chessboard between us. He emptied some plastic chess pieces from a battered cardboard box and became very solemn as he placed and explained each piece and the moves.

The following week I managed to play a game, which might have been enjoyable if I hadn't kept forgetting how the pieces moved. My opponent, an older kid, called Rodger, soon got bored and made a few quick moves, and such was the skill of my opponent he captured my King. I battled rage and the need to punch Rodger for humiliating me, but no one cared. A senior girl called Maggie showed me the errors or blunders, as she called them. The following weeks were a blur. My King regularly toppled to Rodger, and Maggie would explain why my feeble tactics didn't work…. Mr Bartlett lent me a chess set and board so I could practice at home. My Mum was pleased. Something other than boxing and the streets finally had my attention. I was allowed to sit at our dining table every night and practice. I was happy. Mum & Dad were happy, I wasn't on the street, and the police weren't knocking on the door.

Every Thursday, Mr Bartlett explained rudimentary openings and simple tactics, we were then allowed to play.  I played Rodger, and each week he smashed me. After about a month, something clicked, and I started to think before making a move instead of choosing a likely looking gap and making a move. I cannot explain the pleasure – I had him. I could see the cogs turning as his eyes darted about the board. I pressed my advantage cautiously. But he countered from nowhere. He managed to survive every subtle attack, but bit by bit, my advantage began to tell, and I was just on the point of checkmating him when he pretended to get faint. He mumbled something, got up and asked to be excused. Mr Bartlett came over, briefly studied the board. "Mark, will you take it through to Mate". I did. Everyone in the room was smiling and nodding at me. Maggie had her arm around me, smiling. After that, Rodger never won a game against me, and the following term never came back to the chess club. I began playing more advanced players. 3 months later, Mr Bartlett nominated me for the first team, where I won all my interschool games for the club, eventually becoming club Captain.

At fifteen, I joined a Chess club in the next town. Chess had become my life. Boxing and social life were forgotten. My friends from the streets had forgotten about me. I was a weirdo, an outcast. If I wasn't at the chess club, I was studying chess. At first, there were similar prejudices as school, who was this working-class lout in the chess world, but soon it was forgotten as I rose to beat most intermediate players. My game kept improving. We played against other teams throughout the county. One weekend we were lectured by an International master. We had a draw to see who would play simultaneously against this visiting dignitary. I was one of the lucky ones.  I sacrificed a pawn in the opening, which opened the game, and I attacked, but he neutralised the position. My attack sputtered out. I was seventeen, and I was delighted with the game against such an illustrious opponent. He spoke to me after and suggested I try entering tournaments. I still went to the club, but at weekends I entered independent tournaments. I played in the open section where, after winning a game, one is paired against increasingly stronger opponents.

Over the next two years, in between studying for A-levels and a university entry, I travelled the country playing weekend tournaments, chasing ever-elusive honours and rating points…. I marvelled at the chancers, arbitrary players. They were usually professional people fluctuating between moody and raucous. The odd thing was they weren't the strong players. They were the typical kibitzers, pushers of wood, always seeking to trap the unwary. It was always their downfall. Then there were gladiators, strong players, those with strong tactical skills and sudden death attacks, more lethal than the chancers; then came the top echelon – solid book openings and classical strategy. These players grind out wins, waiting to pounce on the slightest error.

Eager to play, I would grind away each week, glorifying the wins, lamenting the loses. Chess is a brutal sport. After about eighteen months, I knew deep down that I had reached my level and wouldn't advance to master level.

It’s an arduous journey to become a good chess player. It certainly doesn't come easy and is all but an illusion to most. Its innate ability and formative years that is needed for success, with the emphasis on starting young. I started early (thirteen) but, my talent was raw and limited, although, at the time, I believed I could rise to become a master. If I had taken a step back, I would have realised, but chess is a hard master and will tolerate nothing but the utmost dedication. I ultimately gave myself to chess. I was besotted with chess; ate it, drank it, dreamed about it. It had replaced everything in my mind. I forgot to eat. Chess held me in a tight grip.

In one of my tournament games, I easily lost to an international master. After the game, I commented about my blunder of a knight in the middle game. He smiled and said, "patience is stronger than any chess piece". So, on the premise, I still thought with ordinary talent and extraordinary perseverance, all things are possible...

Tournament Chess in the late '70s was more brutal than the streets I came from. More deadly than any boxing ring. Everybody has only one thought: to win – the march to glory, to pile up points for ECF assessments. And to this end, we all hoped for a weaker opponent, but there are no outright weak players in the tournaments. The play is quite sharp. Active attacking chess is the order of the day, and it's challenging to hold up a sustained precise defence against it. The aggressive play asks tough questions about your preparation. Into this gruelling, competitive world, men, women, and child prodigies came from all over the country. The gifted ones had a mocking expression. They were only interested in greatness.

