Four on the Fourth

"I wander lost in yesterday, wanting to fly but scared to try. But... if someone like you found someone like me, then suddenly nothing would ever be the same." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

Back in the day, I wrote three blog entries likening the game of chess to the game of love and explained how my playing styles in both games are shockingly similar. In the last of my three posts, I pinpointed the endgame as one of the weaker parts of my chessplay and likened my inability to achieve checkmate to my astonishing inability to seal a romantic deal. Anyway, after umpteen more failed exchanges with a favored opponent, I realized that the sense of frustration I was enduring felt EXACTLY like trying to win a rook-and-pawn endgame under time pressure with the fifty-move mark looming.

"If I see her standing there alone at the train station three stops from her home, I have half a mind to say what I'm thinking. Anyway, I don't know. I don't know." -- Sufjan Stevens

In accordance with the MTA's ridiculous new plans for beating their deficit, the W train is slowly being phased out of service and the Q line is being extended. Thus, I rode a Q into Queens today. It was an odd, odd feeling.

"'Would you like me to do it now?' asked Snape, his voice heavy with irony. 'Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?'" -- J.K. Rowling

I received The Tales of Beedle the Bard, J.K. Rowling's collection of fables "from the world of Harry Potter," as a gift and read it through in twenty minutes. Yeah, it was interesting and yeah, I love the fact that the title page states that the book was "translated from the ancient runes by Hermione Granger with extensive commentary by Albus Dumbledore," but I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the complete product. J.K. Rowling killed my favorite character in a really crappy way in the seventh book and nothing has really mattered too much since. Could it be that I'm finally starting to outgrow the Potterverse?

"He don't eat no meat? What you mean he DON'T EAT NO MEAT?! Oh, that's okay. That's okay. I make lamb. Come." -- Aunt Voula, from My Big Fat Greek Wedding

For a quick, easy, and delicious lamb marinade, whisk together 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/8 cup extra-virgin olive oil (or, for an extra kick, an infused olive oil from O&Co), six sliced-up cloves of garlic, half a chopped-up large white onion, 1 tsp dried or 2 tbsp fresh parsley, 1 tsp dried oregano or rosemary, pinch of salt, pinch of pepper. Throw all the ingredients into a large Ziplock bag, shake it up, then throw in 4-8 eight lamb chops, shake it up again, and place the bag flat in the fridge for at least four hours. Grill the chops without brushing off the seasonings. Alternatively, bake the contents of the bag (minus the bag itself, of course) for 30 minutes (which will yield medium-well chops) at 400 degrees. Let chops rest for ten minutes before serving.

Fool's Mate: Part III

For Part I, click here. For Part II, click here.

III. Endgame

"I won't look back any more... and if I do, just for a moment. I can't imagine a time when I won't care. But here we are today, and it's over! Hold me and tell me we'll meet again..." --Tim Rice, from Chess

Both players have given and taken everything they easily can. The board is bare, both kings are exposed. The pace of the game quickens but the moves become more focused. The players dance around each other, trying desperately to either end things swiftly or keep up the dance as long as possible.

A chess game can end in one of four ways. Wins and losses are the easy ones to characterize -- you either walk away with satisfaction and a higher rating or you walk away acknowledging that whatever you brought to the table wasn't good enough. One player leaves the game in a better place than before, while the other player leaves with a part of himself destroyed.

Draws are slightly more interesting, since they seem to defy the competitive spirit of the game. This is the chess equivalent of the mutual break-up -- when both players feel like they can't pull a satisfying win out of their situation, they simply shake hands, stand up, and walk away. No one wins, no one loses, and you can still remain friends afterwards.

Lastly, and most rarely, a chess game can end in a stalemate. Stalemates depend on two key rules of chess: it is illegal for a player to expose his own King to attack (also called "check"), and the game ends when a player's King is checked without a means of escape (also called "checkmate"). A stalemated position is one where a player's King is NOT in check, but every possible move on the board is illegal because it would result in check. A stalemate is an automatic draw -- no one wins and no one loses. The situation feels entirely different, though.

Sometimes a stalemate just happens -- you reach to move a piece and realize quite suddenly that there are no legal moves left. Other times, stalemates are engineered by sneaky players who are guaranteed losses otherwise. Once they sense defeat, they move with the sole intent of working themselves into a position where it is impossible for their partners to properly end the game. Some people can trick opponents into stalemates with astounding ease; I've only ended a game in a stalemate once during my entire chess career, but I know some players who are masters at it.

During the last game of his world championship match against Freddie -- a game which he seems poised to win -- Anatoly is given an ultimatum. He can keep Florence and his freedom if he wins the game, but both governments promise to make life hell for Florence's family and Anatoly's estranged wife and children if he dares. If he throws the game, he must leave Florence and return to Russia in exchange for the ensured safety of everyone in his life.

