I Went to Prison for Chess

1989. I was 30 years old.

Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility is a maximum security prison in Cañon City, home to Supermax, where notorious bad guys like the Unabomber, El Chapo, and the Bottom Marathon Bomber are kept. But Territorial wasn’t Supermax, ten miles away. Territorial was just a standard razorwire-fenced, armed-guard-patrolled, iron-barred lockdown that housed hunreds of standard-issue murderers, armed robbers, and drug traffickers.

And all five-foot seven of me. I stood in the courtyard surrounded by five tattooed toughs, each staring down at me, ready to take his best shot. You could see it in their eyes: I was going down. They liked their odds. Five against one. What chance did I have?

All five attacked simultaneously.

I played black.

Three pushed e4. One dropped a knight on f3. The last nudged his d-pawn forward one square.

Game on.

For years, Colorado’s Prison Chess Program had sent a strong player, usually an expert or master, on a statewide tour of correctional facilities, as part of rehabilitation and socialization efforts for inmates. A way to channel aggression. An amicable means to settle disputes. A path to reintegration into society. Chess for goodwill. Chess for good.

All admirable goals, which I respected from afar. Until one day I got a call.

“Can you play in prison?” Chris, the state’s prison chess coordinator, was in a panic. She knew me in passing, since I had recently won the state class-B chess tour. Class B (today called 2nd Category) is two significant tiers below expert. Three significant tiers below master. A world apart from grandmaster. Basically a decent club player. “Dan can’t make it.” Expert and stalwart prison chess representative Dan Avery had a conflict. Could I fill in this weekend?

“Sorry, I have plans.” Plans to not die in prison.

I took a beat to consider the dozens of names Chris must have considered before deigning to give me a ring. So many good players in the state. So many people who must already have passed on her offer, for her to finally arrive at my name.

I knew that her options weren’t going to improve as she must have been scanning the state ratings, each number a little smaller than the one above. “When, exactly?”

“Saturday noon. I’ll drive.”

Chris had been to  Territorial before, as Dan’s escort. She knew the routine: the interlocking gates, the forms acknowledging risk, the lack of armed escort, the walk through a cafeteria reminiscent of middle-school meal halls.

On one wall was a mimeo of a hand-drawn flyer: “Play Chess Master Glenn Miller!” Below it two sketched profiles stared at each other. At the bottom: “Noon in the Yard.” I’d never been on a poster before. And I was very much not a master.

11:55.

In the yard, two picnic tables were arrayed side by side, five boards atop them. In the distance it could have been any prison movie, but up close it was five men on one side, clearly well acquainted with each other and with life within walls. These men were harder than me. There were introductions. Handshakes. Laughs. Friendly taunts.

They saw a visitor, maybe an ambassador representing what the world wanted of them, maybe a hotshot looking to boost his vanity, maybe a do-gooder putting in his requisite service to community. I saw five men looking for respite and recognition.

The simultaneous games lasted perhaps an hour. Across the 64 squares we were just people moving pieces, nobody harder or more worthy or more useful or more valuable than anybody else. The pieces spoke while the people just were, men in proxy wars seeing past our disparate pasts.

I won three, drew one, and lost one. It was to the player they all knew was best among them, and when he delivered checkmate they whooped and hollered in joint pride. Their man had toppled the outsider, the “master.” His esteem was earned, and their shared appreciation real.

The victor strutted a high-kneed cock-walk around the tables, arms pumping. “I beat Glenn Miller!” Forced residence here did not diminish his grin or his authentic, good-natured, well-earned pride.


Chris nodded at me.

Amid laughter, we all shook hands. “I’ll get you next time,” I said.

“No, Sir. You won’t find me. I will not be behind these bars. I have plans.”

A chess player always does.