Forum

On another group's forum, our own PWoC contributor and friend, 17000mph, has started a Tributory thread. I thought the sentiment was deserved here as well. Rather than reword, here is his message. 17000mph wrote: I've heard that Rael has left chess.com, and with that in mind, I thought of starting a thread to say farewell to Rael, just in case he ever logs in he would see the well wishes that people had to express. So, Rael, best wishes in all of your endeavors and adventures. You insight and wit will be missed by many and thought of often.

Let us now praise... the cliché It’s concise, time-tested, and instantly familiar. What’s not to love? By James Parker Globe Correspondent / October 18, 2009 WHO WILL SAY a good word for the cliché? Its sins are so numerous. Exhausted tropes, numb descriptors, zombie proverbs, hackneyed sentiments, rhetorical rip-offs, metaphorical flat tires, ideas purged of thought and symbols drained of power - the cliché traffics in them all. A lie can be inventive; an insult can be novel. Even plagiarism implies a kind of larcenous good taste. But a cliché is intellectual disgrace. The word itself seems to shape the mouth into a Gallic sneer. Discuss COMMENTS (4) Writers of course have always been extra-spooked by cliché. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” No, I don’t think I shall - because somebody else already did that. And in 2001 Martin Amis officially declared war against cliché with a book entitled, uh, “The War Against Cliché.” “All writing,” he proclaimed, pennants flying, “is a campaign against cliché. Not just clichés of the pen but clichés of the mind and of the heart.” And indeed Amis in his dazzling career has routed cliché, scattered it, seen it off with a thousand boilingly brilliant and novel images. But here’s the thing: were any of them quite as good as “fit as a fiddle?” Time, to use a particularly sage cliché, will tell. If in 50 years an Amis-ism like “reduced to tears of barbaric nausea” is common currency, then he’ll have made the grade. Durable, easily handled, yet retaining somehow the flavor of its coinage, the classic cliché has fought philology to a standstill: it sticks and it stays, and not by accident. Let’s consider the origin of the word. For 19th-century typesetters, a cliché was a piece of language encountered so often in the course of their work that it had earned its own printing plate - no need to reset the individual letters, just stamp that thing on the page and keep going. So the cliché was an object, and a useful one: a concrete unit of communication that minimized labor and sped things up. I imagine that a nice hardy cliché like “on its last legs” or “tempest in a teapot” does more or less the same thing inside our heads: one bash of the stamp, one neat little payload of meaning, and on we go. And speaking of tempests, how did we manage for so long without Sebastian Junger’s “perfect storm,” the epitome of a vigorous and helpful cliché? (“A perfect storm in a teapot,” on the other hand, is not a cliché. Yet.) I see one or two hands going up out there. You sir - yes, you at the back, in the felt hat. What’s that? “Tempest in a teapot” isn’t a cliché, it’s an idiom? Ah, but there you hit upon the mystical super-cliché at the heart of cliché studies: No one can say with complete certainty what a cliché is. To me it might be a cliché, to you it’s an adage. Or a catchphrase. Or a salty bit of slang. The very earliest examples of cliché, if you look at them for long enough, seem about to turn into something else. From the Dark Ages: “hither and thither.” Cliché or not? And how about Homer’s “bite the dust”? Let’s head for safer ground, where the cliché-ness of the clichés cannot be questioned. “At this defining moment...”, “We stand at the brink of...”, “a few bad apples,” “I apologize, above all, to my wife.” Politicians, especially American politicians, are almost obliged to speak in cliché, for fear they will stray into that zone most terrifying to the electorate - the heady and unpredictable zone of original thought. Democracy, we might say, runs on cliché: on truisms, bromides, caricatured opinions, boiled-down ideas and statements that everyone thinks they agree with. Cliché implies the consensus without which we’d be shooting one another in the streets - and the more fragile the consensus, the grander and more magniloquently all-embracing the clichés must become. “The greatest country in the world...”, “I put my faith in the American people...” An American politician can be off-the-cuff, instinctive, zig-zag, but only if he or she is prepared immediately to make a cliché of it: look at what happened to the word “maverick” in the last election. And the niftiest political-class coinage - “the politics of personal destruction,” for example - becomes a cliché at amazing speed. Blogdom, YouTube, and round-the-clock news have undoubtedly accelerated the cliché-certification process: you can say “Leave Britney alone!” at 10 in the morning and it’s a fully-accredited cliché by noon. This is cliché skimming on the moment, seeking its opportunities, wonderfully alive. But what of the timeless cliché, the cliché you can steer your course by, the cliché that carries a small freight not just of meaning, but of wisdom? I sometimes think that my entire psychological and ethical structure, such as it is, falls somewhere between “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” and “It takes two to tango.” Observations like these have been road-tested, times beyond number, and discovered to be sound. They are laden with experience, and yet somehow jaunty. Some witty individual must have coined them, somewhere, but they glow with the accumulated knowledge of the race. They are clichés, and they belong to you: as a speaker of English, they are your birthright. Use them proudly. And when life hands you a lemon, remember that it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. James Parker writes regularly for Ideas and is a contributing editor at The Atlantic.

