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Chessville
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Touched by Genius (Part II) Perry the PawnPusher By Rick Kennedy Tick…tick…tick…tick…tick…
Many years ago, as a young lad, I took my first trip to the Chess Club with Father, holding his hand tightly, wondering at first if all games were played like his with Uncle Doug – solemn faces, the occasional grimace or smirk, clouds of cigar smoke and the ever-present glasses of port or brandy.
Upon my arrival, I can say that I was not disappointed, but, rather, quite amazed: within a dark wood room sat a score of tables, each with a pair of combatants. A glance showed fine suits and work shirts, manicured nails and work-darkened fingers, polished shoes and boots that had labored as hard as their owners. The chess players hunched over their sets and boards, overseeing and being overseen by what impressed me most of all – those magnificent chess clocks!
The scene has stayed with me: all those men filling the air with majestic and creative thoughts, the quiet broken only by the bump of pieces as they were exchanged, the thump as one landed on its chosen square, and the following click as timepieces signaled the end of one move and the beginning of another. Always, the ticking of the chess clock, sounding out the theme of our lives...
This day I was sitting in the otherwise empty library of the Club, polishing my endgame technique, taking a rook against the computer’s two pieces. It’s surprising how many times such a position shows up in my games. It’s hard work, preparing, but I’ve always though it was harder being unprepared.
My concentration was broken by a stranger who tentatively wandered into the room, apparently looking for someone. He tip-toed up to me, a question on his face.
“Are you…?” he stammered, and then shoved a printed piece of paper into my hand. I gave it a glance, then waved him over to a board.
I had an hour. For the most part, I demonstrated and explained games. He asked an occasional question, as beginners often do, but mostly he listened and tried to follow along. I played out a Morphy game, with his pieces flying quickly from the sidelines to overwhelm his inefficient, and therefore undermanned, opponent. I produced a Steinitz gem, showing that so very often, where there is hope, there is a defense. I uncorked a Capablanca masterpiece where “nothing” was happening up until the point of the lesser player’s resignation. I finished with an Alekhine smash: where there is passion, there is often power. Actually, there was time enough at the end for a Rubinstein endgame, so crystal clear that one could imagine that chess was unbelievably easy – or despair of its hidden, inscrutable complexity.
The stranger stood up, his face aglow. He pumped my hand vigorously with words of thanks and then made for the exit.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Kennedy,” I told him as he departed. “Feel free to come back and visit, anytime.”
Minutes later, back at the computer, I grumbled lowly as a figure dashed into the room, knocking over a chair, upsetting some pieces – and my own concentration. The style was identifiable by sound alone. It could only be Perry, the resident pawnpusher-for-life.
Perry drew himself up and self consciously pulled the chair up and into place.
“I’m here for a lesson.” He smiled. “To teach a lesson,” he emphasized, lest I had misunderstood. “Paid to teach a lesson, mind you,” he continued, so that I could surely get the point. His swagger looked a bit overdone.
Looking around, Perry continued, “Actually, since he appears to be a few minutes late, I think I’ll just prepare a bit.” He sat down at the table, stared at the pieces, and absent-mindedly pushed his clock. A moment later, he swung his head and looked plaintively at me. The confidence had eked away. “In the meantime, since this is my, er, first student, perhaps you could give me a suggestion or two??”
I sat down across the table, made a move on the board, and punched the clock. “I suggest that you show up on time when you’re teaching a lesson, Perry. You’re an hour late.”
He blanched. “And my student?”
“Came and went,” I assured him.
“And?”
“I did the best that I could with him, Perry. It will have to do, this time.”
The pawnpusher mumbled out a “thanks,” and then a “why?”
“The clock ticks, Perry,” I told him. “We can only do our best in any position, and then move on.”
Tick…tick…tick…tick…tick…
Index of Perry the PawnPusher Stories Index of Fiction at Chessville
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