Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Had you asked me to hold forth on the virtues of chess when I was 12 years old, I would’ve gestured wildly toward the whole winning thing and promptly swallowed a rook. The joy of victory is pronounced and convenient–and really, it’s a poor man’s source of enjoyment.

One of my then-proudest moments was in high school homeroom early in the morning, where I played a fellow I disliked immensely and took all his pieces without losing any of my own. A girl who was watching giggled straight through the endgame. Who says chess isn’t a fount of machismo? I’m talking a warm glow from first to third period, maybe even gym.

But that was childish. A few years and a bucketful of losses later, I can sort of articulate what makes the game so fun. The function of luck, that’s one thing. Chess certainly allows for it, though it doesn’t require it, nor does it thrive on the stuff. Your opponent may make a glaring mistake, or you may do the same and wish for a break, but neither case is really beneficial. All told, it’s usually your fault and your merit, and there’s a sense of contentment from this accountability.

More poignant are those moments when you invent something and it’s completely yours. You’ve probably experienced the same thing in music, cooking, art, anything where you start off learning the motions, expressing by rote. And then one day in a flash of inspiration you build upon your static knowledge and improvise, producing a fresh piece, dish, or stratagem. That instant is utterly captivating, and I’m glad to be playing again.