Reading the chess story over at Burke and Wells reminded me of my own chess-playing career.

Just this morning on the way to work I'd been trying to remember my first chess tournament. A bunch of us kids (Dave, too?) met at the Knight school cafeteria — the old cafeteria, the one with the stage, so this was before sixth grade — and then were bussed to Ogden Middle School in Oregon City one Saturday morning. I cannot remember how well I played. I've only vague memories of the entire event.

Growing up, I played games with friends (in the school library, at Dave's house, etc.), but only casually. I have a photograph of me playing a game with Christian Hampton during my junior year at Willamette. That half-remembered childhood tournament was my only serious play until I was an adult.

During Christmas vacation 1994, Kris and I visited her family in California. Our soon-to-be brother-in-law, Rich, had a fancy chess set that I admired. He and I played a few games. As with many of my obsessions, this small taste was enough to bring my doom — few chess games with Rich and for the next eighteen months I became a chess fiend.

When we returned to Oregon, I began to play whenever I could. I bought a chess game for my Macintosh. I bought chess books. And more chess books. And more chess books. (Does this surprise anyone?) I bought a chess clock ($50 for the cheapest model!). I learned chess notation. I played e-mail chess (in 1995!) and played on an internet chess server. I took some chess sets to work, and our breaks became devoted to the game. All of us played. I was becoming a chess geek.

I decided to test my skill in a tournament.

On a cold morning in February 1995 I drove to Mt. Hood Community College in Gresham. The tournament room was filled with geeks of all ages, many of them fat, many of them sweaty (despite the freezing temperatures outside), all of them male. The older geeks, with graying beards and wire-rimmed glasses, seemed frozen in time: stationary, poised over their boards, paused in thought. Motionless. The younger geeks were a mass of motion (as all young people are); they babbled incessantly as they fidgeted in their seats. The youngsters played blitz chess: five minutes (or two!), no time for thought, just a flash of hands and pieces and the slapping of the clock. Me? I was intimidated. I sat in the far corner of the room, my head buried in a book of chess openings.

When the pairings were announced, I found myself across the board from one of the older geeks, a nice grandfatherly-looking gentleman named Gary. Though we had three hours for our game, I lost in less than one. Then I lost my second game to a shy, overweight teenaged boy. I lost my third to a fellow my own age. The fourth game I lost to a kid no more than twelve years old. And I lost the final game because I gave up — I resigned and went home. My hopes were dashed. I'd believed myself ready to take the chess world by storm, but in my first tournament I finished 0-5.

My official chess rating arrived in the mail a few weeks later: 1044. I was distraught. Grade school kids had ratings higher than 1044. A monkey would rate higher than 1044. 1044?!?

I resolved to do better in future tournaments.

I drove to the coast for the Newport Open. I did poorly, but managed to win my first game. During spring break, Kris and I visited Todd and Nory in Bend, and I played at the Bend Open where I played well enough to win a game or two. I nearly won a game against a highly rated (~1700) player! Entering the end game, my board position was far superior to his; I'd managed to outplay him for most of the match. All that remained was to methodically corner his king, but my time was short. I could not afford a mistake. (I'm very prone to mistakes as a games-player. Ask my bridge partners!) Each move closed the noose a bit tighter around my opponent's neck, but each move also used precious seconds as I made sure I wasn't going to err. In the end I lost on time, but it was a near thing, and my opponent knew it. We had a friendly chat afterward, during which he provided a great deal of encouragement.

By Labor Day, my rating stood at 1198. I registered for the Oregon Open with the goal of winning the U1200 division. I armed myself with knowledge of the English Opening (my admittedly cheesy method of completely avoiding knowledge of the Sicilian Defense), and the Hedgehog to defend against it. I learned a bunch of stunt openings (the names of which escape me now). My methodology was based on responding to my opponent with unusual moves and then closing down the center of the board. I wanted a positional game. Attacking games scared me. My tactical skills were poor, but if I could steer towards strategy I had a better chance.

The Oregon Open was the largest tournament I had ever attended. It lasted three days instead of two. There were scores of tables. There were side events (blitz tournaments, simultaneous games vs. a chess master, etc.). There were vendors. There were big prizes.

I was intimidated.

I needn't have worried. My game was on, and I played well through the first two days, winning the games I should win, playing close against the stronger opponents, and even squeaking out a draw where I ought to have been soundly thumped. When I examined the standings before my final match I was pleased to see that I led the U1200 division. If I won, the prize was mine.

The final game did not start well. My opponent wasn't brilliant, but I made a couple of minor blunders that set me back, granting my opponent a material advantage (meaning: he had captured more pieces than I had). I was glum.

"What's wrong?" my opponent asked.

I waved him off. We played a few more moves. I made a positional error, and my sulk deepened.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded. Then, somehow, he figured it out. He walked over to look at the standings. He knew.

"If you win this game, you win your division, don't you?" he asked. I admitted that this was true. And then he moved his queen into the open. It stood at the edge of the board, exposed, waiting for my bishop to make the capture. He was giving me the game.

"Don't do that," I said. "It isn't fair."

He looked me in the eyes and smiled. He stopped the clock. "I resign," he said, and then he left the room.

I had won, but it didn't feel like winning. It felt dirty. I found the tournament director and explained what had happened, that my opponent had thrown the game. "Show me the game," the director said. I gave him my score sheet, with which he was able to play the game in his mind. "He didn't throw the game," the director said. "He made a mistake. See? He made a blunder with his queen and had to resign."

I started to object. The director looked me in the eyes and smiled: "Don't worry about it."

Was this a commonly accepted chess practice? Was this considered the gentlemanly thing to do? I arrived home as the U1200 champion. There was a $60 check in my pocket to prove it.

I began to visit the Oregon City Chess Club every Tuesday night, paying my $5 to play against the old men. I never won a single game, but I learned a lot.

Over then next six months I played in several more tournaments, gradually winning a bit more prize money. My love for the Seattle Mariners was born in a Newport hotel room where I watched them play the Cleveland Indians while waiting for my next game. I braved the flood of 1996 to drive to Eugene for a tournament. (It was there that I suffered my most humiliating defeat, later published by the victor for all to see in Northwest Chess — he confused poor play on my part for brilliant play on his.)

Eventually, like all my faddish obsessions, chess fell by the wayside. All that remained was a stack of notes and magazines and a shelf full of books. Over the years I've sold most of the books back to Powells, using the proceeds for Patrick O'Brian, Kim Stanley Robinson, or books about soccer.

In the back of my mind, though, chess is always there, ready to climb back into the open and regain its place as one of my favorite pastimes. Now and then I play a game against the computer. I visit the US Chess Federation web site. I wonder what it would take to raise my rating from its current level, 1340, to 1400. Or 1600.

Or higher.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Clackamas County Fair 2005   Will, Marla, and Tiffany joined us on Friday afternoon for a few hours at the Clackamas County Fair. I only won a single photography prize this year.