Heya! This is the first song I wrote. It was kinda clumsy as I was experimenting with words, but here it is! :-) Unspeakable Waiting for an opportunity Yet never finding the right words When I have something to say My audience is the birds Sitting in a tree So much emotion So many thoughts So many sentences Left unspoken Unspeakable Unspeakable The things I want to say Would change the world For you, and me Inside me they've swirled Haven’t seen the light of day So much emotion So many thoughts So many sentences Left unspoken Unspeakable Unspeakable

“I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member” Groucho Marx

To My Dear Friend Sweeter than the honeysuckles during spring ,Like blossoms after winter rain,The caring , sweet friend of mine , The friend that I’ll never leave behind A smile , a hug And what else needed more?To have all the love in the world ,In my hands to hold An occasional blush , With a kiss on your cheek ,A heart warming sensation ,That will leave you speechless beneath An umbrella when it rains ,Wiping tears off my cheek,What will I ever do without you?My dear friend , please talk to me again I might have said something wrong ,The blabber mouth I tend to be, My naivety…none to my liking ,My friend , please forgive me Dreaming…as often as air Nightmares…a distant legend,Nothing can hurt me no more ,When I know I can trust you till the core My loving friend…A crutch when I’m broken ,A bed when I fall ,Never ever leave me ,never at all By Phavi Kannan ( me ) I need critism for this please ! ^^

You Every waking minute of the day I can't help but think how you Always make me feel special, no matter the way But now I feel so blue Lying awake at night Under the stars so bright How they twinkle and shine Like my eyes when you were mine Talking to friends I still think of you For that depends On when I go blue You were the charm in my life But now I can't help but think sometimes gone amiss When you were in my life I was full of bliss You have me feelings I adored So soft and gentle While others were a bore, You were always there. I can't rewind time, Undo what been done, or even understand where it went wrong We were like a puzzle Life being the board Me the starting piece And you completed it. But now the boards shattered My love splattered up against a wall It feels so wrong, what happened to your love? It was so divine So now I lay awake and watch the stars Think of you and all our moments Think of you and your gentle touch Think of you and your beautiful smile Think of you and your brown eyes But now your gone and I feel a tear Rolling down my face I turn away from those stars and pray for grace For forever now you'll not be mine, Another claimed what was once mine.

I feel the need to write but I don't know where to begin. Does anyone else ever feel that way?

Lost The feeling of losing your way not sure what way to turn which path to go on Lost Confused of why He can take away the good and leave you to wonder Lost Giving up on your faith forgetting God because life gets so hard Lost Praying, but to no avail for you left Jesus left his comfort Lost Then a miracle comes something to awake your spirit you no longer doubt Him No longer Lost So you come back to Jesus find your path know exactly where to turn No longer Lost

Just for fun, let's make up some 7-word poems about chess. I'll try the first one:chess...life...life...chess...joy, obsession, checkmated.

NIGHTMARE By: R. Christopher Jerked awake from disturbing dreams. Terror fills my invoiced screams. Another night of restless sleep with sweat-soaked covers all aheap. Breathe deep to calm my racing heart. Await the dawning day to start. Another day of fear and fright of what dreams may come tonight. Will they be dreams sharp and pointed, or imahes so dishointed. Freams in colors of violet-dread with flames and sparks of yellow-red. Or scenes of love turned to hate, disappointments that don’t abate. Worse—the loneliness dark as coal that eats away your very soul. The nightly tide of evv and flow the dreams retreat but do not go. They have always returned to me There is nowhere that I can flee. Some nights the dreams; they do not haunt, they do not scare, they do not taunt, but just hide away in the dark, and bide their time to make their mark. I pray this night I shall have peace. One night’s rest, one night’s release. A night without a dreams visit. It’s not too great a prayer—is it AND NOW FOR SOMETHIG COMPLETELY DIFFERENT... Summertime Fair By: Kyska (R. “Chris” Christopher) First night of the Summertime Fair. Witches come and solemnly swear in perfect love and perfect trust. On athame ¹ and fairy dust to hold sacred the Wiccan Rede ² in every thought and every deed. We come to praise in the moonlight The Lord of Light and Lady Bright. Celebrating all the growing things. The abundance that summer brings. Next night of the Summertime Fair. A circle’s called with all due care. All of the compass points are named with words and deeds carefully framed. Lord and Lady are called upon to help and guide our journey on. The magick grows so much higher with water, air, earth, and fire. The spell’s complete with harm to none. And now the circle is undone. Last night of the Summertime Fair. A joyous laughter fills the air. In the light of a pale full moon witches dance to a piper’s tune. With rhythmic beat of feet on ground the air is filled with living sound, and voices raised in a farewell song. Now is the time to say so long. A happy end from a happy start, ‘twas merry met and merry part. ¹Athame: Ath- ă-mā, A knife used in rituals. ² Wiccan Rede: Core teaching. “And it harm none, do as you will.”

