The Grandmaster (All In The Game)

 

(Author: Charlotte Cohen, Vol. 80, No. 2, Summer 2025)         

 

The King was placed in a prostrate position: face-forward on to the chess-board.

His grandfather stood up, shook hands with his friend and walked him to the gate. Martin stared at the King lying there pathetically, like a fallen hero. As soon as his grandfather returned, Martin said “Grandpa, the King looks like he’s dead!”

His grandfather sat down and drew Martin into his arms. “The King is not dead. When he is overturned, it means he has ‘surrendered’… ‘resigned’. He has given up the game.”

Grandpa righted the King. “But with each new game, he is ready to start again. … It’s the same in real life, Martin. Sometimes when a man knows he is beaten, he puts his hand out and says: ‘You played a better game this time and deserve to win!’ Often it makes him more determined to work harder, to study and practice so that he has a chance of beating his opponent the next time. Isn’t that so?” The brown-hair nodded against the jacket armpit.

His grandfather set the chessmen out on the board. The hand-carved pieces stood straight and erect, proud and beautifully shaped. The horse’s front legs were raised slightly, ready to jump. The castle, with tiny towers and turrets, was like the one in Martin’s fairy-tale book. Martin knew the pawns were ‘olden-day’ soldiers because they carried shields and swords.

Everyone said that Grandpa’s chess set was a magnificent one.

“The King stands guarded by his army and advisers. He is old – that is why he only moves one square at a time. The King is, therefore, not really a fighter. He is a symbol. He represents honour and dignity. He stands for what is worth fighting for … Martin, you know that if you’ve lost your King, you’ve lost the game. And that is exactly the same with people. Anyone who loses his integrity and self-respect has really lost everything.”

Martin was lifted onto his grandfather’s lap. Although he did not always understand all the words his grandfather used, he loved being told about the pieces and how they were ‘- just the same as in real life’.

Martin did not always understand all the words his grandfather used, but he loved listening to him.

“Chess is a battle of wits between two armies” his grandfather continued. “It is a game where you capture your opponent’s King in order to win. When you play chess, it is you that directs the whole army. They will do whatever you decide they should do. And they will do exactly what you decide. But, Martin, with authority, comes responsibility. You must think things through carefully before you move. You must consider all the angles – the dangers, the advantages, and the chance for victory …”

Just then, Martin’s parents returned from the club. Conversation became general – a comfortable hum of friendly family chat.

Martin fingered the King who stood in the centre of his army, his queen by his side, his soldiers standing protectively before him, ready for battle. They would fight, advance, retreat – even be captured – as he commanded. He felt a warm stir of excitement at the prospect.

Ever since he could remember, Martin was taken to his grandparents’ home on Sundays. He looked forward to its familial ritual and familiarity – but more especially because he could be with his grandfather.

His grandfather usually played chess on Sunday mornings. Martin would sit alongside him during the game.

The atmosphere on the enclosed front-porch was one of quiet concentration, broken only by an occasional grunt or ‘check’. Martin was allowed to play with the pieces that were taken from the board which he would place in two matching rows. By the time he was five, he knew that if more white pieces were ‘taken off’, black was winning – and vice versa. And whichever colour his grandfather was playing, that was the colour he hoped would win.

During the morning, Gran would bring in a tray with tea and a glass of milk for Martin. She would pour the tea and place it, with a biscuit, on the right-hand side of each man. “Here’s the tea, gentlemen. Drink it before it’s cold!”

Their heads nodded. ‘Thank-you’s’ were mumbled; but their eyes never left the board. Martin would watch transfixed until a white ring settled around the inside of each cup. “Grandpa” he would nudge “Your tea’s getting cold.”

“So it is. … hmmm … so it is …” Grandpa would squeeze Martin’s hand affectionately. “Now let’s see … what shall we do?”

Martin had never seen his grandfather drink a cup of tea during a game of chess, nor had he ever seen his grandmother fail to bring one.

When Martin turned seven, Grandpa asked Martin whether he would care to join them for a sherry. When Martin’s mother objected, Grandpa said: “It’s a good introduction into the social graces, Jean. Anyway, it’s a well-known fact that ‘a little of what’s bad for you, is good for you’. Martin’s mother commented that is was a fact that had never been proved.

Needless to say, Martin was given a little crystal glass half-filled with sherry. A flush of grown-up importance came to his cheeks. He wished them ‘good health’ and gulped it down. A high-powered explosive erupted in his chest. He started coughing wildly. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

After the ensuing consternation, Grandpa said: “Always sip it gently, Martin. Something to enjoy should be savoured – never taken in a hurry. What’s worth appreciating must be relished, not rushed!”

“You and your arm-chair philosophy!” murmured Gran.

And Martin’s mother said Grandpa had “more reflections than a mirror.”

After lunch, the family usually sat on the porch – Martin snuggling close to his grandfather.

When the chess moves were first elaborated by Martin’s grandfather to his fascinated little listener, each piece was described with examples that were ‘just the same as in real life”. ….

