He leans back in his chair and gazes at the chessboard between us with a cocky grin on his face. I just made a stupid move that cost me a bishop. I can read his thoughts, crudely smeared across his face in arrogance. Yep, I got her now. After all, she is just a girl. She should have known better than to challenge a guy at chess. He’s floating gloriously on a wave of triumph and all I want to do is wipe that grin off his face.
Just wait.
I will.
Carefully, I move my bishop into position. I’m a piece down, but I’m not really worried about that---I’m thinking with a brain instead of a dick. Yes, this wasn’t exactly his idea of a second date. He’d rather be making out with me in the front, or back, seat (hey, he’s “versatile”) of his 1978 Firebird (fondly named Lucile), but I had insisted that we put a table between us and see if he really has any substance between his ears.
He could keep a hot air balloon floating for hours.
He moves again, this time pulling his queen out of danger. The test--- will he pass? No man ever has. My opponents inevitably disappoint me. In the beginning they seem so strong, so noble, but the veil drops, bishops and rooks fall, and all that remains is a pusillanimous king. I can learn a lot about a guy from his chess game. Arrogance, it’s usually the arrogance that kills him. Or not being aggressive enough. Or just plain being sloppy. His hamartia revealed in one simple, classic game. Piece by piece I tear apart his character, waiting for the one who’s strong enough to mate me.
I glance down at the board and suppress a guffaw of laughter. It takes me a grand total of two seconds to move my knight into a rather advantageous position. I silently give thanks to my father for teaching me that move. Now I’m the one with the grin on my face. Split. Would you like to keep your king, or your queen? Damenopfer: Queen’s sacrifice. His sweet lady bites the dust, but I’ve still got mine, and I actually know how to use her well. Five moves later, he’s mated. In the chess sense, that is. He’ll never get me in bed with him, although he has already offered.
Same table.
Same board.
Next player.
The game, the game, always the game! This guy really is sweet. He’d had a crush on me for the last few months now, but he’s been too shy to make the first move. I told him we’d go out for coffee and a game of chess--- I figured that was a nice way to get to know him without committing myself to an actual date. At the moment I can’t really find anything wrong with him, but the shyness of his character is reflected glaringly in the passivity of his game. He’s been pushing pawns around for the last ten minutes, always on the defensive. I’m looking for someone who’s bold and aggressive, but knows how to play smart. Does he realize that he’s blowing his only chance, that this game is boring, and once I’m bored, I lose interest fast?
It’s intriguing to see where the mind wanders when one’s bored at chess. The pieces are strewn out between us, black and white in opposition, two teams pitted against each other on a battle field of sixty-four squares. Suddenly I’m inside the flat wooden head of the knight I’m planning to move on my next turn. He’s anxious.
Ooh, move me, move me! Right there! I’m ready for the old one-two punch, me and queenie over there in the corner are gonna get this guy. Goody! I get to kill the ki-ing, I get to kill the ki-ing! Hurry up, boy, move your damn piece already so I can get going here!
Eventually he does move, and my knight lets out a victorious whinny before lunging forward, then diagonally right, into position. Horse and lady, in tandem, take down the king.
The next challenger is from Harvard. Genius. He’s piqued my interest, and right now he’s winning. My bishop fell to carelessness in a surprise move. I’m excited and a little nervous, equally torn between the desire to win and the urge to find someone who’s good enough to beat me. I’m going to play my hardest until the end (I would never just let someone win), but still, there’s a little voice in the back of my head that’s cheering him on. There’s got to be someone out there who can pass my test! So far he’s the strongest challenger to come my way--- I have high hopes for him. But I’ve still got my queen, so he doesn’t have a sure victory.
Let me just take this moment to admit that I adore my queen. Some would say that chess is a patriarchal game. The king, of course, is the crux point, the piece that all the others are struggling to defend at all costs. But I see things a little bit differently.
I explained chess to a five year old boy one time. A feminist rendition of chess.
“So there’s the king, and everyone else on the board is trying to kill him. He’s puny and weak and that’s why he can only move one square at a time. Now the queen, on the other hand, is the most powerful piece on the board. She can move in any direction that she wants to for as many squares as she wants, just as long as she has a clear path. She can do anything that the bishops and rooks combined can do, and her mission is to murder the poor, defenseless king.”
