In which the Welsh women’s captain takes a day off to explore the ‘real’ India – and quickly wishes that he hadn’t

Michael Healey

Last night Sarah Kett, head of delegation, wife of strong Welsho Tim and technically my fifth player, offered to captain today’s game instead of me. I grabbed this chance to have half a day off and get some extra sleep. Sarah suggested I go for a swim. However my own crushingly stupid decision-making let me down, as so often both in life and in chess.

Today’s Namibian opponents seem much better than their flimsy ratings. Liv points out their coach is quite strong (stronger than someone else anyway), so we work on his openings in addition to theirs. Let’s hope every other team are prepping Orangutans, Chameleons and Borgs like crazy! Again they’re in strange order, Khushi playing the highest rated on four. They’ve dropped “Jolly” on one. No jollies today.

I wave the teams off, then head out in my freshly laundered outfit, proselytising to the people of Eggatur-Chennai the vital message of my black T-shirt – “MEH”. Sneaking past security, I pop next door to the mall with four tasks – camera memory card, mouthwash for all the sweeties, check out the mall, be somewhere other than the hotel or the venue.

First, the computer and tech shops: none has camera memory cards. Hmm – this may be an issue in the modern smartphone world. Another reason for me to despise the things. In the Spar supermarket I confirm there is no alcohol to be had, find my mouthwash and head to the till. They ask for my mobile number. I look confused. They examine the back of the mouthwash bottle. Suddenly it dawns on me that the thing will contain alcohol. Another member of staff comes to help read the ingredients. I’m going to be denied mouthwash, aren’t I? I mean, it’s one excuse for the dentist. Hold on, it’s all OK, and my card goes through for whatever the local price of my illicit purchase was. Tick.

I wander around the mall. It’s mally. There’s a food court, a Starbucks, an arcade, various clothes and home shops, but nothing else looking likely. The place is wonderfully lit, spacious and aesthetically pleasing, although the escalators are not the simplest (or working). 

I bump into three ladies from Team Jersey, including the mother of Daisy Carpenter who remembers me from the flight out, and chessette e-celeb “Lula“. Looking her up now I realise she is another Orangutanger! There is so much we could have discussed … whole schools of potential theory lie unmined.

I congratulate them on their draw with Sudan yesterday, and on the men’s result – they went down 1.5-2.5 against a strong Tunisian team, three of whom I played many years ago in a Maltese IM norm tournament. Saris are on the menu for the Jersey women – should I be buying my female friends back home saris? Or the men? Can I add clothes smuggling to my various occupations? I’d have to lose some chess books from the suitcases, but saris are pretty light, no?

Returning to the hotel I mention my camera memory card failure at the front desk. This is a mistake. A triple question mark blunder. After much discussion, they send me out across the road with a helpful man. Crossing an Indian three-lane main road is not so simple. There’s a lot of stuff coming at various speeds. We make it safely across, and thus begins my own special odyssey. The first phone shop says no, but suggests the next one up the road. Who suggests the next one up the road. Who …

Much like Tooting or any London high street, a lot of shops are phone shops. There’s the occasional snazzy café or restaurant, but there’s a hell of a lot of phone shops. We march on, baking under the 2pm sun. The road is hot. The sun is hot. I think of the Richard Bachman (Stephen King’s darker half) short story “The Long Walk”. The journey is endless, feet follow feet, and no phone shop is going to have a camera memory card. We are told of a magical place beyond the bridge yonder, a larger shop that may have one …

I encounter my first Indian beggar child. She quickly makes her way to my side and lightly grabs my arm, making noises you’d have to be inhuman not to pity. My guide shoos her away. As a tough tube-travelling Londoner, I’m regularly cold-hearted to beggars. But this little girl is something else. Maybe it’s because this isn’t my country. 