“This is the Queen! See the coronet around head. She is very grand and majestic and much more imperious than the King himself. She is, in fact, the power behind the throne. She is commanding and demanding!” Martin thought of Aunt Bertha. She was bossy – always ordering Uncle Dave around and telling everyone what to do.

“The Queen is the most powerful piece of all. She can move in whichever direction she chooses and as far as she wishes to go. Use her well, and she will demonstrate her magnificence for you on the chessboard. But think, Martin: one small mistake – a mere oversight – and the Queen with all her strength and grandeur can be taken off as easily as the little pawn. In fact, she can be taken off by the little pawn … Same with people: So many fine and noble things can be achieved when beauty, wealth and talent are used wisely. But one mistake, one error of judgment – no matter how rich or powerful or celebrated a person might be, can cause him to fail and fall.”

According to Grandpa, the Castle moved like “the square shape of the bricks from which it was built”. It was next in importance to the mighty Queen because “a castle offers shelter and protection. Its strength lies in its solidity … Anyone who is reliable and trustworthy, is sometimes called ‘a tower of strength’. He is safe and strong – like a castle.”

Martin thought his grandfather was exactly like that.

Gran once shook her head. “What are you teaching the boy, anyway?” she asked.

“Chess? – or a crash course on how to live one’s life in ten easy lessons?”

Grandpa smiled. “It’s the same thing” he replied.

Martin was taught to play chess by his grandfather: but he learnt much more than the moves. He never tired of hearing his grandfather’s comparisons between people, situations and the chess-pieces. They left an indelible impression. His understanding of the capability and culpability of human nature grew apace with his knowledge of the game.

The Bishops were described as ‘stately and righteous – church leaders and advisers to the royal household.’ … “The bishop moves on the chessboard just as he raises his hands in blessing. Diagonally. So that a bishop that begins battle on a white square, remains on white squares throughout the game. He never gets to stand on black soil, so to speak. And the same applies to the other Bishop. He never gets to stand on a white square – ever, right throughout the game.”

Grandpa paused for a moment. “And, in a way, that is their greatest weakness! … A man who sticks to the ‘straight and narrow’, who is too confined in his thinking (no matter how upright his thoughts may be) never experiences the adventure of discovering what lies on the other side. He limits himself, like the Bishop, to only half the squares on the chessboard!”

Martin could see exactly what his grandfather meant.

The Knights (horses) were men of “dash, spirit and courage”. They moved in an extraordinary manner – jumping right over other pieces – “because the Knights of old were extraordinary men. There are men like that too” Grandpa explained, “men with nerve, guts and determination. They take liberties because people expect it of them and respect them because of it.”

Grandpa never ‘spoke down’ to Martin. He treated him as a younger, smaller person – to be taught, nurtured, appreciated and loved.

The pawns were given the same respect. “In value, the pawn is the lowest-ranking on the board. Small and vulnerable, they nevertheless stand ready for combat, to fight for and protect their King.”

Martin nestled close to the old man. “How are they in real life?”

Grandpa considered. “The Pawn is like any ordinary person– not born to position, fortune or possessing great talent. Nonetheless, if the pawn can make his way over the board, he gains the power of a Queen! It seems a long way and there are obstacles in his course. But look! It is really only six squares! …So, anyone, no matter how humble he was when he was born – and despite all the difficulties he may encounter on the way – can attain the highest position, on the chessboard and in life! No limits can be set on one’s determination or efforts to achieve one’s goals.”

By the time Martin was ten, Grandpa said he played well for his age. He never said, “I’ll have you a game, Martin.” It was always “I challenge you to a game.” And the two, who loved each other so much, would sit opposite each other – adversaries for a short while.

Grandpa never ‘played down’ to the young boy by allowing him to win. But constantly, reminded him to weigh the possibilities, consider the dangers and plan the attack ahead – invariably making his point by comparing it with situations that were ‘just the same in real life’

“—Maybe carelessness cost you your Bishop!”

Then, seeing the boy’s face: “Okay! So you lost your Bishop! That doesn’t mean all is lost! There are other men on the board to help you. Same in life: Give others a chance to help you – and keep fighting!”

….. When Martin cornered his grandfather’s King in an effort to finally ‘check-mate’ him, the King was left in a position where he had no place to move – which effectively made it a ‘stalemate’. The result: a draw!

Disappointment clouded Martin’s face.

“Well played, Martin! Your attack was well thought-out; your moves made with foresight. You did the best you could and you played a really good game. And that’s the real victory.”

His grandfather showed him something written by Grantland Rice.
“When the One Great Sorcerer
Comes to write against your name
He marks, not that you won or lost
But how you played the game.”

Gran brought in tea. “Martin, your grandmother sometimes calls me ‘an old windbag’. But always remember this: When we sit before a chessboard, we both start with the same pieces, in the same position. We have, in our lives the same attributes to choose – the King’s honour, the Queen’s brilliance and arrogance, the Castle’s steadfastness, the Bishop’s confined virtue, the daring and gallantry of the Knight or the Pawn’s humility and endeavor. It’s what we choose to use that shapes our destinies and gives us victory.”

