My Chessmates Bizikov Petr Alexandrovich   © Copyright 2024 by Bizikov PetrAlexandrovich

Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay

When I was 4 years old, my dad taught me how to play chess, and at the age of five, I played the Italian and Spanish openings pretty well. At the same time, a boy from our nursery was shown on TV; he was sitting at a chess board and showing adults how chess pieces move, and the teacher of the nursery was saying:

“This is our champion. When he grows up, he will be a world chess champion.”

With that being said, a sparkle appeared in Roma's eyes (that was his name), and a visible smile could be seen upon his face. I met Roma many times in the nursery. He was, as it seemed to me, the most ordinary boy. Not many nursery-age children can play chess, and those who play well at this age are even fewer. The next day, I was hurrying up to the nursery, so I could invite Roma to play at least one game with me.

I came up in the morning with my dad. I also had my own chessboard with me. Roma came a few minutes later with his mom, holding his hand. When Roma saw my chessboard, he did not take his eyes off it.

“Let’s play,” says I.

“Allright,” says he.

In the morning, we didn’t play chess because the nursery teacher took all of us to the dining room for breakfast. We agreed that we would play in the evening, when our parents would come to take us home. Many children gathered around us that evening. Roma's mom and dad watched our meeting, and my dad watched with interest.

The pieces were arranged on the chessboard. Roma hid his hands behind his back and said, “In which hand?” He meant the color of the piece: if a white piece was guessed, then the one who guessed it would play white, and if a black one was guessed, then it was necessary to play black. When I pointed to one of Roma's arms, he opened his hand, and there was a black pawn. He did not show me what color the figure was in the other hand. The game has started. Roma looked greedily at my figures, then at his own. During our game, there were fewer and fewer white pieces. Finally, Roma could not stand it anymore; he turned over the chess board and began to cry. He was so upset that his parents had to calm him down. I also tried to cheer him up, and my dad cheered up his parents. When we got dressed and went outside from kindergarten, Roma, my parents, and I walked together for a while and then stopped.

“Let’s play again tomorrow,” I said.

“No,” Roma replied, “I’m not going to the nursery tomorrow!”

The next day, my temperature rose sharply, and I’ve been treated at home for a week. When I got back to the nursery, it turned out that Roma had been transferred. I never heard of Roma's chess successes anymore; he was no longer shown on TV, but I still remember our children's chess game with Roma's tears. While attending elementary school, I discovered a child chess school that was not far from our house. There were about fifteen chess players, all under 10 years old. Some of the guys played stronger, and some played weaker, but it was always an exciting competition. In a few hours at the chess school, you could win five games in a row and lose the same amount, but none of the guys ever cried or got offended. The competitive spirit and everyone’s desperate desire to win were everywhere. In order to win, it was necessary to accumulate new chess knowledge and train harder. When one of us was considered the strongest among our team, our chess coach offered to play a game with him, but we could not beat the coach despite trying hard. Six months passed since that, but one day I came to the chess school and saw a piece of paper saying that the chess school was closed. After some time, a grocery store opened on the spot where the chess school once was. My passion for chess was interrupted for several years until Zhora, a chess player, joined our school when I was thirteen.

Zhora was transferred from another school when his parents bought a new apartment in our neighborhood. In Zhora's backpack, along with school textbooks, there was always a small chess board. Zhora, the chess player, did not leave the classroom during break but played his chess, turning the board over, thus playing for white, then for black. During one of these breaks, I approached him and offered to play. He was delighted, and we arranged the pieces. He didn't want to play black. He always wanted to play only white. After a few moves, Zhora brought his white queen forward and began to beat me quickly, playing with one piece. The other guys in our class also offered him a game. Again, he played only with white and also won using only one piece. With his victories, he attracted the attention of his classmates so much that everyone called him Zhora, the chess player. Despite excelling at chess, Zhora was lagging behind in the main school subjects. During one of our conversations, I found out that Zhora attends a chess school located quite far from our school. He gave me the address of this chess school. A few days later, I stood at the entrance of the school, reading its schedule.

It was possible to attend chess school either in the morning or in the evening. Zhora rarely came to play, while his style of play was the same: he quickly pushed the white queen forward and hoped for a quick victory by moving one piece across the board. After a few months of studying at chess school, I learned a simple way to catch a lonely white queen. After I quickly won the queen from Zhora several times, playing with black, he moved on to play with other opponents. Zhora has always been wearing his red sneakers. He wore them in spring, summer, fall, and even in winter; therefore, when playing chess, he constantly sniffed but never wore a handkerchief or a napkin. Zhora began to win fewer and fewer games and attended chess school less and less often.

When Zhora was not playing chess in class, he began to get noticeably bored, resting his head on the desk. One day, during a break, Zhora shouted loudly:

“Whoever beats me at chess, I will buy a cake in the school cafeteria. No! Two! I'll buy two cakes. And if I beat someone, the loser will buy me two pies with cabbage or potatoes.”

The girl wanted to play with Zhora first. Nastya played chess the best among the girls. When the lessons ended, the whole class went out into the courtyard of the school. Not finding a bench, Nastya and Zhora, sitting in front of each other on their backpacks, began to arrange the chess pieces. The chessboard, which Zhora always carried with him, was put on school textbooks. All the classmates surrounding the chess players were sure that Zhora would win, but he lost. He never bought a pie for the girl who defeated him.

*****

Greetings, My name is Bizikov Petr. I’m from Russia. I'm 25 y.o. I graduated from Medical university in Russia, Irkutsk. Now I work as a researcher in Siberian institute of plant physiology and biochemistry. Hope that you enjoy my story.