The Chess Game

In the early morning of my city, where the doves slid through the open air and the leaves whisper an emerald shade of green, thirty-two bronze chess pieces, respectively coloured and meticulously crafted, sat uniformly at daggers drawn. The mild, lustrous metal was still cold from the brisk, thin air of April. I rotated the rose golden Knight to its post, solemn for war, and I put out my hand.
My respondent was an old man, whose hair turned silver in all the ages he'd laid eyes on. His hand was covered with wrinkles, veins bulged and formed a series of rolling hills, shaking mine firmly. Several pedestrians gathered around the small, stone table, and a few of them found themselves as commentators. Bronze gently knocked on the grey marble, and the battle began.

“Tricky move! Are you sure you want to do that?”
The old man exclaimed as I pushed my Queen a few squares forward, trying to set up a forcing tactical sequence. He had a thick European accent, his voice deep and hoarse.
I answered casually, “Why not?”
He responded with a defensive move intending to put his King to safety. But it was no use. I was much faster than he could hide. I further aligned my Rook with his King.

“Going all-in?” He mocked.
I didn’t answer, busy calculating all the possible moves. My eyes wandered over the board, shifting left to right in deep thoughts.
Suddenly, the old man picked up his own Queen and slammed it onto one of the light squares in my position. “Check!” He declared triumphantly.

I immediately saw my lethal mistake. It is called “continuity” in chess. Every move changes the position. My coach’s words echoed in my mind: Every pawn move weakens a square. A good player needs to take the greater situation into account, above their private interests.
I was so tempted by the tactical sequence that I failed to realize my opponent did not need to acknowledge me at all. I calculated what I could have, but chess isn’t a game of myself. There’s, indeed, someone, sitting in front of me, and thinking for themselves. Now, as the Black Queen and Rook left their positions of guarding my weak pawn, my opponent’s White Queen could penetrate easily through my seemingly intact defense. I had blundered a forced “checkmate-in-four” combination, a rare impossibility in my otherwise flawless play. The problem was, however, that it was possible.

I stared at the chessboard for around an entire minute with my face in my hands, frustrated. When my clock was about to run out—because we were playing a three-minute game, I extended my hand again. This time, in resignation.

We talked for a long time after that game. He really seemed to like my playing style, aggressive, ambitious—and audacious. He told me he used to play chess every morning here, wishing he was a top student in his class. He said he had made so many mistakes. When he was young. Stupid and naïve, and thought the world orbits around him.
Chess is a game of life, he told me. It’s never the first mistake that kills the game. It’s always the second. Don’t make the second mistake when you still have the chance.

I won’t. Not in this game.