A couple of days ago, I beat Craig at chess. I think this is the first time. He’s much better than I am. I used to be surprisingly good at it.
The first time I learned the game I was age 19. I had started dating a guy in one of my classes at UCLA. The class was Ancient Greek. This guy was majoring in Ancient Languages. I was satisfying a credit for a third language required for philosophy majors. I was attracted to this guy because he was mild mannered. He lived alone in an off-campus apartment and drove a motorcycle.
One night at his place he taught me how to play chess. This is how he taught me: He told me the names of the pieces and the rules for moving them across the board. Then he told me to move. What? I had no strategy at all. You can’t teach a didactic person like me by letting me learn by trial and error. I learned nothing and did not try to improve.
Later, when I was about 26 years old, I took a course in the psychology department called “The Psychology of Chess.” I think the teacher’s name was Batchelder. What a class! I don’t know how much psychology was in it, but learning strategy of the game was fantastic. I learned how to trade for advantage, how to sacrifice pieces, and techniques I had never expected.
By the end of that class I was as good as any player there. There was one guy I played with regularly. Too regular. He was developing strong feelings for me, and I had to cut it short, because for one thing, he was married.
I played fairly often for several years, but I left it alone for the past thirty or forty years and I got way weaker.
One of the reasons I wanted to hang out with H. was because I wanted someone to play with. At that time Craig beat me every time. H. said he knew how to play but he was rusty. The first time I played him, I beat him with a Fool’s Mate, which I had just learned from Craig. The next couple times we played, H. would pretend to not know the better move. So sometimes I would suggest a possible move for H. Oh, he picked up pretty quick and he started beating me two out of three times. I realized this “helping” was distracting my own performance.
The chess games petered out as we got more and more involved in our arguments about politics.
So I just recently read a short story called “The Royal Game” by Stefan Zweig. It grabbed my interest to the end. Remember I rarely read fiction any more. But this story kept my interest to the end. It’s about a man on an ocean liner probably during the 1950’s or 1960’s. He becomes aware that there is a chess master on board. A match is arranged between the master and another rich Scottish man. During the game, a man reaches over and grabs the wrist of the Scottish man. He says to him not to make that move. The man tells him it’s a trap; the next six or seven moves will lead to the Scottish man losing. The men surrounding the players watch until the chess master declared “Draw.”
The author finds out later the background of the man who grabbed the wrist of the Scot’s man. This passenger had a long story of his background in Austria. He had been quite well-off, until the Getapo arrested him. They had tortured him for about a year in solitary confinement. He stole a small book from the pocket of one of the guards with which he managed to fight off the solitary madness.
The author describes the personalities of the chess master, the Scot, and the Austrian. I thought the story pulled me in.
Bye for now…