Each week we gathered in halls, hovering around the lists. Checking who we're to be matched up against, before taking our seats at nine. Whether fearful or thrilled by our opponent's grade, now is the time when we compose ourselves for the coming struggle, as the tournament official, surrounded by his minions, reads the rules to us. We repeatedly check the clocks, making sure it's set correctly and in good working order. Some of us will use this as an ice-breaker, shaking hands and exchanging names. We weighed up our opponents surreptitiously, mostly with under-brow glances. Some just sit staring into space, perhaps suffering from a sudden bout of opening anxiety that is beyond the reach of any therapist.

Ratings aside, the chessboard is a great leveller. We were there for chess. If asked, we would probably give a different reason for becoming a tournament player. Some might reply that it was the love of the game. Others need the adrenaline thrill of the King hunt. Some kidded themselves it was a hobby, but the truth of the matter is we were all chess-a-holics, the need for conflict claiming our lives.

Shaking hands before the game was a ritual performed by many. It allowed a minor interlude, an alleviator of stress. After this honourable gesture, one is free to gain an edge by grunting, groaning, sighing with derision, picking your nose, burping, and even farting loudly until the game ends, once more with the noble handshake.

The halls and venues were full of kibitzers, those reprobates who take delight in the skill, or lack of it, displayed by the tournament leaders and argue vigorously over the merit of the moves, claiming to see better, or at least as good as any grandmaster.

For those actually playing, things are different. Victory or defeat is always knife-edged. A momentary hesitation, a mistimed push of a pawn, attack too early on the flank, a too-sudden sacrifice in the centre - all can cost the game. Small things, but defeat waits on such.

Those weekends passed quickly. The last day was always thick with emotion. Those who have played well sit visibly relaxed, while those who've played poorly are tired of being brave begin to give in to misery. Excellent moves or blunders no longer matter. We always stay for the final game. It's where we learn, where even for a short time, we dream of being front and centre.

We are whittled down to two playing at the front of the stage. Above and behind is a demonstration board attended by a young man who will display their game as it unfolds. They are both masters and, like the rest of us, have been playing since Friday. We can safely bet they are both suffering from lack of sleep as they sit stoically at their table, waiting for the last round to begin.

Everyone is keyed. It's what we live for; we are awe-inspired… But the masters' concentration upon the game is so intense and absolute that the whole hall seems but an extension of themselves...

…It sometimes appears that time has stopped, whispers are hushed, the silence is deafening, the tournament marshal standing guard gently coughs. He checks his watch. The two players take the hint, and their play begins to speed up and suddenly becomes more tactical, deadly cut and thrust fighting chess. We see the pivotal moment. White has a marginally dominant position after the tactical surge. Black has not enhanced his position and, according to the whispering kibitzers and others who dare to pretend to be at master level, may even have worsened it. I whisper to the man sitting next to me, "it will soon be over". Eventually, we all descend to kibitzing.

Unfortunately for white, black does not fall apart, defending vigorously throughout the attack. He weathers the storm till his adversary's assault burns out. Then, with whites, battle-weary army scattered all over the board, sombre and methodically Black fights through to a win. White sighs deeply, but his opponent sits unmoved. We smile, nod, and attempt to analyse the game. Opinions of better moves abound. It's 4 pm, and as if it never happened, we all depart back into humanity. However, our chess mind begins to recover on the journey home, readying for the next tournament.

After one such weekend, my life took an unexpected turn, I was sitting in a café outside Kings Cross station in London waiting for my connecting train home when a beautiful girl approached my table and asked if she could sit. I nodded. I didn't know what to say or do. I had become so absorbed in chess that I was socially Isolated, devoid of any emotional contact other than the chess world. She asked about the notes I was taking. I mentioned that I was analysing a chess game I had played. She feigned interest, but gradually she broke down my barrier, and we talked generally. She was local to my hometown, and we shared a train carriage for the journey. We became friends, and gradually she showed how me to live as a real teenager approaching twenty. We went to pubs, clubs and concerts and finally got married. 

In 1981 I stopped playing chess altogether. I was nineteen. I never played social or competitive chess again. Although my wife consistently tried to get me to play locally, I resisted. Chess is a brutal game and a jealous lover. You see, chess saved me from the streets, and for that, I am eternally grateful; equally, my wife and children saved me from chess, although chess now has a broader internet community and is mainstream. In the later part of the last century, no one met a friend on the chessboard; although I met many players and enjoyed their company, we were driven by chess. During those intense years, I played hundreds of competitive games. It took a while to switch off and rationalise but looking back at the pain and intensity of those tournament days, not one of those games gave me the same thrill as that first checkmate against Rodger. 

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During those club/tournament years, I reached a level of EFC 175 (about 2000 ELO).