"CHECKMATE"

In Memory of a great Chess Player.
My Chess Mentor, Mr. J Smoley.
REST IN PEACE.

Ankle deep, moving to keep warm, hearing the squish and suction, cold brown ooze covered my shoes, in slush. My leather coat wrapped tightly around me, the cold winter wind howled fiercely its warning, tore at my exposed face. The corner, all but deserted, a drunk or was it two passed, begged change, I had none to give, so they moved on. I flapped my arm, a strange bird, stretching wings, shook my chilled fingers, replayed the game again. I had played the game already in my mind. Today, student would finally defeat master, it was inevitable. Every night with few exceptions, I had come to this corner, whether it be cold or windy, wet or sunny; fog or blizzard. I knew "he" would come; he always came, no exceptions. He'd come, wheeled basket in tow. There, he have several boards, and pieces. I'd watched him play six game at once, once. He won them all!

In a cold dark alley, an old man lay, curled on the ground, beneath cardboard and his blankets against the elements. Beside, stood a bundle buggy; his belongings, life, and experience filtered into a few garbage bags and small boxes, all neatly stacked. Sleep, kept him grounded this night, or was he ill? Tossing and turning, seeking that small area in the back of his mind, where the elements could not reach him. The wind increased, howled more fiercely, a layer of his shelter lifted then dropped back into place. He instinctively, squeezed tighter, a fetal position. A slow warmth trickled down his back, drew a small smirk across his face, he slept on. He sank deeper in warmth, falling endlessly into darker corridors. Sleep. Eyes moved, back and forth, searching. Dreaming.

Checked my watch, now 11:00 pm, danced around in place, warm the blood; play the game again, in my head. I was destined to beat him, maybe, this time. No longer would I be one of the casualties. I had been his apprentice, his assistant, a pupil. He was reluctant to take me on, he, a master. That respect would always exist, between he and I, even if I defeat him. Three years, almost, hour after hour, countless, game after game, never-ending; all under the master's tutelage. I would win tonight! Master's never loose, never teach all they know. A constant battle, fought always to be lost.

I remember that first night, the late teens, hanging around after the bars had closed. Friends and I had taken off for the weekend. School was tedious, boring, we needed to let loose. We stumbled around a street corner, chess pieces bounded across the pavement. The old man in the worn woven red and black sweater, screamed. His accent, European, was barely recognizable. We apologized, he stacked two milk crates, reset the board and pieces, and walked of, his mind already engaged in other games. Friends laughed, left me standing. I'd see them at school. I watch that old man, he walked in and out, between several stacks of crates, multi coloured, all set for chess. At that instance, he was weaving through three games, three opponents, varying in age, and skill.

He'd pause a moment, made his move, then on to the next game, and so on. I watched, amazed. He'd won them all. Each challenger paid a dollar, and he reset the boards. Six boards, all told, with more crates for seats. I took up a position, waited to be noticed. On his approach, he laid down the rules, and set a clock on the board. I had all the time I needed to make my moves he would take three minutes. Three minutes was all he needed to defeat me. A single game, winner would gain a dollar from their opponent. I agreed, and set my pieces in motion. I moved, he moved, and so on till few pieces remained. Concentration takes time when pieces are few and prised, he walked away. Barely second had passed, I checked the clock. How could this be. I studied him, snaking through the crates, starting games, ending games, all with a flourish. He stuffed another dollar in his pocket. The old man, smelled, his beard was filled with crumbs, of meals long past. His hair hadn't see a comb, for some time, and his clothing, tattered, torn, and stained. A few more moves, and all was done, I reluctantly gave him a dollar. A chill and A breeze, from past to present. I'd returned several nights each week, to learn more from "this old man."

In a darkened hall, a single table accompanied by two chairs, spotlighted by a single bright beam, source unknown, not unusual for this kind of game. The table surface, alternating squares, reflected little of the glare, he'd like that, he would be able to concentrate. A game clock, precisely placed to his right, just at the proper distance for quick reflex motion. The time set, 3 minutes, no more, no less. Sixteen pieces shown brightly, yet did shine in that of light, polished. Fingers, instinctively moved a pawn, that an opening move. Felt its weight; not used to such elaborate pieces, replaced it on the board. Intricately carved ivory, without the encumbrance of weight, smooth, unmarred, not a scratch or chip. These were well kept pieces. A light bloomed in the near distance, a figure entered, crossed the room; light diminished. Silence, no footfalls, no steps, no heel contacting ground, could be heard. He sat opposed.