THE FUTURE BEHIND ME By: R. Christopher My past stretches out before me. The far ago blurs in the distance of years. Some memories are sharp and clear, for I’ve oft revisited those pleasant times. Some scream out their warning cries, telling me to avoid their painful remembrances. Nearer memories fresh and new. The recent past not wholly reconciled. Maybe to blaze in vivid clarity or fade to half-remembered obscurity. Time will sort them out, for I cannot. Over my shoulder the future becomes the past. Glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. The present rushes by so fast it can hardly be comprehended. Sometimes I fear I lag behind then run so fast that I trip. Time ignores my stumbling strides. He’s not known as one who’ll wait. Unknown and only darkly divined by examining the past’s vague hints, the future gallops on swift moving hooves, from behind where I cannot see. Furiously charging comes the time to be. Inexorable and incessant. Wrapped in a cloak of mystery he carries the unknown, and the unexpected. In his hand is the sword of fate that must one day fall on me bringing an end, and perhaps a beginning.

The calendar says that Summer ends on 9/21, the Autumnal Equinox, the daylight and day call it a split at twelve hours each. The weathermen say 9/1, andthe change in the weather, at least here in Southeastern Virginia, tends to concurwith this assessment. Of coure we all know in our hearts Summer will alwaysend the day after Labor Day, and this year sadly there was no Ed McMahon alongside Jerry Lewis to emcee my Telethon viewing marathon. These are the sweetest days of the year here, a glorious combination ofSummer temperatures combined with low Autumn humidity, three in-betweentransitional weeks that defy a label and seem to defy time, as each day movesslower than the last, a pleasant rarity as one grows older. I like to increasethe length of my nature walks and really soak in the birds and plants and flowersand clouds and sky and grass. The Bermuda lawns, golf course grass, are evenbetter now than the hot summer months they were invented for, the Fescuelawns are experiencing a rebirth after the wilting and pounding they took in the heat and humidity. The clouds seem whiter and fluffier and climb vertically to the heavens, and the few dark clouds there are provide a stunning contrast.The birds seem to be eating more, perhaps storing up for their long winter'svoyage to Mexico and Central America and other parts unknown. The sky seemsa different shade of blue amidst less water vapor and a new sun angle, a colorright from our old 64-crayon box that we colored so many skies of our own.Mums are being planted everywhere to replace Petunias, and the abundantCrape Myrtles, the 100-day tree, are beginning to call it a year, though some that started late may make it into November. Roses are blooming a second round, as if to say they want one more chance at glory before winter's wrathsends them into a dormant hibernation of hiding. I saw a lizard behind my porch post, a huge bullfrog down at the pond near the Poquoson River, and a turtle sunbathing on a log as eight geese strolled in front of me on my walk, speeding up as if I was trying to outrun them. Ourbarn owl is still here, as it has been since June (see my blog), although the smallowl it raised has since flown away. Did you know that many birds remain within one mile of where they were raised their entire lives? So the parting is not as sad as it seems, I'll bet they come home to do laundry and borrow money. Theowl killed a large bunny near the front door that had been eating clover daily a few weeks ago, a reminder of how vicious and cruel nature can be as well, I won't go into detail what an owl'sbeak and claws can do. Burying the bunny only reminded me of the day my dad died of a brain tumor, or later when my dog was killed by a neighbor's dog who breathed fire down my neck as I tried to rescue him. I never thought it seemed very fair, the bunny was justminding his own business, why is nature designed like this? Life is simply not fair. Every September First I have a silly ritual, I go out into my backyard upon awakening, it is always perfect weather, and I sing "September Morn" by NeilDiamond. The neighbors would think I was odd, but they know I'm a chessplayer, and I'm proud to say we see the world a little bit differently thaneverybody else.

