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You Can Run, but You Can't Hide

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Renate-Irene
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I was taught chess by my father when I was young. I am not sure when, but most likely somewhere between four and six. I must have played some games, but I do not remember them. At that time, few girls played chess; I did not have many opportunities to practice.

Looking back, it seems to me that chess pursued me, quietly but persistently. It finally caught me, but not until I was about 55.  

One of my more humorous remembrances happened when I was 18 years old and vacationing in Sarasota. As I passed the pool, I saw two people playing chess. I watched for a while, but the game quickly ended. The loser left; the winner was looking at the final position. "May I play?" He graciously waived me to the chair. 

It was an enjoyable leisure game until I forked his queen and king. He startled me as he jumped up from the table, ran to the pool, and jumped into it, screaming, "I will not be beaten by a woman."

The second incident I remember was in my late twenties or early thirties. A friend and I went to a chess club in Vidor, TX. It was a small club and had only a few enthusiastic members. They did, however, have some members who played in tournaments.

While my friend was playing, I entertained myself by moving pieces around on a chess board. "Do you know how to play?" a voice asked. I looked up. "I know how the pieces move," I replied. "Do you want to play a game?" "Sure."

I do not remember what I played, but it must have been like the fried liver attack; I remember the Bishop Knight combo attack on f7. I won. Suddenly, I heard someone saying, "She beat John." Suddenly many people clustered around our table. John challenged me immediately. No more, Mr. Nice Guy; this was war. Naturally, he beat me. The game still amuses me. He spent um-teen tempos to eliminate my knights. I should have beaten him, but I was inexperienced and knew only one line. Expecting your opponent to fall into the same trap twice a row is asking too much.

After the game, the players offered to train me and take me to tournaments; I think they hoped that I would become one of the first female GMs. I declined because I was teaching and wanted to "save the world through education." After all, chess is just a game. Or is it? Looking back now, I wonder if I should have accepted the offer. These two games are the only ones I remember playing in my life. Although I am sure I must have played with Papa when I was small. So much for my early chess career. 😊

 

I was busy teaching, completing my dissertation, and post-doctorate for the next twenty-something years. Chess, like the Velveteen Rabbit, lay forgotten. But unlike the Velveteen Rabbit, it had never stolen my heart nor captured my interest. It was just a game, a pastime. Enjoyable, yes, but only for a fleeting moment. It sneaked up on me, never giving me a fair warning. Oh, for the deflections of life and chess.

It started harmless enough.

In 2006 I decided I wanted to attend the Conference for Gifted and Talented. I am unsure what motivated me, as I no longer worked in the field. The main speaker was Josh Waitzkin, who talked about his chess career, his tia-chi career, and now his newest interest, education. It was a fascinating talk, and I chatted with him after the conference. He gave attendees of the conference a free copy of his book "The Art of Learning." I was intrigued by the title but being busy, I put it on my bookshelf, and there it sat, sat, and sat.

Then one day, I felt the urge to play a game of chess and checked my computer for a chess program. Up popped "Chessmaster" with the subtitle "The Art of Learning." A quick review of the program showed me that it was an expertise system, so I purchased it. At the time, I was interested in how the research on expertise had been used to develop expertise systems, and yes-- the seminal work in expertise studies was done with chess.

I fell in love with the game. I loved playing with the avatars and exploring their strengths and weaknesses. I started to see patterns and ideas. Chess was no longer just a game but a new world, a microcosm of life.

Then a new fear gripped me: what if I gained many points playing on the computer and did not want to risk losing them in real games? And what if I, therefore, never, ever play OTB games? I better do something about it. So, I looked for a chess club in San Francisco. The Mechanics Institute popped up. They had tournaments, classes, Saturdays for everyone, and Sundays for women. My chess life was born.

I attended the Saturday and Sunday classes, and with my "complete chess knowledge," I walked into the Tuesday Night Marathon, and faced my first opponent, rated around 1600 or 1700. I did not feel intimidated; I knew nothing about ratings or how they worked.

But I do remember my feeling as silence descended. Eighty people in one room, facing each other across historic wooden chess tables lined in rows and not one sound. An atmosphere of anticipation, hope, and tension descended, and I knew I belonged.

@Renate-Irene

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Bill Lombardy and Bobby Fischer Poem

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I have decided to start a series of blogs in the new year. As I thought about it, many ideas presented themselves. I may pursue them later, but as it is Christmas time, I thought I would start with a series of blogs honoring three people who have deeply and profoundly affected my attitude toward chess and life. The first blog, today’s blog, will set the background. 

Toward the end of his life, William  Lombardy visited the Mechanics Institute in San Francisco, California. I remember when he came in and sat next to me on the first day of the Imre Koenig event. This was a special two-day round-robin event where invited grandmasters competed against each other. If I remember correctly, there were only four players, Daniel Naroditsky and Sam Shankland among them.

I did not recognize the stranger who sat next to me, but John Donaldson, the MI chess director, did. He greeted him and brought out an old picture of a chess event with Lombardy sitting in the front row. Handing the picture to Lombardy, he asked Lombardy if he remembered. Lombardy smiled. Then John invited him to join us the following day for a special grandmaster luncheon.

After the luncheon, while I was cleaning up, Lombardy and I talked. I asked him what I could do to improve in chess. I told him I studied games by analyzing them, but It was a very slow and time-consuming process. He suggested that I spend 10 minutes a day going quickly through as many games as possible. “That won’t work,” I responded. So he tried a different track; he asked me if I stopped it every few minutes to analyze it when I listened to music. Hmm, he had a point; I do not stop the music every few minutes while listening. Lombardy and I spent an hour or two that afternoon discussing many things. We had a wonderful time.

After that event, Lombardy often visited the MI, especially on Tuesday nights when the place was buzzing with people. Tuesday is the night of the historic Tuesday Night Marathon, which often draws more than 100 players.

As participants finish, they gather in the skittles room, a special room with walls covered with pictures of famous chess players. A tall picture of Tal smoking his cigar is on one side, a photograph of Spassky giving a simultaneous exhibition at the Mechanics Institute on the other side. Over the door to the office is a framed picture of Bobby Fischer on the cover of Time magazine. Additional pictures are scattered over the walls, such as Frank Sinatra and Walter Browne playing chess, giving the room the comfortable feeling of a home rather than a club. The room is filled with solid wooden chess tables, each with its history.

On Tuesday nights, the room is full as the players of the Tuesday night marathon stream in. “What would you have done if I played this?’’ “Why did you play this move?” “What were you thinking here?” “You nearly got me there.”  “Why didn’t you play this move?”

These questions, asked quietly at various tables as players analyze their games at each table, give the room a quiet buzz of fellowship and camaraderie. Lombardy and I were sitting at one of the tables across from each other. He had been talking to one of his friends, who just had left. So I set down across from him, handing him a poem I wrote about Bobby Fischer. I always wondered if my portrayal of Bobby Fischer was accurate, and here I had someone who knew him well. I was not going to let this opportunity slip by.

At first, he was reluctant to read it, but he agreed. As he started reading the poem, I heard him comment, “I like this….” “The wording here needs to be changed…” etc. When he had finished, I looked eagerly at him. “Did I capture Bobby Fischer?” He nodded; there was a pause, and then I heard him quietly say, “It could have been me.”