It's a rush.
I'm staring over the tops of my sixteen-man army at a patchwork 64-square landscape. I haven't moved a muscle but already my adrenaline is flowing. This battle now brewing will be a disgusting,vulgar display of heart, mettle, courage, ingenuity and power. I can feel my enemy's submission in the back of my jaw. A wry, Grinch-like smile slowly takes hold of my face. Like an ebbing tide exposing the nude beach, this game has revealed my base, competitive instinct. Kill or be killed. You will surrender to me.
I haven't played in some time. But the thought of the countless hours I spent in study makes me gleeful. The physical responses my body became conditioned to while pouring over positions have not languished over the years. Images of a warm cup of coffee and thick smoke dancing in front of my eyes lead to a desire for a reenactment. The fact that I haven't smoked in a year does nothing to slow the impulse, and there is a slight sense of disappointment at the recognition that the urge will not be satisfied. Me, a book, a board, a notebook, and a lit cigarette burning discreetly off to one side was just too common an occurence to shake off so easily.
It's still a rush. The nervous anticipation of it all. Who will emerge victorious? What devious plans will be set in motion and how will they be met? A seemingly infinite number of possibilities exist. I wonder if I will be able to execute. I wonder at what point will my opponent's logic begin to fail him. When will he make that final, fatal mistake? Will I be merciful? Will he admit futility? Oh, to think! Perchance to dream!
I sit perched above my men like an omnipotent warlord. Every offensive thrust strikes like thunder, as though God's fist came crashing down into the center of the playing field. Every piece taken empowers me, until I am drunk from it.
I'm glad I have come back to this place. I love chess, and I hate to lose.
No comments:
Post a Comment