The little boy’s lips trembled and tears sprang into his eyes.
“That’s a lie!” he said indignantly. “You’re just saying that because you hate boys! Katie, she’s lying, isn’t she?”
His older sister looked down at him with a wicked grin. “No, Ben, she’s right. That’s really the way the game is played.”
He shot us both desperate looks. “You both are just picking on me!” he said, before running upstairs to his room and slamming the door behind him.
I felt bad, really. I’m not sure what compelled me to say something so charged to such a fragile, innocent little mind. I guess I was just tired of everyone being brainwashed into believing that chess is a man’s game. Yeah, I’ve seen the look before. I walked into a coffee shop one time and this old grey haired man was sitting at a table playing chess by himself. I asked him if he wanted to play and watched as his eyes critically scanned my body up and down, up and down again. Play you, a girl? That’s what he thought, I could tell by the way he looked at me so disdainfully. What he actually said was:
“I think I have twenty minutes to spare.”
Twenty minutes! How dare he underestimate me like that! He beat me, but it was only because, as I found out later, he’s the chess guru of town and he never loses. But it took him fifty minutes to do so, and he couldn’t keep his queen. I won his respect that day.
So he’s the first man to beat me in years, but he’s too old to be eligible for my infamous chess test. It figures. The only guy who passes is a senior citizen. Just my luck.
The great thing about chess is that it’s purely a game of the mind. You can pit a scrawny, nerdy little 120 pound old man against a 250 pound football player, and the outcome mightn’t be the same as that of a wrestling match between them. It’s all in the mind.
That’s why I find it so insulting to be underestimated as a female chess player. True, I cannot bench press as much as my typical opponent, but for a man to assume that my sex gives me an inferior brain? Please! That’s the ultimate insult, a misconception I would love to clear up with every man who automatically assumes he can beat me.
Am I being too hard on men? Perhaps. But I’ve been hurt enough in the past to know to keep my guard up.
And I’m doing that right now.
I’m disappointed to find that the Ivy League student, so sweet and sensitive, has fallen into the same trap that most of my opponents have fallen into. Getting cocky, feeling superior. Realizing that they can and will dominate their opponent, a mere girl.This guy’s been dancing in and out of my life, flirting, dating, a peck on the cheek here and there. In and out, the game continues between us as we shuffle around our power pieces and try to gain the upper hand.
I set him up and he takes the bait. Foolish boy! He loses his queen in the next move and scowls in disbelief. With his confidence shattered, he fights valiantly till the end, but he knows I’ve already won. This will be our last date. He doesn’t have enough pride left to call me again.
And me? I’m just a little pawn aspiring to become a queen. I’ve walked far, but I haven’t reached the end of the board yet. Spaces free up and I proceed step by step with caution, walking the gauntlet, confused by the part I’m playing and all the obstacles in my way. I’ve stayed on the back line for half my life and now I’m tired of being inactive. It’s time for a change.
Eventually a new challenger enters my life. She’s been on the board the entire time, a queen perched in the corner, waiting for the right time to slowly, fluidly, make her advance. I beat her each time we play chess, but soon realize that the game doesn’t matter as much any more. She plays with me because she thinks I like the game, and hey, I used to think so too. We play, and each time I win. But I feel no triumph in doing so. With each opponent before her, I felt like I had to defend myself, that I had been automatically designated the underdog by virtue of my sex. But with her, I have nothing to prove. How can I bear to treat her as my enemy? She and I are already playing for the same team.
We sit Indian style on the soft grey carpet of her bedroom floor, a small magnetic chess board between us. I look into her eyes and suddenly have a difficult time focusing on the game. I have never been this distracted before in all my life. She just captured two of my major pieces and I can’t for the life of me think of what to do next. Helplessly I move a pawn forward, what else is there to do? She grins in understanding, knowingly sensing the predicament I’m in. I gaze at the ringlets of curly brown hair cascading down her neck, eyes roving in adoration across the soft lines of her face, those long brown eyelashes that flutter gently each time she blinks. Her lips, upturned slightly in a smile, become the focus of my complete attention. She’s ready to make her move. Ever so slowly she leans across the board, and I close my eyes as she kisses me softly on the lips.
Mate.
(1999)
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