here?”
“She beat me in the first round,” I told him.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “The youth president of Mensa who whipped my ass was a nerd with zits.”
I was going to play one of the lesser-known variations my father had shown me, but something told me I wouldn’t need to get fancy with Lowery. Instead I played the main line of the Giuoco Piano, and sure enough Lowery fell into the dreaded Fried Liver. “This is a trap,” he whispered after six moves, “isn’t it?”
Normally I never talk to opponents during a match, but since he’d asked I whispered back: “It is. It’s called the Fried Liver.”
He swallowed. “Why do they call it that?”
“’Cause if you fall into it, you’ll soon be as dead as a piece of fried liver,” I told him.
“Great,” he muttered. “Terrific.”
“Shhhh,” the player to his right hissed, and Lowery nodded apologetically and then let out a long sigh. The tournament hall was cool but he had already broken into a sweat. He took his time and came up with a few defensive moves, but they were the wrong ones. The one thing you can’t do when you play the black side of the Fried Liver is let your king get pinned in the middle of the board. I soon had bishops and knights bearing down on his king, and the more he tried to defend the worse it got.
As I sat there playing moves I had memorized, I realized the truth of what my father had told me. Springing an opening trap isn’t really chess—I wasn’t outthinking Lowery on the field of mental combat. I was just playing moves someone else had worked out and put in a book that I had read. And, as easy and fun as it was for me to destroy Lowery, I realized it was just as easy for the higher-ranked players I played to do this to me. Dad had a point: if I was to have any chance at doing well in this tournament, I would have to get my higher-rated opponents off the main lines and away from the openings they had memorized.
“Enough,” Lowery said after twelve moves, and knocked over his king. “I’m tired of being a piece of fried meat. I’m out of here.”
I shook his sweaty hand and handed in my score sheet and took a quick stroll around the hall, checking on other games. Liu was up a pawn to a serious-looking old gent with white hair, and bearing down on him. She was concentrating ferociously, but she felt my look and glanced up at me questioningly. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she flashed me a congratulatory smile before lowering her eyes to the board.
Eric was losing to a master and not looking happy about it. He played chess the way he did everything in life—grinding and fighting for every inch. The master he was playing was much higher rated and probably far more naturally gifted, but Eric was making him sweat blood for the point.
A few tables over I saw Brad, who was also engaged in a tough battle but managed to look cool and confident. While I was studying his board, I felt someone grab my arm. It was Grandmaster George Liszt. “Daniel? Come, I need to talk to you about your dad.”
“No way,” I said, and I tried to pull away, but the big man had the grip of a mountain gorilla.
“I think you’d better come,” he rumbled. “He needs your help. The referee just warned him for talking to his opponent.” I glanced toward the dais where the top players were playing. I could just make out my father, sitting bent over and concentrating intently. A wary tournament official hovered nearby. I took a step toward him, but Liszt held me back.
“He’s okay for now,” Liszt assured me, “but he’ll flare up again soon, and then it’ll be a slippery slope. I’ve seen this all before, and it wasn’t pretty. The only way you’ll have a chance of protecting your dad is if you know the truth. Are you brave enough to hear it?”
I looked up at him and allowed myself to be led away.
17
He led me out of the tournament ballroom, and we walked through the common area, past stands selling chess
“She beat me in the first round,” I told him.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “The youth president of Mensa who whipped my ass was a nerd with zits.”
I was going to play one of the lesser-known variations my father had shown me, but something told me I wouldn’t need to get fancy with Lowery. Instead I played the main line of the Giuoco Piano, and sure enough Lowery fell into the dreaded Fried Liver. “This is a trap,” he whispered after six moves, “isn’t it?”
Normally I never talk to opponents during a match, but since he’d asked I whispered back: “It is. It’s called the Fried Liver.”
He swallowed. “Why do they call it that?”
“’Cause if you fall into it, you’ll soon be as dead as a piece of fried liver,” I told him.
“Great,” he muttered. “Terrific.”
“Shhhh,” the player to his right hissed, and Lowery nodded apologetically and then let out a long sigh. The tournament hall was cool but he had already broken into a sweat. He took his time and came up with a few defensive moves, but they were the wrong ones. The one thing you can’t do when you play the black side of the Fried Liver is let your king get pinned in the middle of the board. I soon had bishops and knights bearing down on his king, and the more he tried to defend the worse it got.
As I sat there playing moves I had memorized, I realized the truth of what my father had told me. Springing an opening trap isn’t really chess—I wasn’t outthinking Lowery on the field of mental combat. I was just playing moves someone else had worked out and put in a book that I had read. And, as easy and fun as it was for me to destroy Lowery, I realized it was just as easy for the higher-ranked players I played to do this to me. Dad had a point: if I was to have any chance at doing well in this tournament, I would have to get my higher-rated opponents off the main lines and away from the openings they had memorized.
“Enough,” Lowery said after twelve moves, and knocked over his king. “I’m tired of being a piece of fried meat. I’m out of here.”
I shook his sweaty hand and handed in my score sheet and took a quick stroll around the hall, checking on other games. Liu was up a pawn to a serious-looking old gent with white hair, and bearing down on him. She was concentrating ferociously, but she felt my look and glanced up at me questioningly. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she flashed me a congratulatory smile before lowering her eyes to the board.
Eric was losing to a master and not looking happy about it. He played chess the way he did everything in life—grinding and fighting for every inch. The master he was playing was much higher rated and probably far more naturally gifted, but Eric was making him sweat blood for the point.
A few tables over I saw Brad, who was also engaged in a tough battle but managed to look cool and confident. While I was studying his board, I felt someone grab my arm. It was Grandmaster George Liszt. “Daniel? Come, I need to talk to you about your dad.”
“No way,” I said, and I tried to pull away, but the big man had the grip of a mountain gorilla.
“I think you’d better come,” he rumbled. “He needs your help. The referee just warned him for talking to his opponent.” I glanced toward the dais where the top players were playing. I could just make out my father, sitting bent over and concentrating intently. A wary tournament official hovered nearby. I took a step toward him, but Liszt held me back.
“He’s okay for now,” Liszt assured me, “but he’ll flare up again soon, and then it’ll be a slippery slope. I’ve seen this all before, and it wasn’t pretty. The only way you’ll have a chance of protecting your dad is if you know the truth. Are you brave enough to hear it?”
I looked up at him and allowed myself to be led away.
17
He led me out of the tournament ballroom, and we walked through the common area, past stands selling chess
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