Ultimately, what choice does Anatoly make? In a true representation of the uncertainty of life, love, and the game of chess, the ending of the musical is continually rewritten. Sometimes Anatoly wins, sometimes he loses, sometimes he does neither. The outcome of the game changes with every production of the musical.

Of course, one ending is closer to my heart than all the others. Out of perceived obligation, Anatoly gives into Freddie. He throws the game, believing that he is acting in Florence's best interests, fully knowing that he has surrendered his own freedom and happiness to secure hers.

When Anatoly and Florence meet after the match, they fall into each other's arms and reflect on the choice he's made and the happy ending they always knew they could never truly experience. Their time together is limited, though, since deportation is a consequence of Anatoly's loss. His wife and several Russian officials wait in the wings to reclaim him.

Anatoly kisses Florence goodbye and walks out of her life without a backwards glance. Alone onstage, she pauses, wipes away a tear, and, in a trembling voice, sings lyrics previously delivered by Anatoly's neglected wife:

Wasn't it good? Wasn't he fine? Isn't it madness...?

Her voice trails off and she weeps openly. Her heart is broken, her life is in shambles, her cultural identity is lost. She is left with nothing except her memories... but suddenly, blindingly, she realizes that's all she needs to rebuild her existence. The orchestra swells. Florence sings again, but this time her words are Anatoly's. She belts his "Anthem" from the first-act finale, but she fits it with sentiments entirely her own:

How can I live now? Where do I start? Let man's petty nations tear themselves apart! My land's only borders lie around my heart!

For once in her life, Florence is her own woman. And though Anatoly joins her in singing the show's final lyrics, you must listen carefully to even notice that he's there. Anatoly may lose the game, but strangely, beautifully, I can't decide whether Florence wins, loses, draws, or stalemates.

Fool's Mate: Part II

(Click here for Part I: Opening Combination)

II. Middlegame


"Though I'd move my world to be with him, still the gap between us is too wide. Looking back, I could have played it differently... won a few more moments, who can tell? But it took time to understand the man. Now at least I know I know him well." -- Tim Rice, from Chess

You shake hands with your partner and both of you take a seat. You make a move, he reacts, you react to his reaction. You keep offering possibilities. So does he. You feed off of each other, more connections are made, more possible outcomes are offered with every response. You fortify your position, refine your focus, and your partner does the same. You watch his movements carefully in search of what he's thinking, what he's longing to do to you. Then, at any given moment, one of you finally strikes. He takes, you take, he takes again, and the exchange continues until the position is spent. You pause, you take a breath. Things slow down. The rules of the game are completely different now and so is the board in front of you, so you must reassess where you stand in terms of both.

Daters call the next phase of this game a steady relationship, but to chess players, it's the middlegame. In both cases, its boundaries are pretty ill-defined and vary from player to player. Some people think the middlegame starts once the textbook opening combination ends, but others, including me, think that the rapid-fire exchange of captures that inevitably follows every opening is the true mark of the middlegame. After this point, both of you have committed to the game, you've exchanged parts of yourself, and you're willing to navigate the new board arrangement together. And though one player may enter the middlegame with a bit of an advantage in terms of captured pieces or position, the players are always on pretty even footing if the pairing is well-matched.

Once again, my middlegame style reflects my personality with astounding accuracy. The middlegame has always been the strongest part of my gameplay because it depends on imagination as much as it depends on strong tactical skill. I have enough tricks up my sleeve to give my partner everything he could ever want in a game, and I can use them creatively enough to keep the game interesting. I'm good at keeping an open, centralized position and moving with both subtlety and decisiveness. All of my exchanges – and the middlegame almost completely depends on smart trades between players – are thought-out and innovative. I'm not afraid to pin pieces, make sacrifices, or surrender position if I know that it will make the game better in the long run. I screw myself over more often than not while playing chess, but it very rarely happens in this phase of the game.

How does the middlegame pan out for Florence and Anatoly? They fortify their positions and defeat Freddie at the World Championship. They complement each other perfectly; Anatoly's love gives Florence the strength to sever all ties with Freddie, and Florence's love gives Anatoly the strength to leave his oppressive government. They both give, they both take, and they both navigate the middlegame with even material and positions. By the time the middlegame finishes, the board is clear of all pieces but a few. The best line of play for both of them seems obvious, but Florence's family, Anatoly's family, Anatoly's career, the national-scale baggage of both players, and, of course, the constant meddling of Freddie complicate matters. When we enter the endgame, Anatoly has a choice to make. He can either remain with Florence at the cost of his perceived honor or give into Freddie at the cost of his own happiness.

To be continued in Part III.

