To the last pawn - Part II

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To the last pawn - Part II

“Thumbing and head-butting are strictly forbidden, and will be punished by deducting five minutes off the offending player’s clock.”
- World Chess Boxing Association (WCBA) rules, article 12.3.c

By the time they passed San Bernardino, Enrique tried the Caro-Cann, the French, and the Petroff. Favreau’s knowledge fell short in all of them. He was perplexed by the Panov, bewildered by the Winaver and vexed by the Exchange variation. He was falling into every cheap trap in the book, losing the thread of theory after 5-6 moves already. Enrique began to worry – maybe it was a mistake to bring this drunkard along for the ride? But no, it was too late to change anything, he had to try and hope for the best. This was his last chance.

Finally, as the red car turned onto the interstate, Enrique tried the Sicilian, and this time he struck gold. Vince was a natural Sicilian player, and there are some things one just doesn’t forget. They went through the Classical, the Najdorf, the Sveshnikov, the Dragon, and even the mind-bogglingly complicated Ponomariov and Karjakin variations. Favreau aced all of them, reciting theoretical lines till move 15 in all main lines as well as major theoretical deviations.

“Well,” Dominguez said with relief, “I think we have at least the opening problem solved.”
“I’m not sure,” Favreau stretched and yawned, “We’ve only covered the e4 openings for black. What if Santoro says I’m white? And even if I am black, how do we know the other guy will open 1.e4?”
“Santoro’s office said you got black in the game. As for 1.e4, I’m pretty sure he’ll play that.”
“They told you I got black?” Favreau eyed him suspiciously.
“Yes.”
“I thought they only told you to find me for the match. They also told you I’ve got black?”
“Not in those exact words, but it was implied, yes.”
“How can it be implied? They either said I’ve got black or not. Did they?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. But wait a minute…” Favreau’s eyes opened wide, “You still haven’t told me who am I up against.”
“Is it important? Vince, you were always a ‘play the board, not the opponent’ type of player. Remember London 2013?”
“Yeah, I sure got him good that time….”

The convertible sped along the I-15 interstate, leaving the pleasant warmth of the Valley behind, heading into the scorching heat of the desert. Even the names on the road signs were becoming less friendly. Cheerful, feel-good, names like Palmdale and Riverside were replaced with more down-to-earth, working-class names such as Alray and Barstow.

“Where are we?” Vince said, awakening of a short slumber.
“Hundred miles to Nevada state line. We’re doing good time.”
“How about grabbing something to eat? I haven’t eaten since morning … wait, was it this morning or yesterday’s morning? Anyway, haven’t eaten for a while.”
“Ok, let’s eat.” Enrique turned the steering wheel, guiding the convertible into the parking lot of a roadside truck diner.

***

“So,” said Enrique as they were waiting for their order of waffles, “We have the opening covered. Let’s talk middle game.”
“Oh man, look at that waitress,” said Favreau, “I would sure love to check and mate her, if you know what I mean. Hey, baby,” he exclaimed as the apron-wearing blonde passed by their table, “Want to come to my place and see my Bad Bishop?” The waitress didn’t break her stride.
Dominguez shook his head. “And it’s such a mystery why Debbie left you.”

“So,” he continued after the same waitress tossed the plates of waffles on their table, while doing her best to avoid eye contact, “What are the major middle game guidelines? Let’s say we… you and your opponent castled on opposite sides. What’s your game plan?”
“To throw everything including the kitchen sink at the opposing king’s position,” Vince smiled, “pawns lead the way, pieces behind, like Philli said.”
“You mean, Philidor? You studied Philidor’s teachings? Wow, I thought you don’t have any respect for a chess player who didn’t knock anyone out.”
“Who said anything about Philidor? I meant Philli Jones. You know, Steve Jones, the GM from Philadelphia.”
“Aha. Ok, what other guidelines are there?”
“Opening lines to the enemy king is good. Blockading lines to your own king is even better. Pawn weaknesses are meaningless, unless those are the pawns that shield the king. When behind on the attack, exchange queens. How am I doing?”
“Great. Now, middle games with closed center.”
“Attack where the pawn chains are pointing.”
“And what does that mean?”
“If there are white pawns on d4 and e5 and black pawns on d5 and e6, the white pawn chain is pointing to the kingside, and that’s where white should go to work, and black’s chain is pointing to the queenside.”
“Excellent. See, you still have it in you! Middle games with open center and same-side castling?”
“Think ahead to the endgame, beware of weak pawns. Tactics rule.”
“Ok. And speaking of tactics, let’s see what you can do with this position,” Enrique produced a palmtop chess computer out of his pocket and quickly made the following moves on the touch-screen:
1.e4 e5 2.Nf3 Nc6 3.Bb5 a6 4.Ba4 Nf6 5.0-0 b5 6.Bb3 Bb7 7.Re1 Bc5 8.c3 d6 9.d4 Bb6 10.a4 0-0 11.axb5 axb5 12.Rxa8 Qxa8 13.Bg5.
“Ok, what would you do as black?”

