Remembrance of a high school chess coach

Happy Friday, chess fans.  There's a celebration of life service for the coach of my high school chess team this weekend, and though I can't be there, the family invited friends to send in some words of remembrance to be read at the event.  I wrote this, and I hope you enjoy it.

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In the fall of 1990, I walked into the high school chess club in Michael Beresky’s chemistry classroom, thinking I already knew how to play.  My Dad taught me how, after all.  What more was there to know?

Over two school desks turned nose-to-nose, Mr. Beresky showed me I was hiding my king behind a thick wall of pieces, and I would do better to actively stake out territory in the middle the board and prepare to attack.  I didn’t know it at the time, and he didn’t say it out loud, but that day Michael was teaching me that I should be taking charge of my own life, instead of waiting to react to events.

When he saw that I kept losing games with my hapless king trapped in the center of the board, while my powerful rooks still sat, untouched, in their starting places in the corners, Mr. Beresky showed me the importance of “getting castled” early on in the game, ushering my king to safety and bringing a rook under my forces gathering in the center.  Unspoken was Michael’s lesson to protect what was most important to me, and to use my strengths.

With the sweet scent of paradichlorobenzene (pair – uh – die – klor – oh – benz – eene) still hanging in the air, Mr. Beresky showed me that wild piece sacrifices, made on a “hunch”, often backfire, turning a winning position into a long, painful loss.  That day I started to prefer gradual progress, earned by patient observation and well-reasoned decisions.

Mr. Beresky taught the value of “sequencing” my moves in complicated positions – showing how the same pieces attacking together could produce either good or bad results based on which one moved first.  That day Michael wordlessly taught me to think deeply about the consequences of my decisions, and how double-checking my work could avoid missing rare opportunities.

Mr. Beresky demonstrated how rooks work best in pairs – one leaping out to claim an important square, attacking a weak spot, with the other rushing up behind to support his brother, and being supported in return.  And hidden underneath was Michael’s message that life is a bold adventure, best lived with the companionship of a close friend and peer.

And one spring afternoon I heard Mr. Beresky react to my move by muttering through the hand supporting his chin, “Yuh could do that… that’s fer sure…”, and I realized with a thrill that I’d surprised him.  I’d played a move he hadn’t seen coming.  And though he didn’t say so in words, that was the day Michael taught me that study and practice would let me grow and improve in any area of life I cared about, even to the level of those who’d taught me – and beyond. 

That night, at home, I beat my own Dad in chess for the first time… and I never lost a game to Dad again.

Thirty-something years later, I’ve become a lifelong chess fan, and one of my great joys is sitting down over a board, explaining the movements of these ancient little figurines to a new learner, and passing along what I’ve learned.  I shall be very fortunate, indeed, if my life has half the impact on someone else that Michael Beresky’s life had on mine. 

Thank you, Michael – you’ll be missed.

My condolences to you for your coach. The one who taught me chess has passed long ago so I know how you feel. I am glad he took the time to teach me.