Fool's Mate: Part I

"The game of chess, like the game of love, can be played in an almost infinite number of variations. Some are wins, some are losses, some are draws, and a few happen to end in a stalemate." -- Tim Rice

In my freshman year of college, my University Writing class chose the Iraq War as our collective final paper topic. Since I loathe political discussions almost as much as I loathe current events, I instead wrote a lovely essay comparing warfare to the game of chess. About a third of that paper discussed the use of the game as a metaphor for war as presented in Chess, a brilliant musical written by Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus, and Tim Rice. It's set at the World Chess Championship during the height of the Cold War, and it tells the story of an American player, a Russian player, the woman they love, and their fight for control of each other and themselves. The show explores both battle and the battle of the sexes in terms of tactical chess theory, and while I spent most of University Writing class exploring the former, I've never given the latter its due. It's a pity, really; as a hopeless romantic and former competitive chess player who has experienced wins, losses, draws, and stalemates in both games, I'm an authority on the subject. And since a new concert version of Chess (starring Josh Groban and Adam Pascal) is coming to PBS next year and the song "You and I" has been running through my head on a loop for the past four days for reasons that I won't discuss here, what better time than the present? Like every chess game, this entry will be broken into three parts: the opening, the middlegame, and the endgame.

I. Opening Combination

"The one I should not think of keeps roaming through my mind, and I don't want to let that go. No lover's ever faithful, no contract truly signed, there's nothing certain left to know. But how the cracks begin to show!" -- Tim Rice, from Chess

Every chess game between two experienced players starts with an opening combination. There's no free will when it comes to chess openings -- every move should be made according to historical precedent if a player wants to stand a chance of winning. Thus, every chess student is at some point forced to memorize the most common openings well enough to play them automatically in competition.

Trouble is, there are thousands of openings and many are separated by mere subtleties, all of which determine your opponent's reaction. For example, if both players advance their King's pawns, white moves a Knight to attack black's pawn, and black moves a knight to attack white's pawn, both players are expected to follow the Petroff line of play. If black moves the other Knight and white pushes a Bishop to c4, it becomes the Giucco Piano combination. Move the Bishop out one more square to b5 and both players have committed to the Ruy Lopez opening. If white leaves the Bishop alone and pushes his Queen's pawn two spaces, it's the Scotch Game. Most romantic interactions start this way as well: two people size each other up, they introduce themselves, one offers to buy the other a drink. Accepting it opens one avenue of play, while declining it opens another.

Some people play common openings, some people play rare openings, some play them strictly by the book, some like to innovate. In my tournament days, I favored the sneaky approach and played established versions of uncommon openings. The Nimzowitsch-Larsen Attack was my favorite: I would push a pawn to b3 on my first move, fianchetto my Bishop to b2 on my second, and watch my opponent squirm when he had no idea what I was up to. I've always felt that a person's playing style can be ascertained by the way he navigates his opening combination, but maybe that's because my favorite opening represents me so well. I handle the first moments of personal interaction with a potential partner the same way I play the Nimzo-Larsen: I put something subtle and unique on the table and see how he reacts. If he's proactive and builds up his center, we end up with an interesting game. If he plays it safe and defends his Kingside, I almost always win, we shake hands, and we part ways. The opening is like a first impression: it shapes what happens in the rest of the game, but you don't really know who you're playing until after it's over.

In the musical Chess, four games appear almost immediately during the first half of the first act. First, we learn that the World Chess Championship will be played between an American champion and a Russian champion as both governments argue over the awaited outcome. Next, Freddie Trumper, the brash, immature American chess champion, arrives with Florence Vassy, an intelligent and diplomatic woman who has endured the torment of Freddie's company as his lover and tournament second for nearly a decade. Third, we become acquainted with Anatoly Sergievsky, the quietly brilliant Russian chess champion whose conscience battles against his knowledge that he's merely a puppet of his Communist government. Finally, we see the actual series of matches that Anatoly and Freddie play for the title of World Champion -- games constantly interrupted by Freddie's antics, Russian accusations, and dirty play from both sides. However, near the end of the first act, all of these pairings are revealed to be part of the opening combination, mere decoys designed to make the game more interesting. The true opponents in this game aren't the US and USSR, Freddie and Florence, or even Freddie and Anatoly.

In a development that shocked me when I first became acquainted with Chess, our players are actually Anatoly and Florence. They interact as skilled chess masters should during the show's first few songs – they follow traditional opening play, stake and fortify their positions, interact only when necessary. They make all their moves by the book, but as they play, Anatoly begins to appreciate Florence's smart, civilized, nurturing style and Florence can't help but notice Anatoly's quiet intensity and honorable nature. Catalyzed by Freddie's irresponsibility, Florence and Anatoly find that, though they are technically opponents, they can't think of anything they'd rather do than spend time with each other. There's a mutual attraction, but with Freddie hovering close by and the World Championship looming, they enter the middlegame at an impasse.

To be continued in Part II.