To the last pawn - Part I

To the last pawn

“Before the start of a chess round, the referee will make sure there are no loose chess pieces on the canvas”
- World Chess Boxing Association (WCBA) rules, article 12.3.a

In the early morning hours of the 26th of August 2017, a red convertible car stopped in front of a small run-down house in Inglewood, California.
A man in an adjacent coffee shop tapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “Check the nice set of wheels.”
“Neat,” answered the friend. “Got a custom license plate too. Can you read it from here?”
“Yeah,” said the first man, “E2E4-WINS. Dunno what that means.”

As they were talking, a man in his thirties, well dressed, well built and well tanned, exited the car and walked up to the front porch, where he checked the name on the doorbell. ‘Vincent & Deborah Favreau’. Yes, this was the house. He rang the bell, but there was no sound. He tried to knock. No response.

The hours were actually not so early for most of the inhabitants of this Los-Angeles suburb, who were busy selling crack and violating parole from dawn to dusk and beyond. But Vince Favreau should still be in bed at that time. The man knocked again, harder this time. And again. After the fourth time, there was finally some movement behind the door.

“What is it? I’m only one month behind on my rent, you fat …” A hoarse voice called, and the door flung open. “Rico Dominguez, is that you?”
“In person. Man, you look awful. What have you been drinking?” asked Enrique, trying to look behind Vince’s muscular shoulder. The living room was a jumble of dirty clothing, old food and empty bottles.
“Nothing since last night,” said Vince. “That’s the problem. Can’t even afford a morning drink these days. But what are we doing here at the door? Come in, come in, before you get mugged.”

Inside, Favreau pointed in the direction of a flea-infested couch, as he himself collapsed into a rust-colored armchair. Enrique declined to seat, and instead began walking around the room.
“So, Rico, what brings you here? And it better be good, for getting me out of bed so early and ruining a perfectly good hangover.”
“I got a call from Todd Santoro,” said Enrique quietly, enjoying the sudden sobering effect this name had on his friend. He stopped by a trophy shelf and passed his finger in the thick layer of dust that covered it.
“No way. Todd Santoro called you? He wouldn’t touch you with a stick after what happened at Madison Square Garden.”
“Well, it wasn’t him in person, but his office.”
“What did they want?” Favreau moved in his armchair slightly.
“Actually,” Enrique was ready to drop the bomb now, “They wanted me to find you. You haven’t been checking your messages lately, haven’t you?”
“My phone’s disconnected. What does Santoro want of me anyway?”
“Let me guess, your cable TV is disconnected too?” Enrique smirked.
“Yup.”
“So let me bring you up to speed real quick. Klichkovsky came to USA two days ago. Some big-time promoters offered him a busload of money, and he will play McKenna for the title a year earlier than expected. The game is in Las-Vegas, tonight.”
“And Todd wants to send me board-side tickets? Wow, that’s really a kind gesture of him. Some people still got respect for old-timers like me!”
“Well, before we get all huggy-kissy and drown in nostalgia,” said Dominguez, “Let me tell you that’s not what Santoro had in mind for you. He wants you to play the undercard.”
“Me? Play the undercard for Klichkovsky-McKenna?” Favreau jumped on his feet and began pacing nervously, and now it was Dominguez’s turn to sit down, “But I haven’t played in a year. I barely remember the main line of the Ruy-Lopez.”
“Don’t worry. It’s like riding a bicycle. It’ll all come back to you, man.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want it to come back to me, did you think about that? When is this game anyway?”
“Tonight, eight.”
“But I don’t have no money for a plane ticket. I haven’t prepared. I reek of booze.” Vince shook his head, “No way, this can’t work.”
“Well, allow me to address your concerns one by one. First, I will drive you. Second, we’ll prepare along the way. Third, we’ll drive with the top down and the wind will blow that smell out of you long before we reach Nevada. It’s eleven now, if we hurry we can be in Vegas in five hours. This still leaves us four for sightseeing.”