Gran sighed. “Martin, I have never referred to your grandfather as an ‘old windbag’.

But he does sound like a cross between Confucius and Dale Carnegie at times.”

Grandpa smiled and thanked her for the compliment.
Martin beat his grandfather for the first time when he was twelve.
Never had a man lost a game with such pride.

On Martin’s fourteenth birthday, Grandpa gave him a book describing the ‘Match of the Century’, when Bobby Fischer beat Boris Spassky in Reykjavik. They pored over it together; compared Spassky’s formidable calm with Fischer’s temperamental outbursts. Martin read: “When Spassky at eighteen was named an international grandmaster, he said, ‘The chess figures are like my relatives. I know the peculiarities of each one.’ To Benjamin Franklin, chess taught ‘foresight, circumspection, caution and the habit of not being discouraged’. For Einstein – ‘it in some ways, shapes the spirit.’ To Bobby Fischer – “The game, not the tournament result, is the main thing.”

Spassy said, “Chess Is Like Life.”
Fischer said , “Chess Is Life”.
Well, all this was nothing new … His grandfather had been saying it for years!
Martin thought about his grandfather – a teacher, a story teller, an interpreter, a philosopher … a grandmaster on the chessboard of life.

One Tuesday, Gran phoned. The doctor had been called. Grandpa had bronchitis.

Martin walked to the mall for a ‘get-well’ card. He could not find any suitable. They were too sentimental and flowery, or silly and frivolous. Martin wrote his own greeting when he returned:

‘I hope you’re not Chess-ty
I hope that you’re not Horse
Please ask the doctor to Check
Whether smo-King has made you worse
A-Pawn my word I’m sorry
That to-Knight you’re feeling sick
Please get better very soon
I need a game – but quick!’
He thought Grandpa would like it, and it was sent.

They went out as usual the following Sunday. Grandpa was still in bed. He was very breathless. His cough was hoarse and rasping and went on for long spells. He proudly produced Martin’s card and excused himself for not challenging Martin to a game.

Lunch was dismal without him. For the first time Martin could remember, Gran’s food was tasteless. The conversation was forced with unnatural stretches of silence – broken only by Grandpa’s intermittent and prolonged coughing. Without Grandpa’s philosophizing, there seemed very little for anyone to say. The family did not remain after lunch.

The following Thursday when Martin returned from school, his mother told him Grandpa had been admitted to hospital. “The cold got on to his chest – like pneumonia”, she said. Although his mother spoke calmly, she appeared flushed and much too busy.

Martin stared at her. He could not visualize Grandpa in a hospital bed. Only at home…. nodding over a chessboard … thinking … smiling …. commenting on life.

He felt the cold hand of fear gripping his throat.

The next day, Martin could not concentrate. Lessons dragged. As soon as the final bell sounded, he went home. No one was there. He tried to do some homework.

At 4 o’clock, the front-door opened. He took one look at them and he knew!

Martin swallowed loudly. His father was tight-lipped; his mother’s eyes red and swollen. She held the beautiful wooden box containing the chess-set and some books.

“He asked me to give you these. … Oh, Martin, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”

Her voice ebbed away as she hugged him and sobbed.
Martin heard himself swallow again. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be! His grandfather couldn’t have died!

He took the chess box and went to his room. The tears he held back now released themselves.

He opened the box and fingered the lovely pieces again as he set them out on the board. It was a magnificent chess-set. Everyone said so! He remembered the first time he saw the King lying face-downwards. “Grandpa, The King looks like he’s dead!” And the reply: “The King is not dead … He has surrendered …. sometimes when a man is beaten, he must accept it. …”

“Grandpa, tell me it’s not true! You taught me about ‘Life’. But what when there is no more life? When the game is ended forever? “ …..

The squares on the chessboard merged into wet blurriness.

He heard his grandfather’s voice. It was right there opposite him. “Martin, the game is not ended forever. Although it won’t be you and me, you’ll pick up the pieces and play with someone else … So life itself continues, even though each of us has just a short span.

Martin, look at the chessboard! – There are white and black squares. Like light, bright days and dark, sorrowful ones. There’d be no game, if all the squares were white! So, just as we accept defeat, we accept the dark days when they come. And they do – in everyone’s life.

As for death itself — some chess-games are played by correspondence and can continue for weeks – even months. But whether the game is won, lost or drawn, at some time it must end. Life is the same. It would be meaningless, it would not be so precious, if it went on forever.

Words, phrases, memories crowded into Martin’s mind. ‘We all have twenty-four hours in one day. It’s how we use it that gives us victory. …. It’s the attributes we choose that shapes our destinies‘…. “Chess Is Like Life” … “Chess Is Life” ….

“He marks not that you won or lost, but how you played the game”.

Martin looked at the King. ‘He represents dignity… honour … integrity … someone to look up to”.

His grandfather had been a king too.

Martin closed the box and went outside. He knew now that he understood a little of the game.

 

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• Charlotte Cohen is an award-winning short story writer, essayist and poet, whose work has appeared in a wide variety of South African publications since 1973. She is a regular contributor to Jewish Affairs.