Join the new world

(fifth in the series)
UPDATED at 1:15 EST


We were together for breakfast: Zebebvev the hothead, Marsh the ego maniac, Vishnaygayala the impatient, Tiemolnov the ambitious and Oliver the unhinged. Everyone will play today. Our head coach appeared at table with the game pairings, arriving sometime after Kelly had cleared the orange juice and before she reappeared with pancakes.

Kelly, I should tell you, runs the restaurant here. It is a seasonal avocation for her, gets her out of the house and lets her hob-nob with international celebrities, home town heroes and the deservedly obscure such as are we Vainglory chess athletes. The food is terrific and so is Kelly. You might think something so tasty couldn’t be good for you, so our host insists on distributing a full ingredient list with each portion. She does pester a bit, asking for recipes, on the lookout for new techniques, anxious to hear of new uses for a mandoline (which our Croatian friend badly misinterpreted as an invitation to discuss sex with stringed instruments).

Coach is the archetype of his Icelandic bree😛 at times taciturn, then mercurial, he lives a visceral inner life that sometimes finds a fissure in his otherwise placid countenance. He was a writer before and after the Great War. When the criminal-quisling Adaskson surrendered to invading forces, the insult to national pride spurred him on. The quality, beauty and merit of his writing was without equal. He had to be dealt with. The secret police found him. They tried to silence him but couldn’t staunch his flow. It was then that Adaskson, to his eternal shame, in an act of utter perfidy, found and destroyed the carefully hidden treasury of this genius-artist’s oeuvre. Consigned to the flames, or rather tossed into the crater of an active volcano, a great literary treasure was lost and its author sank deep into a similar pit: depressed beyond consolation. He turned to delivering the post instead of penetrating insight. He took up chess as a homage to his father.

His father was Plug Runawayson, who was himself the child of Runaway Olaffurson, the progeny of Olaffur Snorrison, begotten by Snorri Newlandson, and on from son to son into the deep Viking unconscious. Plugson preserves his Nordic heritage: admires physical prowess, industriousness and commerce. He had written the games list in his own admirable hand with the title: “Meet the Mountain”.

Scanning, I understood immediately that we were in for a tremendous uphill climb. First there was the giant, then the unmovable, then the demon, the converted and the visionary. Five draws were possible, two or three wins an overachievers dream, with plenty of losses more likely. Kelly gave us coffee and a bright smile.

Philip TheLief stands 6 feet 8 inches. He feeds his 360 pound bulk with a Sumo’s diet. He takes no prisoners.

Seasoningo Canino is Sicilian. In a hopeless position he will still not move from his plan. He plays straight, no deviation, no circuitry for him, no snaking path to victory for snaking is to be despised and obliterated in all its forms. Descended from Black Hand stock, he wields his bishops like stilettos slashing at the pieces, opening new wounds and lines of attack, and then retiring to a hilltop retreat called IRCA Major. Win or lose means nothing to him, only the code of honour called Otrolla.

Smally Beaver is possessed. Was a time when he produced graphic art. But he was young then, full of piss and vinegar, anxious to make a name, quick to exertion, eager to learn. I found this oddly reminiscent. Plugson, without more, slipped me a copy of the Icelandic saga “The ellipsis of Wes Lewison”. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe Smally just didn’t want to do the hard work. He has a reputation for leaving when there is something to be done. As a chess player he would be a feather weight, except that he fell in with the wrong crowd. Alone, he is an insignificant. But he is possessed, he has made a deal with the devil and the cheaters, he is their amanuensis and they play pretty well.

JesusFire finds inspiration in the holy texts of the Crimson Order. He is good. Very good really. Much better than the rest of us. I think he loses on purpose, just to turn the other cheek. He is my opponent today so I am hoping for grace, mercy and salvation.

I give Zebebvev no chance against Backdon, one of the oldest players on the circuit, given to sweetness and lucidity of the highest order. Our guy just doesn’t stand a chance. Backdon has done just about everything he has ever wanted in this game. For a time he was Ultimate Judge of the federation. He sees very deeply. He avoids complication. His games are the soul of economy. I played against him once, an interzonal when I was working on my masters’ norms. I kept losing, and losing quickly. My friends couldn’t understand since the games were all so “basic”, so obvious, so straightforward. “why didn’t you introduce a novelty?” they said, “why not step out of book, why didn’t you play your game and follow your game plan Oliver?”. My answer was always the same – “somehow, he doesn’t let me”.

Well, here they come. The Mountain Range is seated, one each in front of us, and I must prepare my scorecard.

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UPDATE - BREAKING NEWS - 1:13 EST

I still can’t believe it. We won!! All of us. I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister who promises to commemorate this as “Victory Day”. My head is swimming. I don’t understand. I don’t need to. We beat the Mountain. What the heck just happened?

UPDATE - 3:15 EST

I regret to inform you that on September 24, 2011, at 2:10 p.m, my husband OliverMellors was found dead in his bathtub in New Orleans at the age of Seventy-seven. According to the autopsy, he had suffered a stroke brought on by entering cold water after a long walk in the midday heat.
--Constance Reid