We reach the legendary pedestrian bridge which once seemed a heat mirage. Underneath, in the shade, a family have set up camp. A dog, distended nipples showing, is chased off by a motorbike. How much of this side of India we are missing. We reach the air-conditioned electronics store, my own Scheria. They tell us of another shop across the road. Of course Odysseus must reach another island. Let us hope the gods do not punish these modern helpful Phaeacians too.

My pilot guides us back across the road, where a stallholder asks me how much memory I want. He actually has one! Several! It works! And not even any suitors to massacre. I reach for my weapon, trusty card.

Declined. They must have stopped it after the mouthwash. I can do nothing but laugh/cry and apologise to my guide. Tears won’t come, because I’ve sweated them all out. The memory card comes out of my camera, and we leave to return to the hotel. In utter embarrassment I try to make conversation, which results in discussion of Indian politics. Other than Gandhi and Modi, I have no clue who these people are. Sarah suggested a swim – in my current state I probably could have fooled her. 

It is possible the heat has led to some further deterioration of my physical and mental well-being. A shower and I collapse. Stretching for the laptop, the girls are doing OK. Khushi seems to be playing an exciting pawn sacrifice seen in McShane-Lalic 2003, attempting her own improvement on the England board two’s efforts. I don’t remember prepping Khushi for this, but I am very tired. Maybe I’m more of a genius than I thought.

The others look to be doing OK, all having positions much as we discussed this morning. I manage a nap. Reanimating, Hiya has won a nice, clean game. Perfect, I’m delighted for her first (non-default) win. Liv, whose opening position Stockfish disliked, has very sensibly swapped off to negate her small disadvantage. She outplays her opponent as the pieces come off. 2-0. 

Khushi is having a whale of a game, Mr Fish’s evaluation bar is getting super-excited. She’s played a blinder, a really good, classical, pieces-to-the-centre-working-together crush. Khushi’s first win too, and in under 30 moves!

Kim’s opponent, clearly prepped to the eyeballs, plays a sensible opening, but White has a definite edge. A few inaccurate moves and the advantage evaporates, but now Black is starting to play. Once again I suspect Kim has had to face the secretly strongest player on two, despite a 1200 rating. Black is using her ponies in a distinctly Healeyish manner, as in our morning analysis of Healey-IM Large (Kingston Invitational best game prize-winner, thank you very much). 

Black’s advantage keeps creeping up, and Kim misses little chances to equalise a complex endgame. Finally some pawns come off, and the task looks easier. Kim has managed her time as well. A draw. 

So we win the match – without me! Was it because I wasn’t there? Was I holding them back, or distracting my girls? Or was my pointless death march under the Indian sun actually suffering on their behalf, the universe aiding them to balance out? Something about karma? Perhaps now is the time to build the new MEH religion.

Our hero, captaining the Welsh women’s team at the Olympiad, is completely exhausted – and his team have only played three rounds

Michael Healey

Three rounds in and I haven’t been this emotionally drained since that Polymorph attack. How we’re meant to survive another eight I have no idea.

A routine has developed. After breakfast we have a general coaching session on the restaurant floor, followed by half-hour slots. This is partly because lifts will only go to the floor you are keycarded for, with stairs – if they exist – barred to guests. We are also supposed to call lifts using toothpicks. Eventually the Olympiad officials round us from lunch and try to shove us on buses for the venue, 30-odd minutes away, along a road white- and black-washed to form a terrifying constant chessboard. Murals, posters and mascots form a permanent passing background, the overall surreal effect akin to the film Yellow Submarine. The local governor’s photo is placed above a crappy wooden chessboard I would never let kids play on as pieces just fall over. It is in any case set up wrong. The cows and goats don’t seem to notice. There are neon signs, road bumps, waterfowl and roving gangs of dogs.

The venue itself is fairly overwhelming, a mass of people which makes the introvert feel quite uncomfortable. Also, for a game based on spatial awareness, people don’t seem to have any concept of moving slowly, stepping aside to pass, or stopping before blind corners. Doors are both ways, and as someone who pretends outwardly to be a polite Englishman you can often spend a whole minute trying to get through.