Cristina (773) How do I thank you? For making me a twenty-year old again? Silently slipping into My life, as a spring's morning mist. I thought about a gift of money – but your beautiful Asymmetrical smile lifts me to the next level – I hear your generous reply. Remember the Jamba Juice? I think I loved you then How do I say I needed to see you? Needed to hear you – talking, Just chatting. Remember when you streaked your hair red? And your fingers with tattooed red dye, were Indelible? I think I loved you then (773) 3 my bottle of alcohol – the telephone - The shot of “Jack” with a short chaser - sits waiting Like a mortician, knowing that everyone dies Just press the digits, man! punch them in Hoping to get her voice mail? The last time we talked – In school – I wanted to tell you – couldn’t. But, I did tell you. You were special. Sweet Jesus, so special. And if I took that drink – then what/ what then? What was the conduit? What connection linked us? Or, very possibly, I’m just tethered to runaway Byronic Bullshit Emotions. No connection, no river of red. What did you see, “Sweet Georgia Brown”, what did you see? (773) 37 Have you read the story? (doesn’t matter what she says – I’ll hear her) I want you to come with me one Sunday after Noon – two hours with me. I can charge my batteries and You can try to figure out what the hell it is I’m talking about. I want you to see me with black hair – – to see me When I was in viet nam – when I was a boy, manning the ‘60/didn’t know it but the greatest erection I ever had. Adrenalin coursing through my veins like a “hotshot”. I want you to feel my friendships, the rite of passage with the Frenchman and Oliver and Dude and Hippie You see, the stories don’t matter; it’s electric shocks sparking from the podium Short circuiting your heart’s eyes. What was it? Tell me, Meet you three quarters of the way. Who was playing on your ice skating rink? What were you showing me? I couldn’t look at you – head on/ it was easy to See you from the round square corner of my eye. (“Hook me up, Brother Me, hook me Up!”) No, you will kill me surer than a bullet. You will crush me, suffocate me like a granite boulder gaining poundage with every breath. (773) 370 But what cost? Will I get shorter? Fatter? Older? My Armani suits torn to rags The silk Format ties – colored paper ribbons rain-soaked Will you tell your friend from Illinois? Over Coronas? (con limones, of course) All I have to do is take the shot Feel my tongue bitten and inhale the fumes of refined gasoline “Sweet Georgia Brown”! how many times have I fallen/jumped from this ledge? I know the drill the “Elixir Lucifer” can bring. Now if you knew what’s the Reason for the doubts . . . .. Doubts stretching into sleepless nights. Hoping thoughts will amble towards the tracks and stop the train the slow moving train to morning. (773) 370-6 You came to class one day with your hair all “Permed-out” – my heart’s fingers wanted to enmesh themselves draw you to me. I needed you on my chest my Arms pulling/protecting; inhaling your hair; I wanted to tell You – how you are beautiful: a force so powerful drowning swirling. . . . I’ve walked with you by the lake and showed you where we used To swim “off the rocks” and saw buildings we’d Never see together You smiled – held my hand – not consoling a friend But assuring a lover. (773) 370-69 Your eyes did me in; eyes and smile and laugh And your voice (sensuous, rhythmic, deep – a Siren) I never had a chance. Didn’t see it coming. What a mope. But I met you and talked at you and should have given you a ride That night when you were alone and no cell phone. I relived That ride a hundred times (773) 370-699 Don’t look at the number. Don’t. You know it will Haunt you. Driving, every license plate will Have her number. Every phone call in will not be her. Don’t write her number Down – Don’t Look at my eyes – You’ll know. Not a sound/ You would see and swirling with the vortex - know and sense. I cannot do it. I cannot tell you who you are They’ll be others Let them tell you. I taught you – I did my job you learned - you did your job Why ruin the painting hanging in your womb Keep the sun off; it'll last forever. (773) 370-699X Don’t write her number down – Don’t look at it – don’t Call her – don’t tell her – I think she knows but can’t Be sure – can she?. Don’t take that drink Don’t gamble again. Quit while you’re ahead. All the clichés playing like 45’s skipping on the turntable/ Stuck on the turntable. I have the memories I need. She has my life/she has saved me/so beautiful; do not destroy it; do not ruin it; do not call, Cristina.

I just noticed our group has played no team matches or vote chess matches, not even one. In contrast, my Brainstrainers group has 35 vote chess games I am playing at once. I love the fact that a group dedicated to poetry and writing is notplaying any chess on a chess website. I say let's continue to not play!

As summer comes to a close here in southeastern Virginia, we are met by those wonderful, warm crisp days with lower humidity and pleasant winds. The calendar says September 21st or so (the Autumnal Equinox, when there is the same amount of light and dark) but the weathermen use September 1st as the first day of Autumn. A third option is the day after Labor Day, when most of us went back to school and Virginia Beach and Nags Head suddenly cleared of tourists like ghost towns. This year Labor Day is Monday, September 7th. So which of the three signals the end of Summer and the arrival ofAutumn for you all, or is it some other day or event?

Are you from a country other than the United States? Would you like to be in a 30-minute one-time episode of ChessTV about your country? I am producing anew show for ChessTV called "Chess Around The World" along with IM David Pruess.We will pick only one member from each country (about 200 countries) toportray. For seriously interested participants only please contact me.

I just posted on my blog an article as a followup to my "Summer Songs" titled"Rainy Day Songs". If you get a chance review them and tell me what yourfavorite rainy day songs are as well.

