Ok, I’ve been putting this blog off for a long time, mostly because it’s bound to be a dull topic for most people. I can see that it needs to be written to get it out of the way so my life can continue without its presence, so bear with me.
For most of my life I have loved chess. I was fascinated as a kid by the shapes of the pieces and the unique properties they all had. I read a book or two on the subject and I became an adequate player. On rainy days, me and my little neighbourhood buddies would play each other for hours. Aside from my family – among whom I am the only player – I really grew up believing most people could play chess. As a teen I came 2nd in a tournament held in my high school, and I won a prize playing a master who was travelling around shopping malls playing simultaneous games with 20+ opponents at a time. In my early 20’s I joined the Langley Chess Club, and over the years I have represented it in club matches many times, have been its secretary, treasurer, tournament director and seven time champion. I have travelled far and wide in this country, playing in the national championships, usually finishing right around the middle of the pack. In the past half a decade or so I have been directing larger tournaments with 50 or 60 players, and I’ve even been written to by the national chess federation to be thanked for my “contribution to chess in Canada.”
Meanwhile, my feelings for the game have been changing.
I used to be excited to play other players. It was my version of the gun slinger’s showdown, and I know my opponents felt the same way. There was respect and comradery and occaisonally hard feelings, but nothing that lasted long. In the same way that many kids I had fistfights with became my friends, so did many of my toughest opponents become friends. Once you’ve taken a measure of your adversary, fought against his strength whether in the school yard or over a chess board, respect came naturally. That’s how it was.
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Now, I play against opponents who are prepared with computer analysis of my games, who know exactly where my dark squared bishop is going on move 6 of the Trompovski Attack, who know how to exploit the subtle weakness it creates, whose coaches have shown them the best long range plan in that position. They are usually kids with their parents watching intently, armed with granola bars and juice boxes. It isn’t a battle of gun slingers in the dusty streets any more. It has turned into an impersonal battle of computer preparation and coaches. Rarely do we sit afterward and talk through the games, and even rarer do we leave feeling any respect or warmth toward the human being we just tangled with. The families are often involved heavily in the chess careers of the children who play, but they seem only to learn moves and positions, not the good stuff about giving and gaining respect or friendships. Or maybe I’m a cranky old man who imagines things were better years ago?
Maybe among the kids who have taken over the tournaments and their hovering families there is respect and personal feelings. I’m not in a position to know. Another thing that bruises my ego is that after some kid, his family, his coach and his computer have beaten me, I get the I’m-smarter-than-you look. I have to remind myself that being classy is another lesson they will hopefully learn one day, but it isn’t the first step they take. Of course, I mentally float away to an alternate reality in which I am kicking the kid over a fence into a yard full of hungry dogs, and it helps a little.
If I quit playing, and I might, it will be a sad end to one of my favourite things.