Chess: Son-in-law and Me.

by Angela K. Durden
Citizen Journalist. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. 

This is an actual screenshot of me winning at an online game of chess.
I am white. The win came as a happy surprise to me.

I don't have many chess stories, but the one's I do have are doozies. You can read about one of those stories in the December 26, 2017, column on this site entitled "Chess: Perpetual Student, Old Boy, and Me."

This one today involves my now-ex Son-in-Law (SIL) when he wasn't ex. I wanted to learn and play chess. He did, too. They lived down the block. So, I bought a chess set. Many happy evenings transpired in which our spouses, that is to say my husband and daughter, watched TV in the living room as we sat at the kitchen table learning the game.

Oh, it was fun. I recalled the conversation I'd had with Perpetual Student and all that he'd taught me and all that he wished Old Boy would never learn, namely: Chess is a mind f*ck.

And since Son-in-Law's mind was so easy to screw with, of course the game was much more fun for me than for him.

You see, he was serious about it. He would be better than Mother-in-Law (MIL). He. Would. Beat. HER!

Frankly, and truth be told, neither of us are very good at it. We're equally matched in chess skills. He won 49.5 percent of the games and I won the rest. For the most part, 98.25 of those games were not too-too exciting.

But the other 1.75 percent is where the mind games blossomed. In those is where I really got to mess with his mind. For instance, here's one story:

So, there was SIL, chasing MIL around the board and somehow or another, MIL managed to continue to avoid SIL even though SIL massively outgunned MIL. Technically you could have called the game a draw, but SIL would not let that happen. He. Would. Beat. MIL!

"MIL! Give up. You know you've lost."

"Clearly, SIL, you can see I have not lost, but it is you who have no more options. You're out of opportunity to..."

"I am not. You are, MIL."
"Nope, SIL."
"Yes! Give up, MIL."
"Never! Not me, SIL."

And so on for at least ten minutes during which time — I am confident memory serves me accurately — I laughed cruelly at SIL and continued to taunt him on the board and with verbal thrusts aimed at his manhood until he stood up, laid down his piece on the board, threw his hands up in the air, and cried out, "You win. I can't take it anymore."

I said, "Are you conceding I've won?"

"Yes! Yes! Damn you! I'm never playing with you again. Aaargh!"

And we never played again. Mostly because of the divorces that followed, but I didn't miss the game because truthfully I don't like it. It's boring because it is so rule bound and relies on its own mystique to keep people coming back for more.

The mystique is that it is war. And that, if you are good at strategy on the chess board, then somehow you are good at strategy on the battlefield.

Well chess isn't war and the board isn't the battlefield.
Ideology and practicality are two different things.

Then again, if you can convince the enemy they've lost, then you will win. So maybe chess is war after all.

Chess: Perpetual Student, Old Boy, and Me.

by Angela K. Durden
Citizen Journalist. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. 


I once had an opportunity to go to the "Festival of the Book" in Charlottesville, Virginia, but I didn't want to go alone. I was still married at the time and, for reasons too complicated to get into now, insisted my husband, a non-reader, go with me.

It would be an adventure, I told him.
We would take the train, I cajoled him.
"But, books?" he said.
So I lied. "Look, I heard somebody was going to have a car show close by."
He perked up. "Oh, in that case, I'm in."

We never saw a car show, but I did manage to drink seven Black Russians at a bar one night and did not get a hangover, much to the surprise of my husband who has seen me get drunk more than once from a virgin Daiquiri. But this story is not about the demise of my marriage or about Al Kee Haul. It is about chess.

So, there we were. Sitting out on the sidewalk in front of a cafe having lunch. We were surrounded by people the likes of which I had never seen up close and personal. Most were playing chess. The only time I had ever played chess was in sixth grade. I didn't understand the game then. I do now.

At the time, I could not wrap my mind around it at all. And here, delivered to me, was an opportunity to find out more. Perusing the crowd, I settled on two men out of the many. One had long hair hanging halfway down his back, his male pattern baldness studiously ignored. He was around thirty-five and was, what I came to find out, a Perpetual Student (PS). PS was condescending to play with an old boy (OB), a student of about twenty, who was obviously en thrall to PS.

My husband said, "Angie, do not go bothering them."

He said this to me because I must have said out loud that I was going to go find out about chess. I ignored my husband, and boy, am I glad I did. I sidled over to the table and asked permission to watch the game. "I don't understand the game and would like to," said I. OB was too afraid to answer, but PS, thinking news of his playing prowess had spread far and wide, did not look at me but with a graciousness bordering on surly allowed that I could observe.

They set up the board. No sooner had they begun than OB said, "Damn! How did you do that?"

PS set the board back up, replayed the seven moves of the last game while opining and teaching using a bunch of words I did not understand. OB nodded like he got it, and the next game began.

I confess it was difficult to hold back my questions after that first game, but hold back I did, and within twenty minutes, PS beat OB in at least seventy-five games. They were playing like lightning. Finally I spoke up.

I said to OB, "How is that you aren't finishing the game, but you know you've lost?"

OB's eyed got wide, and he waited for God to speak because that got the attention of PS who said, "HOW? HOOOWW? Because it is obvious, that's hOOOWwww."

Two tables over, Husband was pretending he didn't know me as little ol' silly me said, "Yes, but...how? You see, it seems to me that there are more moves to make, so why," turning to OB, "do you quit?"

And there was the crux of it: OB believed it was over, so it was. 

PS was happy to have him believe that because then his reputation as Chess God was intact. PS knew how to win the game: You f*ck with the weak-minded.

I daresay PS' reputation as Chess God was only good on that sidewalk, and I bet he knew it. Like a Chinese Maoist to an innocent tourist, he invites people to his kingdom and says, "Come. See the wisdom of me, the Chess God, but no pictures, no video, and for all that is holy, no questions."

And here I was, in the role of the Ugly American, sitting at Chess God's table, and inviting insurrection by ignoring rules I didn't know existed. Which, even if I had known the rules, I would have questioned why I should ignore them.

PS spluttered and fumed as he tried to explain to me that there were only so many ways to move and that it was a foregone conclusion that, based on Famous Game from 1927 played by Genius of the Year against Genius of the Previous Year, these seven moves in this order would naturally end up with OB losing because wasn't that how...

And he went on professorially attempting to humiliate me with his vast knowledge of All Things Historical About Chess Games and Players, dumbing it down so that it became All Things Historical About Chess Games and Players 101.

I graciously submitted to his attempt to humiliate me. If PS had only known how pitiful his attempt was compared to real humiliation I'd received over the years, he would have shut up. But he didn't and I continued.

"But," said I to PS, "all what you said assumes that OB would make those same moves."

PS nodded, somewhat happy that I got the gist of what he was saying.

Further messing with his mojo, I said to PS, "But what if OB doesn't? What if he makes a move you don't expect? Or, your mind is elsewhere and you don't process the meaning of the move he makes and you change strategy and leave yourself open? See? Now you have a game that's exciting."

OB turned to PS and said, "Yeah. She's right. You could miss something."

PS withered OB with a glance, but OB didn't wither as fast as he should have, so PS turned to me and growled, "Why are you still here?"

I smiled and, taking my leave, said in my most gracious Southern drawl, "I do thank you so very much for allowing me to learn more about the game."

I have one more story about playing chess and how I screwed with...but, you what? I'll save that for another time.