It is a story featuring the game we all love (chess in case you didn't know). I would appreciate any feedback positive or negative. You may wish to make a hard copy of it as it is about 4500 words and reading that much on a monitor is trying. The Final Round By R. Christopher This is the final round of a major chess tournament. A tournament Pyper should not have been in. The players, three of those in the world’s top ten, the rest all Grandmasters in the top fifty, and her. She is playing because her teacher, who was invited, fell ill the day before the event was to start. He successfully argued for her to take his place. Boris Milov had taught her well. Unexpectedly she was in a three way tie for first place, and all the tie breaks went her way. Grandmasters Long and her opponent Voss were her co-leaders. A win would give her the tournament title and more money than she had seen in sixteen years. A draw and she would finish second if Long won. Lose and she would finish third. A great result for an unknown player. Before the tournament she would have been ecstatic to finish so high, but now she wanted it all. Pyper liked to arrive early. Using the time to focus herself for the upcoming fight. She settled into the comfortable chair. It would be her last chance to relax until the game was over. Each player was allowed two hours for their first forty moves, then an hour for the rest of the game. She listened to the crowd entering the theater, and watched the engineers doing their last minute checks on the large video displays. One display was over each of the five tables on the stage. The activity around her helped to calm her. On the table before her sat a beautiful chess set. The pieces carved out of rich woods and exquisitely finished. The set pleased her aesthetically. Chess sets always had, from the first time. d When she was six years old Pyper saw her first chess set. Two old men were playing at the local park. The tall wood pieces mesmerized her. The man said hello as she sat on the concrete picnic table where they were playing. Pyper replied with a shy smile. For two hours she watched. The pieces were so beautiful, especially compared to the gaudily colored plastic and cardboard games she owned. This is an adult game. These were grown-ups playing. Pyper had never seen adults playing a game, except when her parents played on of her games with her. This was different. “Do you want to play one?” The older of the two men asked. A quick shake of her head sent her new copper penny colored hair flying. “Do you know how to play?” He continued. The bright hair flew again. “Would you like to learn? This time the head changed directions and nodded. This was accompanied be a soft, “Please.” Pyper learned the game was called chess, that her favorite piece, the horsey-head, was called a knight. She learned how all the pieces moved. She heard her mother calling her home. “We’ll be here next weekend.” The man said. It was the longest week in her life. Eventually the weekend came. It was followed by many more weekends spent learning the game. d The public address system blared jarring her from her memories. She saw most of the other players at their seats. The announcer was introducing the players. Her opponent always the showman, waited until the announcer reached his introduction. He strode onstage, smiling and waving to the audience. “Grandmaster Max Voss. The Wizard. Former World Champion. He held the title for fifteen years. Lost it to Alexi Turosov twenty years ago. Last year he was one of the three people to win a game from the current World Champion.” The announcer droned on. Stylish and distinguished, he has been the face of chess for more than forty years. His wit and ability to explain chess to the layman has kept him popular on the talk show circuit. He also was something of a surprise leader in this event. At sixty-seven he was well past his prime. He could win a game against anybody, but a three week competition taxed his endurance. The announcer did not mention that the win over the World Champion was his only win in that competition. This year he looked healthier, He had lost some weight. He did not look tired, he looked eager. He shook her hand as he sat down. While the announcer was winding down he said softly, “You have played some exciting chess. Your win over Karloff was as nice a game as I’ve seen in years.” “Thank you.” Was all Pyper could say. “We have played before, I think. I recognize the style.” Voss said. This startled her. She remembered the game vividly, but had not expected him to. “How can you remember that?” Pyper exclaimed. Voss smiled warmly and said, “I remember interesting games and their players.” Indeed he was famous for being only able to remember people if they had a chess game appended to their names. His encyclopedic memory did not extend past chess. d Ten year old Pyper sat behind on of fifty boards arranged on a horseshoe of tables. Max Voss circling in the center. Making a move at each of the boards as he passed. During the game Pyper was in the zone. Focused, seeing the possibilities better than she ever had. It was a tremendous game. After two hours hers was the only game not completed. Bill Evans, a master and her teacher, managed a draw. Everybody else lost. With no one else to play he could concentrate fully on her game. With every move he increased the pressure on her defenses. Then he surprised her, “How about a draw?” He said smiling in a kind grandfatherly way. Pyper looked at the position on the board. She knew she was losing, but did not know how he would break through her defenses. She wanted to know. She did not want to lose that feeling of being in the zone. “Not yet, please.” She begged. Voss laughed and moved one of his pawns. Pyper felt a hand on her shoulder. It squeezed softly. Her father’s warm voice said in her ear, “Mr. Voss wants to go and eat. Take the draw.” Then to the grandmaster, I hope you’ll allow us to take you to dinner?” “Yes. Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.” Their eyes turned to Pyper waiting. She extended her hand and said, “Draw. Could you show me how you were going to win?” Laughing Voss then made the pieces dance. Rapidly moving the pieces around the board. Every few moves accompanied by a “See” or an “And then.” Pyper watched dazzled. d “Lady and gentlemen you may begin.” Concluded the announcer. Pyper slid her king’s pawn up two squares and tapped the clock. The game had started. Voss advanced his queen bishop’s pawn. The Sicilian Defense. It was a favorite of his, so this came as no surprise to her. Their moves followed mainline theory. Neither player gaining any advantage. Then unexpectedly Voss shifted into the Dragon Variation of the Sicilian Defense. She had not prepared for that she did not remember him ever playing that variation before. She knew the lines because she played that variation occasionally herself. The complexity of the position increased. Voss played his knight to the center of the board. He set the piece down with a screwing motion. In effect saying, this piece is here and you cannot move it! This was a lesser known line, extremely dangerous and double-edged. Pyper countered with a move that could send them back into the main line. With a bang Voss put a pawn down supporting the knight. He was not going to allow her to steer the game back. For a game where you could not talk Voss’ every move spoke volumes. A banged piece said, be scared of this move it is powerful. Moved caressingly said, I like this move. The game went on with Voss dictating most of the play. She kept looking for ways to trade off pieces. Get to the endgame as fast as possible. Skip the middle-game entirely if possible. Pyper was not used to playing that way. She was not seeing the moves like she wanted and needed to. Her pre-game plan was going wrong. She could not make it happen. In truth it was not really her plan. d When Pyper visited Milov the night before he said, “Voss is called The Wizard for a reason. He can make an attack appear out of thin air. Pyper knew this. Since that game she played against him six years before he had been her hero. She had played over every one of his published games. She had read all the books he wrote. In many ways she patterned her game after his. Her natural tendencies ran that way anyway. Milov continued his lecture, “Turosov showed how to beat him in their match. Go straight to the endgame. Sometimes Voss’ll push too hard to win. He’ll open himself up to a counter-attack, or he’ll sacrifice a piece unwisely. “You play a lot like he does. Steering for complications. Sharp tactical chess, full double-edged moves. Always attacking. High risks, if you don’t win you lose. Remember, a draw gives you a lock on second place. It will most likely win as Long will go for a quick draw. But first and second advance to the next stage in picking a challenger for the World Championship. So with a draw you win, maybe not the tournament but the important prize.” Pyper said how strange it was to play the way Milov advocated after they went over a few games. “It may seem strange, but it is your best chance. Voss has mellowed out a bit in his old age, but the tiger still has sharp teeth. You saw what he did to Harding two rounds ago. Vintage Voss, an eighteen move crush of a top ten player. He’s playing better than ha has in tears. Hell even off form he took out the World Champion in a twenty-five move slaughter. If you play a sharp tactical game against him he’ll crush you too. You’re good, very good, but he’s probably the best ever. Play like Turosov. Let him beat himself or give you the draw.” She and Milov worked on lines of play until the nurses kicked her out. d Voss put his rook behind the missing center pawn with a thump. His moves and body language shouted. Shouted that she would not win, could not win. Pyper looked up to his watery blue eyes. They spoke the same message. There was no trace of the kindly grandfather in them. The man in front of her was serious—deadly serious. She knew she was seeing The Wizard conjuring her defeat. Now she understood why the World Champion said that Voss had hypnotized him. There was no way to trade any pieces. She had never felt like this before. Always she had been the tiger, now she was the rabbit trying to dodge the claws. Milov had told her being worse is not lost, but how much worse could she get before she did lose? She had no experience playing against a relentless attack. She glanced at the clock. The seconds ticked off. Her stomach was knotted with tension. At least she had experience with that. She made her move, an offer to trade off a couple of pieces, and then walked backstage. There were snacks and drinks laid out for the players She grabbed a soda and a doughnut. Stretching to relieve tense muscles, helped the body, but it was her mind that was rattled. She had to focus, had to be calm. She finished the soda and threw half of the doughnut in the trash. Grabbing another soda she walked back onstage. Pyper looked at Long’s game Milov was correct he was going for a quick draw. It looked like his opponent was happy with a draw as well. Voss was out to win and in very good position to get one. She returned to her board. Voss as she expected had declined to trade any pieces. Her attention kept returning to a pawn move. A pawn move that would increase the tension. The exact opposite of what her teacher instructed her to do. ‘She could force the exchange of bishops. Voss would gain a little positional in the swap. Milov said, worse is not losing. What to play, the simplifying exchange, or the sharper pawn move? Would Milov be angry if she pushed the pawn and lost? Yeah, he would. Would he still teach her?’ She thought. She had learned a lot in the tear and a half she studied with him. ‘If she did not do as he instructed and lost… Results were important to him. d Her father had different priorities. “Always do your best. Whether the task is important or not.” He drummed into her. “Then win, lose, or draw you will have your self-respect and usually the respect of others.” When Pyper was thirteen, she and her chess instructor asked her father to allow her to play in a tournament. “I hate competition, especially for kids. Chess is inherently competitice, it doesn’t need adults adding to it with organized events. Tournaments place too much emphasis on winning. I want Pyper to grow up a little before she has to deal with that pressure. Her father supported her chess playing. He brought her the best computer programs, books, and magazines. Paid for lessons with masters and finally a grandmaster, but no tournaments instill she was fifteen. d Pyper sat up and pushed the pawn authoritively. She knew how to make moves talk too. She was not as eloquent as Voss, but she could and would assert herself. The pawn move might not be the best move, but it was her best. She would play the kind of chess she loved. The following few moves increased the complexity. There were so many things going on. All the pieces were engaged. Multiple threats. Attack and counter-attack—balanced. Nervous tension filled her. The knots in her stomach tied themselves into knots. Her mouth was a desert. Again she went backstage, stretching knotted muscles as she walked. A soda and some deep breaths helped some. She tried another doughnut. She could barely swallow the bite she took. Her stomach would not allow it. ‘Why couldn’t I have played the simple swap-down game like Milov told her?’ Pyper agonized. The thoughts and doubts continued, ‘Stay away from the middle-game, he said. Nooo! I couldn’t follow good advice from someone who knows what to do. Not me! No ducking into an endgame now.’ She took a few more deep breaths to dispel those energy robbing and useless thoughts. Pyper looked onstage at Voss. He looked so calm. She wondered how many years it would take for her to be so relaxed in pressure situations. Throwing the barely touched doughnut in the trash she returned to her seat. Pyper would have been amazed to learn that her two uneaten doughnuts kept company with Voss’ half-eaten bran muffin. Equally surprising, if she knew was his wondering how a young girl could be so composed. The middle-game is where each player searches for a way to break through the others defenses. Probe for, or tempt a weakness in the opponent’s position. Voss sat forward in his chair. Tension filled his body for the first time. ‘He sees something.’ Thought Pyper. “What is it?’ She went hunting. Voss was in a long think. He was chasing down variations, and testing the moves that would ensue. She could not waste valuable time waiting for him to make the move. Whispers from the crowd grew in volume as his ponderings approached twenty minutes, then erupted as Voss captured her knight with his rook, inviting recapture by one of her pawns. The quiet please signs glowed out their message. Pyper had figured that was the move he was planning. She had seen this possibility moves earlier. She did not think that he would get enough compensation for the sacrifice. That he made the move indicated that he thought differently. Her options seemed clear on the surface. Do not capture the rook and be down a piece. That did not sound appealing. Take the rook and have a compromised pawn structure, but be up material. ‘Where’s the trap? What does he see? I must be overlooking something.’ The questions chased each other. Voss had spent more than twenty minutes examining this move. He went searching and found something. Now she had to find out what that was. Pyper settled into her chair. It was time for a long think of her own. After all one long think deserved another. That was one of the things she learned at her first tournament. At that tournament Pyper won some games and lost some. She learned things and found a teacher. It was a weekend she would never forget. d The state chess championship was three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. Pyper’s father allowed her to participate. Mark Hordon, her teacher, worked on preparing her for the event. Her first game was with a strong master. Nerves and the unfamiliar atmosphere helped contribute to her losing. Each player was allowed ninety minutes to complete the game. Pyper played fast. She always did. Her opponent used nearly eighty minutes. Pyper used barely twenty-five. After the game Pyper played blitz chess in the skittles room. The next round would be played that afternoon. Mark walked in. “How’d you do? Pyper asked him. “Draw.” “I lost.” Pyper said dejectedly. “It happens. I watched some of your game. You sure played fast. Bet you used less than half an hour.” Mark saw in her eyes that he had guessed correctly. Then continued, “One time he must have used fifteen minutes on a move. You made yours in less than two.” “I figured out what to play on his time.” Pyper interrupted. Mark responded, “So he took ninety minutes to find a win. You used thirty to lose.” He smiled and tousled her hair to take some of the sting out of the words. Then continued, “If you took twice the time you did could you have found a win.” Her face reddened. Hurt and chagrin filled her. “Sorry.” She said softly. “Nothing to be sorry about. You just learned a lesson. The same lesson everyone learns. The same way everyone learns it, by losing. This is a new experience. Just remember, if someone spends a lot of time on a move they may have found something. So if you have the time use it.” It was lesson Pyper remembered. d The crowd grew loud enough to light the quiet please sign again. Lost in the game, Pyper did not notice. Lines of possibilities. Pieces attacking or supporting other pieces in a precarious balance of offense and defense. Pyper had to find a way to weave those lines to her advantage. Two of the other games ended. The player paused and examined her game as they walked offstage. She had an idea. She needed to work out how it could be implemented. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised at how much time had wound off. Only nineteen minutes remained. She stood in hopes that a change of perspective would help. Nothing. She knew what she wanted to do, now find a way for it to be done. Then as she was sitting she saw how. She paused half way to her seat. Fixing the move in her mind she finished sitting. Everyone in the building knew she saw something. Voss leaned forward eyes scanning a board already fixed in his mind. The audience grew loud. When they did not respond to the signs the public address system whispered, “Quiet please.” Five more minutes spent checking. Her dark green eyes stared with laser intensity. Small quick movements followed the pieces to a future position. That position rejected, and then trail them to another. Each move of those pieces checked and evaluated. She could find no holes in her analysis. Pyper reached out. Her hand hovered over the knight. One