The mournful wail echoed through the skittles room. “I don’t want to join the Vera Menchik Club!” I clapped a consoling arm around the shoulders of the tormented man, and turned him to face me.

It was Perry the Pawnpusher. Of all the rotten luck.

Who would have guessed that he, too, would be playing in the same national tournament, this holiday weekend? I had somehow missed him the first few rounds.

“I don’t want to join the Vera Menchik Club,” he started up, again.

“Perry, Perry, listen,” I cut him off, grabbing him by the lapels and then quickly letting my hands drop. Once again, I reached back to the days of the old chess studio for a quote from the great Alekhine “Vera Menchik is an extremely capable chess player; if she continues her work and training, she will graduate from her current status as an average master and become a first-class International Master.”

Perry stared bug-eyed, nodding his head.

“Next round,” he stammered, as his hands twitched in and out of the pockets of his ratty sweater. “If all goes as planned, I will be matched against Vera Menchik!”

I shook my head slowly and solemnly, but it was hard not to let a grin slide over my face. We both knew that the women’s Grandmaster playing in our tournament was not really named Menchik. She had caused quite a stir in her last few tournaments, however, and the comparison was a good one.

“Women’s world champion from 1927 to her death in 1944,” I continued. “She won seven straight world title tournaments, losing only one of the 83 games played. She defended her title successfully in two matches.”

Perry looked like he would turn green. “She was invited to join the men at the Carlsbad International Tournament in 1929,” he added, in a voice as flat as the 64 squares. “The master from Vienna, Albert Becker said anyone who lost to her would have to be put into a Vera Menchik Club.”

I raised a sardonic eye brow. “Becker joined first! Over the years, C.H.O’D. Alexander joined, Edgar Colle joined, Sultan Khan joined. Karel Opocensky joined. Sammy Reshevsky joined. Sir George Thomas joined.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

Perry shivered. “Max Euwe joined twice,” he added.

“Before he was World Champion,” I told him. “But, Capablanca, Alekhine and Botvinnik had no trouble with her.”

“I’m not that good,” Perry mumbled. He began to pace. “Masons wins, Pierce wins, Adams wins, this round – and I get matched with Menchik next round.”

Since they might also have an effect on my own pairing, I promised to check out the progress of those crucial games, and left Perry behind, shivering. I made my way, slowly and quietly, to the main playing hall.

Slipping by the tables, I noticed a Pirc, a Nimzo, and a French. They were all still too close to call, but I liked the changes of Mason, Pierce and Adams.

“Nothing to worry about,” I told Perry, when I returned.

Sticking an elbow in his ribs, I asked him “What’s the problem with losing to a woman, any way? Who remembers Ramsgate, or London 1932, when Menchik came in second? Who remembers Yarmouth, when she came in third?”

“Who remembers Augie Schnutz?” he came back, miserably.

“Never head of him,” I snapped.

“Just my point,” said Perry. “Augie was a promising junior until the day he met his own VM, and was roundly thrashed. That very day, he sold his chess set, took up euchre, and was never heard from again.”

Piffle. Stuff and nonsense, as my teacher used to say.

“If it would make you feel any better,” I suggested, “Why not go see how your guys are doing?”

Perry drifted off, and I decided to check out the all charts, myself.

With the pawnpusher out of the way, I could feel my good mood returning.

Minutes later, he was back. My advice must have been a tonic for him, though, as there was now a bounce in his step, and a foolish grin on his face.

“Mason lost,” Perry said, and his grin grew.

“Pierce lost, too,” he said, and he was smiling broadly.

“Adams lost.” He looked like he was filled with bliss, but he waited – for what, I didn’t know.

Then, I had a sudden, sinking feeling.

“I won’t be playing Menchik, after all,” he crowed over this surprise turn of events. A whole lot of people wouldn’t be playing whom they had planned on.

I spun around and glared at the wall charts, running my fingers over them, working out the new probable pairings, even as I saw the tournament director approaching with the score sheets.

Then, I knew.

“I don’t want to join the Vera Menchik Club!” someone wailed.

That someone was me.