Here's story that some of you may appreciate. Some of you may not appreciate it. I don't really know, to be honest, how you will take it. Hell, just take it for what it's worth. I've decided to write this down in honor of Mike "Oz" Schulenberg, who insists this is my "best story." I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing (do my stories suck that bad?). I'll let you judge for yourself...

[ Artist's Conception of Mike "Oz" Schulenberg ]

It was a brisk December Day in 1997 when I attended a Chess tournament in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Or was it Madison? I forget... Truth be told, this is such a painful memory for me that I have trouble getting all of the facts straight. It doesn't matter, though. Suffice it to say, I went to a USCF-sponsored tournament somewhere in Wisconsin.

A bit of history... I've played chess since the age of 4 or 5 when my father taught me to play. My parents were divorced and my brother and I visited dad on the weekends for many years. He had learned to play chess in the Navy and took it upon himself to teach me to play, despite my young age. This continued for about a year, until I could beat him consistently and then, surprisingly enough, he didn't want to play anymore.

Flash forward twelve or thirteen years to my college days. I met a group of guys who played Dungeons & Dragons and other pen and paper RPGs and started hanging out with them. A couple of these guys were avid chess players and were members of the United States Chess Federation and, as members, went to tournaments semi-regularly. I thought this sounded interesting, so I agreed to go with them.

At my first tournament, I did remarkably well. I won two games, lost two games and drew a game throughout the course of the tourney's five rounds. It was good enough for second place in my division and a small prize at the end of the tournament (a book entitled "Secret Weapons" that featured a smoking gun on the cover). Had I won and not drawn that last game, I'd have a trophy to show for it, but I digress. I felt pretty good about myself, so I decided to try again. Suffice it to say, round 2 didn't go nearly as well.

[ The Prize For Victory ]

Over the course of the aforementioned second tournament, I got my ass handed to me by a former Russian master who apparently snapped one day and disappeared into the wilderness 10 years earlier. How fortunate for me, he decided to come out of hiding in time to kick me in the head a dozen times or so. You haven't lived until you've analyzed a chess game with a master level player who's mumbling to himself in Russian and broken English about "what the fuck were you thinking here?" when, in actuality, I couldn't even tell him what I was doing. I pretty much just move the pieces and try to win with tactics and other hackery, rather than using actual openings or other official chess strategy. This confounded him to no end...and made for an excruciatingly long analysis that he wouldn't give up on until he fully understood my incompetence.

After this tournament, I was rattled...no, demoralized, to say the least. That notwithstanding, I decided to give it one more go after a year or so off with no practice (Remember this, kids. There's a test later). I got to the tournament and promptly lost my first game...badly. This didn't exactly instill me with confidence to continue, but I carried on...

My second round game was against a six or seven year old Hispanic boy. He was adorable, but I needed to treat him like the enemy. After all, it is folly to let your opponents live! Or something... Anyway, I promptly dropped my Queen about five moves in to the game. If you play chess, you know that dropping your Queen is the equivalent of dropping a 500 lb weight on your scrotum. Ouch.

I left my play clock running and stepped outside to have a cigarette. Then a second. Then a third. Fortunately, I didn't have any sharp objects with me or I may have decided to do something rash. Cigarettes down, I opted to grab a beer from the bar in the hotel.

[ Artist's Conception Of the Beer I Drank (Minus Cleavage) ]

Over the course of my brooding, Nate (one of the players who led me into the hell of tournament chess, and a good friend of mine) came up to me and asked me what the fuck had happened? I didn't know what to tell him. It was just a major brain fart... I figured I'd let the kid sit there for an hour or so and then when there was a minute left on my clock, I'd tip my King over. That would teach the little shit to kick me like that. In the meantime, I was going to drink.

Nate encouraged me to play on. The kid was rated 600 (approximately) and I was rated between 1200 and 1400 at the time, so he insisted I still had a chance. I said "okay," and journeyed back to the board, beer in hand. The boy's father was at the board looking over the game and patting the smiling boy on the shoulder. He was so proud...you could tell! I examined this heartwarming father/son moment and tried not to give the guy a dirty look. I failed...