								8
								7
								6
								5
								4
								3
								2
								1
a	b	c	d	e	f	g	h

“Hmm,” Favreau leaned over the screen and chewed on his waffle, “Let’s see. Black has his bishops and queen pointing at the center … a lot of tactical motives. Of course I can just retreat with Nd7, but the position calls for more … I know! I’d play 13…Nxe4, and if 14.Rxe4 then 14…Nxd4. Now, retreating the rook clearly loses, and after 15.Rxd4 or 15.cxd4 the endgame is in black’s favor.”
“Nice. For someone who’s been out of the loop for a year, you calculate well. But we must take into account all possible variations. What if white doesn’t retreat, but attacks with the rook?” Dominguez touched the screen and made the move 15.Rg4.
“Well, I just take on f3 and win.”
“Go ahead. Win.”
The moves 15…Nxf3+ 16.gxf3 Bxf3 flashed, and then Dominguez quickly responded with 17.Bf6. “Not so simple now?” he smirked.
“Let me see,” Vince scratched his head, “No, black still wins with 17…g6 18.Qd2 Bxg4 19.Qh6 Bxf2+ and it’s over.”
“17…g6 18.Qd2 Bxg4 is fine, but now white plays not 19.Qh6 but 19.Bd5.”
“Aha. Chasing the queen away from the long diagonal. That could be a problem. No, wait, black’s still winning after 19…Qa4.”

Dominguez leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. His friend is going to be ok after all. He looked outside the diner toward his car. Nobody got around to stealing it yet.
“Hey, nice license plate, man,” Favreau followed his gaze, “Didn’t notice it before. E2E4-WINS. Cool. Did you get it custom made?”
“Yes, Vince, I did.”
“I like it. Wish I had a custom license plate. Wish I had a car.”
“You can buy a car with the match’s earnings. Hundred thousand dollars, sixty percent to the winner, forty to the loser.”
“That’s nice, but I still don’t know who am I up against. Is it that Italian, Paretti?”

“Shut up, they’re talking about the fight!” The big truck driver at the next table pointed in the direction of the TV set. Enrique and Vince stopped talking and watched Andrey Klichkovsky giving a press conference at the Caesar’s Palace hotel, surrounded by media persons, bodyguards and fans.

“Americans! I will smack that contender of yours so hard he will not know what hit him! I will break his head, take out his brains and eat them for lunch! And that’s only the chess part I am talking about! Once we put the boxing gloves on, he is going to really feel the pain! Yes! I am Andrey Klichkovsky, undisputed World Heavyweight Champion! Remember this name, because it will be the last sound you will hear! Yes!”

“Well, the guy sure doesn’t lack confidence,” said Enrique.
“Hey, look,” said Vince, “There’s Todd Santoro.”

“Mr. Santoro,” asked a TV reporter, “Is it true that you had difficulties assembling a lineup for the preliminary match, the undercard?”
“Let me tell you this, son,” the fat dark haired promoter turned directly to the camera, “We have a special treat for you viewers in the undercard match. We all know Magnus Alfredsson broke his arm skiing in Norway and LaShawn Thompson failed a drug test. These things happen. But still, the two fighters we have in store for you are exceptional ones. Their names are legend, and I will say no more.”

“Whoa, wait a minute, Rico. So they are having not one, but two replacement players for the preliminary match?”
“Yes.”
“And you said you were pretty sure the other guy will open 1.e4?”
“Yes.”
Vince glanced at his friend’s face, then at the red convertible, then at his friend again.
“Why you lying cheating vermin of a rat. You are my opponent. You!”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t have come with me if I did! Look man, I need this! After what happened back then at the Garden, Santoro blacklisted me and nobody would work with me any more. No trainer, no endorsements, no tournament invitations. I was scrounging for cash in B-tournaments and my rating dropped 150 points. And then I suddenly get this call, and I can be center-stage again, but they are still one opponent short, so I remembered you live in L.A. and suggested you, and they said ‘bring him along’. I need this match to jump back on the gravy train, Vince. I’m thirty-four, man, this is my last chance.”
“So why are you coaching me?”
“Because, man, I need you to be good. If you show up at the Palace in bad shape, nobody’s going to believe it was for real. They’ll just say ‘Dominguez is a cheat. First he sold the Garden, now he bought the Palace.’”
“So it’s my job to play well so you can beat me convincingly and fix your life?”
“It sounds very negative when you put it this way, but basically, yes.”
“And the reason you know I’m black is because you asked to be white?”
“Something like that.”
“Damn you, Rico, I’m not letting you get away with this. Have it occurred to you that I might have a life to fix too? Did you consider that this might be my last chance too?”

“Would you like a refill?” The waitress stood above them with a pot of coffee in her hand. “No!” They both waved her away.
“Vince, be realistic. I was playing B-tournaments, but at least I was playing. You haven’t touched a chessboard and haven’t worn gloves for a year,” Dominguez leaned forward and drilled Favreau with his black eyes, “You cannot win this match.”
“Damn right I can and I will,” Favreau screamed as he jumped on his feet, “I’ll show you ‘E2E4-WINS’, Mister. I’ll drive that e2-e4 down your throat, you maggot.” He swept his unfinished waffles off the table and stormed out of the diner.
“Sorry about that….” Enrique said to no one in particular as he tossed some bills on the table, picked up the palmtop and followed Vince to the car.

To be continued ...