It was a brisk early morning, late October, 2009, in New York City. My pace was fast, but the world was dawdling. I was stepping to the beat of Sinatra while the big city was still slumbering to Holiday. I was there for business, but I had this final morning off. I knew exactly where I was going in a city I had never been.
The morning’s white light blurred the gray and blue arching skyscrapers from my peripheral vision. I was on a rapid in a canyon of steel, and my only direct canopy was my fedora. I had to get there before the strange cascaded the tables.
During my trek I stopped by a cafe called Think Coffee at 248 Mercer Street. They had warm fresh breads, pastries, and hot coffees. I got mine to go; a pastry wrapped in loud brown bakery tissue and a cup of coffee. I cannot remember the taste, as I was too much in a hurry, but I can tell you the warmth that it gave my cold hands, the crunch of the crisp paper, and the sweet smell that livened the golden leaves on the trees.
After only a block further, I was there. Washington Square Park. I was greeted by a giant soft white marble triumphal arch, basking in the sun. Intricately designed, it was carved with a perched eagle, stars, wreathes, two large statues of George Washington, and an inscription.
I walked through the mouth of the arch where there was a large fountain and ankle deep wading pool surrounded by a perimeter of concrete steps and a walking area. Towards the right was where I was pulled; down a winding throat path under trees shedding their year’s past as sunlight began to peak through. Their shadows told stories on the grounds and benches along the cinder brick trail. A seemingly heavenly spotlight shone on the empty tables as patrons began setting up their day’s work of mental adventure and I timidly approached.
The tables were a hard and cold concrete painted in morning’s dew. Each table was joined with a concrete seat on either side. The table tops were dressed in white and black checkers, eight-by-eight. Beyond their modest appearance, this was, indeed, the ever beating heart of the park, the chess tables.
“Hey, you look like a chess player!”
I turned toward the New York accented voice. There was a tall fellow, dark skinned, broken glasses, dressed warmly but also as humbly as the boards themselves.
“You play chess? Want to play,” asked the man while dawning a smirk, a familiar hustler’s smile. A personified cunning fox.
“Yeah, I play a little.”
“Well, I play for dollars. If you got the cash, I got the time,” he quipped.
“Nah, I would just play a casual game. I don’t carry cash.”
“Maybe he’ll play you for a casual game,” he pointed to an even more simply clad man.
I walked to the next table over where I was directed and asked the man standing there if he would like to play a casual game.
“Yeah, ok. I’ll, uh… I’ll play, ah… one game,” the man stumbled over his words.
His nose was wet, his eyes were bloodshot, his skin was as dark as the other man’s, but covered in a layer of translucent white ash. His words left the impression that even he had no idea what he was saying. I felt as though this would be a waste of precious time. Nevertheless, I sat down in front of the board. The pieces were already set, and the clock was ready.
He began. White plays the first move. Nothing special, just classical. We raced each move and slapped the clock after every turn. Our knights danced, pawns marched, bishops flanked, and our minds were at war. Time was encroaching and I was claustrophobic.
Palms sweaty. I sat at the table like The Thinker. Was this the right move? Did I miss something? I fumbled my lips with my fingers behind a fist. My thoughts were becoming desperate and tragic at best. If he takes, I take, he moves forward, I retreat, parry, a never ending poignant parley of wit. Our hand movements with the pieces became jabs and hooks as quick as the steps to the park. Blitzkrieg to zugzwang. In a flash it was the game. My king bowed.
I could not grasp how this happened. My heart pounded in my chest as time began to normalize, reminding me of my humanity and encouraging my humility. How could this man, of all the men in the park, be the man to defeat me?
He was Washington crossing the Delaware. His smoke was his appearance and his fog was his incognizance. I had lost before I even touched the pieces.
“Want to play one more,” I asked. I held the gambler’s notion that if I had just one more chance, I would win. Just one more.
“Nah, I’m good. I need to make money now.”
The man from earlier called over to our table speaking to the man I played, “Did you win?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I won,” responded the idiot savant very matter-of-factly.
I soon departed gracefully and respectfully with the lesson that I cannot think less of any opponent on the chess board, or in life. Every person, friend, unknown, or foe, should be treated as a worthy adversary. I walked back to my hotel with my head a little lower, and contemplated in found humility. Only later did I find what the inscription on the arch said.
“Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.”