more fast check. Then she lifted the piece and set it softly on its new square. The hushed murmur of the crowd grew to the point of hearing then sank down again. A look of surprise crossed Voss’ face. Clearly he had not expected her move. The watery blue eyes returned to the board after a momentary glance at the clock. His head sank into his hands. He could take the knight two ways. If he did Pyper would have time to capture his rook and protect her weakened pawns. Voss would have a slight advantage, but the rest of the game would be trench warfare. That was not the type of play he favored. She hoped he would retreat his endangered rook. Pyper’s plan hinged on a pawn sacrifice. That move was six moves in the future. To avoid it Voss had to see it now. If he did he would snatch the knight. Though he did not like trench warfare did not mean he could not play that type of game. Looking out at the audience she saw her father on the front row. Surprisingly he was talking with Milov ‘How did he get out of the hospital’ Pyper wondered. It was not the first time he had surprised her. That was at that memorable first tournament. d Pyper took Mark’s advice and slowed down. She managed to win her next two games and draw the fourth. For the fifth game she was paired to play grandmaster Boris Milov. She was very nervous. Mark had helped with some ideas about how to play against him. Pyper decided to arrive at her board early and focus on the game. This would become a habit. Just before the game was to start Milov sat down opposite her. “I’ve been watching you. You play well.” Milov said. Just as she thanked him the tournament director called for them to begin. Milov slid on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Then he nonchalantly moved his queen’s pawn. His style of play was like nobody she had ever played. He played defensively, preventing every attacking move she made. Slowly he increased the space he controlled. Gaining space square by square. The movement of her pieces was becoming more and more restricted. It was like playing a boa constrictor. He sat there so casual and relaxed. The board’s distorted reflection looking back at her when she looked up into Milov’s sunglasses. She had to find a way to break through and get some room for her pieces. She went into her first long think. It would be expensive. She would have to give up a rook for only two pawns. That would but her some breathing room. Pyper picked up the first of the pawns and replaced it with her rook. This seemed to startle Milov. He sat back, adjusted his sunglasses then captured her sacrificial rook. Pyper snapped up the second pawn with her knight. The knight attacked his queen, so he had to give way. For the next ten moves she found one way or another to keep him off balance. Milov kept ducking and dodging. He pulled most of his forces back to stave off Pyper's desperate attack. She knew that if her attack failed she was dead. Milov found one defensive resource after another. Pyper sacrificed another pawn when her attack started to slow. Then her attack died. There was no way to keep it going, no more pieces to burn to keep the heat on. It was over. She tipped over her king and reached out to congratulate him on his victory. Milov shook her hand. Smiling he asked her if she would like to come to him for further instruction. Once in the skittles room Pyper quickly called her father and handed the phone to Milov. d The rook retreated putting pressure on her knight Pyper slammed a bishop where it could support the knight. Voss instantly countered by sliding his other rook behind the just retreated one, now both rooks were working together, and aimed straight at her king. The moves were relatively forced. After their long contemplations of the last few moves both players had worked out the variations. Bang. Bang the moves came rapid fire. When Pyper pushed the pawn in front of her king a few moves later Voss paused. After stealing a glance at the clock Voss spent three of his precious few minutes calculating. His rooks would penetrate her king’s protection. Each move a check. Every check a move closer to mate. Voss snapped up the pawn. His rook gave check. Her king ran from the checking rook. The rook stepped forward one square. Check. Her king dodged once more, running up the board. The other rook joined in the hunt. Check. The harried monarch ducked into a cluster of pawns. Temporary security. Voss only had to reposition his queen, and then it would join the rooks. With the queen’s help, mate would come quickly. It was all over now. Voss nudged his queen over a square. This move did not give check. Pyper now had the free move that she spent so much to get. That long ago knight move had another, deeper purpose it opened a line for her queen. When Voss moved his queen to mate her he unprotected a square. That line and that square were crucial to her plan. No longer a helpless bystander her queen could strike a blow. Her queen slashed along that opened line. It captured the pawn in front of her adversary’s king. Check. The audience roared. The queen was unprotected. Voss could just reach out and capture it with his king. Voss looked up at her, then smiled, “Wonderful! A great game. I hope we will play again.” He said extending his hand. Pyper shook his hand saying, “Thank you I would like that.” She looked out over the confused audience. They were only beginning to understand what happened. She saw Milov explaining it to her father. She watched his finger see-saw as he pointed at the video display board. Again she looked at the beautiful pieces. In her head she moved them. Voss takes her sacrificial queen. Then her brave knight charges giving check. The king retreats to the only available square. The safety he is seeking is not to be found there. The knight dances away. The prancing knight uncovers the bishop discovering check. The king must move. The only square available to him is the one that he had just vacated. The knight rushes back to check the embattled monarch, and the scene is repeated. Pyper whispered one word, “draw!”

Chess is good me thinksI like it so much all dayI want to play more{See if you can beat that one! :-) }

Somewhere between 7th grade and 1997 I lost it. I don't know if I will ever get it back and it makes me sad.