moment George Liszt blocked our way. “Best of luck, Morry,” he rumbled. “I hope you find some of the old magic.” He had developed a mocking tone to go with his ironic smile. “But not too much of it.”
“Good luck to you, too,” Dad growled through gritted teeth.
“A great pleasure meeting you, Daniel,” Grandmaster Liszt told me. “You have some big shoes to fill. Maybe we’ll run into each other again before we’re done here and find the time for a little chat.”
I shrugged as my father yanked me away toward the ballroom. Dad’s head was down and his teeth were clenched so tightly it looked like he would grind his molars to powder. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Whatever that guy’s problem is, he’s clearly a jerk.”
“I should never have come,” Dad murmured. “It was asking for trouble.”
Side by side we walked through the gaping doors of the Palace Royale’s grand ballroom, into a massive playing space that looked as big as a football field. Dad wasn’t the only one feeling nervous. I gazed around and felt myself tense up. Hundreds of tables had been arranged in perfect rows and covered with white cloths. Chess pieces had been set up on boards and stood ready for action. The tables had numbers on their sides, and fathers and sons were wishing one another good luck and finding their places. I had played in a few club tournaments in New Jersey, but nothing on this vast scale.
I knew I wasn’t a strong player, and I certainly hadn’t studied chess theory night and day, so I didn’t expect miracles. But now that I was here, I found myself hoping that I could do a little better than expected, especially with my father’s help. After all, he was a grandmaster and I was his son. I had inherited his athletic ineptitude and some of his mathematical ability, so wasn’t it possible that I also had some of his chess genes, if not genius? George Liszt’s mocking words had hit home—something extra was expected of me.
“What board are you?” Dad asked.
“One-ninety-seven,” I told him, which meant I must be near the back of the hall. “I’m playing a Chinese guy rated much higher. He’s probably going to crush me, but don’t worry about it. This is your show. You must be up on the stage.” The top five tables were on a kind of raised dais at the very front of the ballroom, near a dozen enormous trophies that glittered in the bright light.
Dad didn’t head for the stage—he stayed right with me. “First of all, as I told you before, don’t get hung up on ratings,” he cautioned. “They mean less than you think, unless you believe in them and give them power. Just play carefully and you’ll do fine.” Dad pointed. “As for playing a Chinese guy, you got that wrong, too.”
Looking down the long row of fathers and sons getting ready to square off against one another, I saw one teenage girl. She was seated at board 197. A short, pleasant-looking Chinese woman stood behind her, setting her chess clock.
“Two minutes,” the voice boomed from the loudspeakers. “Find your boards.”
“Go,” I told my father. “I’ll be all right.” I didn’t want him to be late. At chess tournaments, you have to make a certain number of moves in a set amount of time or you lose the game. Dad was out of practice, and I didn’t want him to give away any precious minutes.
“I’ll just come and get you settled,” he said. “It’s okay if I’m a minute or two late. I play quickly.”
I walked over to the girl. She was reading a novel and totally ignoring her mother and the chess insanity all around her. On closer inspection, the book was David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, which we had just finished in our freshman English class. “Hi,” I said. “I think we’re playing each other in round one.”
She finished a paragraph and stuck a bookmark in the novel, but she still didn’t close it.
“Liu, put away the book ,” her mother commanded. “It’s time to
“Good luck to you, too,” Dad growled through gritted teeth.
“A great pleasure meeting you, Daniel,” Grandmaster Liszt told me. “You have some big shoes to fill. Maybe we’ll run into each other again before we’re done here and find the time for a little chat.”
I shrugged as my father yanked me away toward the ballroom. Dad’s head was down and his teeth were clenched so tightly it looked like he would grind his molars to powder. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Whatever that guy’s problem is, he’s clearly a jerk.”
“I should never have come,” Dad murmured. “It was asking for trouble.”
Side by side we walked through the gaping doors of the Palace Royale’s grand ballroom, into a massive playing space that looked as big as a football field. Dad wasn’t the only one feeling nervous. I gazed around and felt myself tense up. Hundreds of tables had been arranged in perfect rows and covered with white cloths. Chess pieces had been set up on boards and stood ready for action. The tables had numbers on their sides, and fathers and sons were wishing one another good luck and finding their places. I had played in a few club tournaments in New Jersey, but nothing on this vast scale.
I knew I wasn’t a strong player, and I certainly hadn’t studied chess theory night and day, so I didn’t expect miracles. But now that I was here, I found myself hoping that I could do a little better than expected, especially with my father’s help. After all, he was a grandmaster and I was his son. I had inherited his athletic ineptitude and some of his mathematical ability, so wasn’t it possible that I also had some of his chess genes, if not genius? George Liszt’s mocking words had hit home—something extra was expected of me.
“What board are you?” Dad asked.
“One-ninety-seven,” I told him, which meant I must be near the back of the hall. “I’m playing a Chinese guy rated much higher. He’s probably going to crush me, but don’t worry about it. This is your show. You must be up on the stage.” The top five tables were on a kind of raised dais at the very front of the ballroom, near a dozen enormous trophies that glittered in the bright light.
Dad didn’t head for the stage—he stayed right with me. “First of all, as I told you before, don’t get hung up on ratings,” he cautioned. “They mean less than you think, unless you believe in them and give them power. Just play carefully and you’ll do fine.” Dad pointed. “As for playing a Chinese guy, you got that wrong, too.”
Looking down the long row of fathers and sons getting ready to square off against one another, I saw one teenage girl. She was seated at board 197. A short, pleasant-looking Chinese woman stood behind her, setting her chess clock.
“Two minutes,” the voice boomed from the loudspeakers. “Find your boards.”
“Go,” I told my father. “I’ll be all right.” I didn’t want him to be late. At chess tournaments, you have to make a certain number of moves in a set amount of time or you lose the game. Dad was out of practice, and I didn’t want him to give away any precious minutes.
“I’ll just come and get you settled,” he said. “It’s okay if I’m a minute or two late. I play quickly.”
I walked over to the girl. She was reading a novel and totally ignoring her mother and the chess insanity all around her. On closer inspection, the book was David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, which we had just finished in our freshman English class. “Hi,” I said. “I think we’re playing each other in round one.”
She finished a paragraph and stuck a bookmark in the novel, but she still didn’t close it.
“Liu, put away the book ,” her mother commanded. “It’s time to
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