Enrique started walking to the door, but to his surprise Vince refused to follow.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t do it. My reflexes are all messed up.”
With slow measured steps, Dominguez walked back to the trophy shelf. He stood with his back to Favreau, and picked up one of the trophies. “What’s this?”
“Madrid Interzonal.”
“Catch.” Without looking, Enrique tossed the silver cup in Favreau’s general direction.
“What are you doing?” Vince shrieked with horror as he dove to catch it.
“And what’s this?” continued Enrique, “North American welterweight champion 2011. Nice. Catch! Ooh, Canadian Open Champion 2010. Catch. ‘With recognition, to the first Canadian WBCA Grandmaster. Neat. They didn’t give me any of those for being the first Mexican GM. Catch. Best Game of the Year, 2014? I remember, you sure nailed that Russian with Rook to d7. Catch.”
“Please, stop!” Favreau pleaded, but Dominguez was unrelenting. Pieces of silverware kept flying around the room as Vincent desperately scrambled not to let them hit the floor.
“Hmm, what’s this?” Enrique got to the last plaque, “‘Third place, Jack’s minigolf weekend bonanza’?”
“It’s Debbie’s,” Vince said embarrassingly. “She forgot it when she moved out.”
“Anyway,” Dominguez spun around to see Favreau standing before him, clutching ten trophies in his grasp, “Your reflexes seem fine. Pack your things, let’s go.”

***

“If bleeding occurs during a chess round, the referee will stop the contest and wipe the blood from the board and pieces. The offending player’s clock will keep running during that time.”
- World Chess Boxing Association (WCBA) rules, article 12.3.a

It all began over a dozen years ago in Ukraine, as a joke between two college students, both avid amateur chess players and boxers. Their friends, who came to watch the bout, returned home stunned, telling tales of the best entertainment they ever had. Rumors of the new exciting sport spread across the world like wildfire. Soon its governing body, WCBA, became the most powerful sports organization in the world, uniting under its wing all the squabbling boxing federations, as well as FIDE.

A bout of Chess-Boxing would start as a normal-looking game of chess, except the board was set in the middle of a roped boxing ring, and the players wore boxing trunks. Between eight and fifteen times during the game, at steady intervals, a gong would ring and the chess table was carried away, as the players put on their gloves and engaged in a round of boxing.

It was, still, all about chess. The game of chess was the bottom line. Whoever won the chess game, won the bout. The boxing rounds had only one effect on the game – to weaken a player. A player that was knocked out would forfeit on time; if his brains were beaten into a mush, he would make a bad move and lose. If his eyes were bloody and swelled, he wasn’t able to see the board and would lose. There was only one ring referee – scoring referees were not needed.

Advertisement blurbs called Chess-Boxing ‘The Ultimate Sport’, and they weren’t far off. To be successful in this most popular sport in the world, one needed the cranial capacity of a professor, and the strength and stamina of a lumberjack. Chess-Boxers were revered like Gods, wooed by young girls, and sought as companions by rich ladies. After all, how often do you get a consort who can recite the Theory of Relativity and bench-press 300 pounds?

***

Down on the street, a twelve-year-old punk was trying to steal the convertible, but couldn’t get past the electric force field. Seeing Vince and Enrique closing on him, he turned away and ran, leaving a string of curses at his wake. Enrique took the remote out of his pocket and clicked the force field off.
“Hop right in.”
“Nice set of wheels, man.”
The convertible sped away with Dominguez at the wheel and Favreau slouched in the front passenger seat.

“So tell me,” asked Favreau as they were cruising alongside the L.A. River, “What really happened at the Garden?”
“Nothing.”
“Oooh, it was something.”
“It was nothing. Look, I was checkmated, it happens, ok?”
“Checkmated before the first gong? Never happened before, Rico.”
“Shut up. We have a game to prepare to. Now tell me the main line of the Ruy Lopez.”
“1.e4 e5 2.Nf3 Nc6 3.Bb5 a6 4.Ba4 Nf6 5.0-0 Be7 6.Re1…” Favreau recited mechanically.
“Wait. What do you play if he takes on e4 on move 5?”
“If 5…Nxe4 then 6.d4, the open Ruy.”
“Good. Go on with the main line.”
“6.Re1 b5 7.Bb3 d6 8.c3 0-0”
“And what if 7…0-0 instead of 7…d6?”
“What difference does it make? Black can play d6 first and castle later, or the other way round. And then –“
“No, stop! It makes all the difference in the world, because after 7…0-0 8.c3 he can go 8…d5, the Marshall attack.”
“Oh, right I remember the Marshall. This Polish guy tried it against me in the New York Open. I knocked him out in the second round,” said Favreau.
“Yes, yes, very nice. But we can’t quite rely on a second round knockout here, given your physical form, can we? White can go for the anti-Marshall with 8.a4, Kasparov used to play it, you know.”
“Kasparov is ancient history, man. I don’t recall him knocking anyone out.”
Dominguez grabbed the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles became white and took a deep breath. “Ok. Maybe the Ruy-Lopez shouldn’t be your defense of choice.”

To be continued ....