I sat down at the board and started making aggressive moves. Full offensive! Or as Worf said in First Contact...RAMMING SPEED! First I took a Knight... Then swapped a Rook for a Bishop. Then I took his other Bishop...and a Pawn. Then I trapped his Queen and forced an exchange for a Rook and a pawn. I had him... The kid looked broken and cried on his father's shoulder when I finally checkmated him. I almost wished I could go back and resign when I wanted to originally. I had never felt so bad...or embarrassed...in my life.

But hell, the day was young. That was all about to change... At least as far as the "embarrassed" part of the equation was concerned.

Going back to the beginning of this tournament, while the signup period was going on, I spotted a little girl walking around the room. She was probably eight...maybe nine years old, tops. I initially thought "How nice. One of these guys brought his daughter to the tournament to watch him play." Admittedly, that's one of the more misogynistic thoughts I've ever had the misfortune of being a party to. As it turns out, she was a player in the tournament.

Fear struck me. I told Nate that I just KNEW that I would have to play this girl in the tournament. What if I lose? What if she kicks my ass? Holy shit! What am I going to do? Nate tried to calm me down. He told me I was psyching myself out and needed to chill. The odds of playing her, he said, were pretty steep. After all, there were probably 50 or more players here. So...I tried not to think about it. You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

Round 3 of the tournament consisted of a healthy ass whipping by a guy I can't remember. Little Hispanic kids I remember fine. The adult with the pocket protector? Not so much... So I had one point out of three so far and shouldn't have had that. Well, wouldn't you know it? I went up to the board to see who my opponent would be and...you guessed it...I was up against this little girl.

[ Artist's Conception of Satan...erm...the Little Girl ]

I had my mind made up. I was going home and no one was going to stop me. I would resign the game, drop out of the last round and call it a day. Nate talked me out of it. He told me it would be good practice and that I should just have fun. Besides, he and my other friend Rob were winning, so they weren't about to leave. I accepted my fate and marched on to my date with destiny.

The time was at hand. I approached the board, shook the little girl's hand and sat down to play. She didn't have a clock and neither did I, so I went and got one from the scorer's table and set it up. We shook hands again and said the token "good luck" (even though there's no luck involved) and started to play.

I studied my opponent carefully. The girl was wearing a flowery pink dress and she was hauling a well loved teddy bear around with her. She had long blonde hair and a beautiful smile. Along with the bear and the smile, she also brought a Barbie coloring book to the table. Once the game clock started, she proceeded to open it and spread out her crayons next to the board. It was official...I was playing chess with the devil.

[ Actual Photo of "Little Girl's Crayons" From a 1998 Police Lineup ]

If I remember correctly, I played White and she played Black, so I had the initiative. I planned each move carefully, taking several minutes at a time. After each of my painstaking moves (3 to 5 minutes a pop), she would calmly look up from her coloring book, examine the board (for 5 or 10 SECONDS), make a move, and hit the timer on her clock. She was toying with me!

More than half of my time had expired and she had only used about 7 minutes of hers. I think one or two of my moves threw her for a loop, so much so that she had to think for nearly TWO MINUTES before responding! It was a battle of wits and I was an unarmed guy...

I had about ten minutes left on my clock when I started to get desperate. I had to make moves quickly because, relatively speaking, the game was still in its early stages. My lack of available time got the best of me and she proceded to cram her chess pieces right down my throat. In a game with no major blunders...purely positional...she had ripped by leg off and beat me to death with it.

[ Don't Worry...I've Still Got One Left ]

I grudgingly tipped over my King and said "nice game." She was gracious enough to put down her crayons long enough to shake hands again, before picking up her coloring book and her bear and going on about her business. I, on the other hand, had a date with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. As a side note, it was nice of her to allow me to go to the scorer's table to report the game's results. That was fun...and she didn't really seem to care.

[ Man's Best Friend ]

I played in the last round with a sizeable drunk on and lost that game as well. For a weekend's worth of work, I got to lose three times, shatter a little boy and his father's spirits and get my ass handed to me by an eight year old girl with Crayola and Teddy Ruxpin on her side.

In the years that have passed, I've pretty much forgotten how to play chess. I bought Chessmaster 8000 a few months back and let the program kick me around a bit before the hell of this weekend long past came back to haunt me. It's been six years now and I'm nearly a man of 30. One can only hope that in another six years I'll see this little girl on the cover of Time Magazine ripping Garry Kasparov's throat out.

I doubt it...but hey! A guy can dream, right?

Thanks for reading...