“Are you sure that it’s impossible?”
“Yes, I apologize.” The telephone transmitted no regret in Jeff’s lawyerly voice.
“We can play any time that you like.”
“The students’ schedules are too full.”
“We can play mornings, evenings —”
“It won’t happen, Seth.”

For three years I fought for chess victories under Jeff’s coaching. A professor of law and father of one of my team members, he had organized the school delegation to the Portland-area scholastic league, which I joined in sixth grade. Every Monday I visited the dusty computer room that Jeff had converted into a chess salon. The checkered white and black bags and the glossy chess pieces contained in them transcended the soporific effects of the warm afternoon sun that shone lazily through the blinds. Sacrifices, checkmates, and bold thrusts with the weighted pawns formed teammate fraternity, or so I had felt.

When I came to my l high school, my classmates Avi and Hansen and I decided to start a chess club. We delivered an exciting pitch to the school featuring pictures of Magnus Carlsen, part-time world chess champion and part-time fashion model. Thirty students signed up for our club, and twenty stormed our first meeting to engage in friendly rivalry. They pondered small, decaying plastic pieces strewn about worn-yellow fabric boards that we had found in a storage closet. The intent concentration of a usually obstreperous crowd of high-schoolers in a quiet room in the math building brought a welcome sight to my eyes. The birth chess prompted Avi and Hansen to return to playing in tournaments after years of hiatus. At a chess club gathering I described the high-school chess league. People nodded with interest, though loath to lose focus from their games.

“So?” asked Hansen, disturbing the silence hitherto interrupted only by the hushed clicks of chess clocks.

“Do you want to bring a city title here?” The idea had tantalized me since the end of my tenure at my old school.

“Let’s do it,” Avi affirmed. Thus materialized Varsity Chess.

In November, we started taking the school bus downtown every Wednesday. The tournament venue constituted the Lincoln High School cafeteria, which smelled of pizza, though not the pies that prosperous Italian taverns bake today, but those spat out by a rotten, rancid Rome, or a Lincoln school lunchroom. The setting had likely changed little since Mark Rothko had attended Lincoln in the 1920s. The hubbub of conversations between a hundred players about school lives, impressive chess performances, or Persian-language news sources filled the room before rounds. Opposing teams sat across from each other at twenty round tables packed tightly against the walls. The backpack-littered floor complicated mobility, so games typically implied two hours of sedentary, unbroken chess battle. A hoarse chemistry teacher on the verge of retirement announced the starts of rounds. To us contenders, he fired blanks to signal the ignition of our fireworks.

Our five-person delegation represented our school with aplomb, and despite suffering defeat twice at the hands of Lincoln, in February we led the competition with one round to go. Alas, an important math exam proved concomitant for me with the last dance. I stood on the phone with Jeff, pleading to reschedule our match. Fate had pitted us against my team of yore in the final round.

“We may not field a complete team, Jeff. It would be an unfair contest.”

“I’m sorry, Seth. There’s no other way. Either fold, or play one person down.” He sighed. His collar rustled. “Let me know what you decide.” The ensuing low buzz throbbed in my ears. I set down the phone. Camaraderie ended when a point was concerned, as I found for the first time. When I shared the predicament with my teammates, they scrambled to devise ingenious solutions. Avi asked a student applicant, coincidentally the top-ranked eighth-grader in the state, if he could replace me for the game. The middle schooler, named Erasmus, eagerly accepted. To Jeff and my former team this last minute replacement did not seem fair. Later that day, when ruminating the looming possibility of failing my teammates, a notion of an opportunity to move my exam struck me. I quickly wrote to Erasmus that we no longer needed his services. I would help my teammates capitalize on their months of hard work.

When I sat down across from my opponent at the culminating match, his eyes widened. He had not expected me to greet him at the chessboard. We shook hands. Little did we know that one more surprise awaited both of us.

The lanky, raisin-like teacher declared the round begun. When I left for five minutes and returned to the table, I was caught unawares to find Erasmus occupying my seat. He hunched over the board, reaching for my knight. It failed to deter him that nine moves had already been made.

“What are you doing here?” our transfixed adversary hissed. An aghast Jeff gulped for air nearby. We all exchanged bewildered looks. Erasmus glanced around and saw me. He rose from the chair, finally registering that something had gone amiss.

“You didn’t receive notice?” My question materialized in a gasp.
“Notice?”
“I made it. You’ll play next time.”
“Next time?” His glasses slipped to the bridge of his nose.
“Next time.”

“Next time,” the words dribbled out. He knocked his glasses into place. He quizzed me before leaving with his father. I took back my game and soldiered on. Our team won the lively match to clinch our tournament victory. We crowned our team the champion of Portland scholastic chess.

Since I have been fortunate to attain certain credentials in chess, I have used it as an opportunity to help others. I have taught young children the game. I started the school chess club and team. I learned from my saga in the Portland-area league that helping through chess entails more than teaching the right moves. It involves supporting others, sticking it out for them, and finding solutions to unexpected predicaments.