I vaguely remember my uncle teaching me to play chess when I was nine or ten. Or possibly eleven. Maybe eight. The details are a bit blurry. The game seemed so arcane: there were thirty-two playing pieces, most of which did weird things. Like only moving diagonally. Or only moving two in some random direction and then one to a random side. Or only moving one forward, then one straight up in the air, then, after being shuffled behind the back for three minutes, moving six forward to capture the king.
My uncle might have been having some fun with me on that last one.
I've been told that chess is like war. That moving pieces around on the board is like moving armies around on the battlefield. Except without the lack of sleep, the lack of adequate funding, and the lack of proper headgear that real armies have to deal with. You never hear about a rook or a knight in chess worrying about whether they've brought enough socks.
I've been told that chess is a purely mental exercise in crisis management. That it's all about anticipating problems and then coming up with solutions to fix those problems before they arise. Kinda like marriage. (Anticipated Potential Problem: “If you don't take the garbage out this week, I'm going to throw this solid brass pepper mill at you!” Fix: “I already did it, honey!” After which, of course, you go and do it -- during the next commercial break, obviously).
I've been told that chess is “the game of kings.” That monarchs and pharaohs have played variations of the game all the way back to Egyptian times. That they played in order to understand the rigors of leadership (or possibly just because they had to have something to do while waiting on the aliens to finish building their pyramids).
I've been told that chess is, like, stupid. Mostly by people who find the mental stimulation of a knock-knock joke to be more intellectual exercise than they can stand.
But lately I have come to the conclusion that chess is like a martial art. True, there isn't any hand-to-hand combat involved unless someone gets angry and throws a bishop at you. And you don't have to wear any funny outfits (except maybe for pajamas -- pajamas are my preferred uniform when I'm playing chess), or worry that your belt is the wrong color. Also, you don't have to shout out “Kiaa!” or “Hun-dai!” or the names of other Asian automakers whenever you make a move.
Still, chess seems very martial-arts-like. In chess, as in martial arts, much of the work is mental. A chess player, as a martial artist, must be able to visualize upcoming actions in his or her head and be able to anticipate and adapt quickly to changing circumstances (Quick: if you're in the end game of a chess match and your opponent takes your queen, what do you do? Quick: if you're in the finals at a Tae-kwon-do tournament and your opponent flings a cat at you, what do you do?).
Martial arts are also all about “styles.” For instance, there are numerous “styles” of kung fu: Tiger, Monkey, Eagle, Mantis, Angry Chihuahua. These styles were developed both to meet particular needs of the martial artist (is he or she concerned about defense, offense, self-improvement, inner well-being, lunch?) as well as grow out of the martial artist's personality. Monkey fu is presumably good for the martial artist who has Attention Deficit Disorder and who likes leaping around all over the room, flapping his arms seemingly at random. Crane fu, as popularized in the 80's movie classic, “The Karate Kid,” is good for people who like to balance on one foot on top of things.
Chess is about “styles” as well. Some players are very aggressive (which doesn't mean that they come to a chess game ready to break beer bottles over their opponent's heads, but rather that they try to take the opponent's pieces as quickly as possible); others build up a nearly impenetrable defensive line (so maybe chess is like football?).
I've decided that I play chess Pelican-style. Like the pelican of heraldry and mythology (as opposed to the pelican you might see down at the lake), I'm willing to sacrifice in order to set myself up in a better position on the board. Heck, I'll even sacrifice the queen if it gets a pawn where I want it to be. My current opponent, a chaplain, says that he plays “Bulldog-style”: he charges his pieces forward, single-mindedly focused on the prize -- possibly a t-bone -- and doesn't pay attention to what's going on in the back ranks of the board, where my Pelican-style play is sneaking up on him, sacrificed piece by sacrificed piece.
In the end, maybe chess is like life and to one metaphorical extent or another, everyone plays.
Just remember to wear your pajamas.
* * *
The author has never thrown a bishop, or any other member of the clergy, at anyone. Bishops are far too heavy and throwing them would require far too much work. But if you'd like to send him pictures of yourself throwing spiritual leaders at people, feel free to e-mail these to the author.
