The Game Player by Rafael Yglesias Page B

plays whose sets he helped build. And he declined to play bridge for the school team. His flirtation with music was over by the time I’m speaking of—our junior year.
    In the fall, there was a huge chess tournament held in New York City to determine the best high school team in the state. It was an annual event but this year Brian was playing top board for us and, he told me, our freshman class had a shrimp of a kid who was sure to sweep all of his opponents. “The freshmen and sophomores play each other while the juniors and seniors play amongst themselves. So, though our senior player, Jeff, is only average, he’ll still come out with four wins and the sophomore will probably do the same. So if the shrimp and I sweep, we’ll win it.”
    â€œHow many games do you play?”
    â€œSix, in three days. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”
    The chess tournament was held in a midtown hotel, in two huge rooms painted an institutional gray and lighted by fluorescence. I went there on Sunday because, as Brian had predicted, he and the shrimp had won all four of their games, while the sophomore had lost one and Jeff had won three and drew one. They were in first place, but there were two teams close on their heels, and they would still need a good result today. My going was not loyalty to my friend. I was given the assignment to cover it for Hills People, where I had become assistant editor—the highest position a junior could achieve.
    I didn’t go until noon, even though the games had begun at nine, because I was there largely to report on the result and to pick a dramatic game to describe, which would surely be Brian’s final one. There was a break between noon and two o’clock for lunch and I met the team in a nearby luncheonette.
    I had stopped them from telling me what had happened until we finished ordering and I insisted that only one of them talk because, though Brian was perfectly calm, the other three were excited and tended to chatter at cross-purposes, describing their games in endless one-upmanship. I began with the shrimp.
    â€œI won my game,” he said in a high voice, very rushed. But he paused and blinked his eyes at me.
    â€œCongratulations,” I said, figuring out what he was waiting for.
    â€œThank you. I smashed him in twenty-two moves.” He looked at Brian. “He tried the Caro-Kann but I figured he couldn’t handle any irregularities so I started shoving Queen-side Pawns at him—”
    â€œThat’s a big gamble,” Jeff said.
    â€œIt worked,” was Brian’s answer, smiling at the small fry.
    â€œI don’t know,” said the little voice. “I think it’s a pretty intriguing line. I’ll have to see what MCO says would be the answer to it.”
    Jeff said to Brian, “Reaction in the center, right?”
    â€œYeah.” Brian smiled at me. “Sorry about the talk, Howard. We’ll all be quiet now.”
    â€œThank you. Were your other opponents tougher than today’s?” I asked while watching the shrimp handle a hamburger half his size.
    â€œNo, he was the best.”
    â€œYou mean you won your other games in less moves?”
    â€œNo.” He looked almost outraged. “No, the others dragged on because they played, well, a few didn’t resign even when down a Rook plus. Today’s guy had the best rating.”
    â€œLet me explain, Howard,” Brian said. “Sometimes you’ll beat a better opponent more thoroughly because they’ll expose themselves trying to beat you. If a player plays just to avoid mate from the beginning, he’s sure to lose but it may take a while. But the length doesn’t make the game harder. In fact, they’re easier to play.”
    The sophomore had drawn his game and he complained at great length about his opponent’s manners: he tapped the table with his fingers, mumbled while considering moves, and did countless other