In round one, my Welsh team were up against India 2: titled 2300s all the way down. The darlings of India (well, second string of darlings). We are in Hall One, chamber of champions, the special place of super-GMs and their amateur fodder (England women are in scum Hall Two). Cameras and filmcrews, space to wander about, fans up and down the walkway pointing and staring at four suited-up national heroes, facing my four red-jacketed Welshies. In my captain’s speech, I say there’s way more pressure on them than there is on us; two of them are over 30, so more dead brain cells than alive; and 2300s are rubbish anyway. Accuracy of captain’s speech: precog.

The match starts strangely when Khushi, the Welsh board four, plays an inaccurate opening, but her opponent decides to go after a pawn. Then the 17-year-old Indian prodigy huffs. Then she puts her head down. She looks fed up, as my 13-year-old continues to play sensible moves. The 2300 is eating up time and entering what can only be described as “a strop”.  

Olivia Smith on board one has the line she wanted, and her opponent is making strange moves. She must be better?! Kim on two is a bit worse, but not much against the IM. Hiya on three has exactly the position she wanted on the board, which we knew the computer said was +1. Hiya the 1600 is definitely better against the 2300 WGM! I am torn between grinning my head off and bewilderment. I can’t help but fist-pump moves, stalking up and down behind the team like a prowling tiger, hoping that aggressive energy will feed into my girls, or that my scowling will intimidate the titled women. Probably it has more the look of a hunched Winnie the Pooh, but hey – that might distract India 2 as well.

Khushi and Kim continue to survive. Liv’s (short for Olivia, geddit) position looks great. Hiya gets too much fury radiation, and flamethrowers insanity all over the board. Even I, the resident lunatic of London chess, am raising my eyebrows. This is savagery like I’ve never seen except in the pages of game collections. On the Indian commentary there is apoplexy at what is going on. Are India 2 going down??

Sadly the incredible rush can’t last. Khushi’s knight get trapped. Kim’s time gets low. Hiya’s flames gets dowsed. Liv remains, struggling away in an endgame, apparently drawn but beyond my feeble understanding. Instead she loses, so we gain zilch for our efforts. Harsh.

Meanwhile, Wales Open team (the boys) were drawn against fourth seeds Spain. And wow did they give them a tussle. Just seeing Shirov in person was amazing, but he seemed to have taken offence at my red bandana, focusing all the rage of his position on to my forehead. The boys did incredibly well, threatening an incredible upset, but eventually went down to the 2700s. Have a quick chat with chess writer and all-round luminary Malcolm Pein, who kindly suggests that if it hadn’t been for the Welshos’ heroics, his article would have been on the Welshettes. Great pride from today’s performances; definitely the best lost match I’ve ever been part of.

A new day. I receive an email from tournament chief arbiter, England’s own Alex Holowczak. Accreditation is to be done by today at 2pm, or there will be a fee. I reply to ask what is this accreditation? He doesn’t know, it’s just something they’ve told him to message us. Liv is desperate to get us Indian sim cards, so we can all Whatsapp each other. I use one of the lift-toothpicks to try and open the port of a smartphone I’ve brought (Hiya had to point this out to me). This does not work, so I go in search of a paperclip from reception. I do hope this isn’t actually the camera hole I’m poking.

Round two: Palau. Pretty flag. Their openings on the databases make little sense, but they can clearly play if given the chance. Suspicious board order. Location: Hall Two, near to the doors for refreshments/toilets, and close to the spectators. Captain’s speech: calm today after yesterday’s insanity. Hiya, in particular, should picture Yoshi, a Japanese gardener of Bonsai trees. Calmly and quietly, she must snip at the position. No chainsaws and flamethrowers today. “But I’m playing the Sicilian.” “He’s a Sicilian Japanese gardener,” I say. “He looks after the Mafia’s Bonsai trees.” Kim’s task is to stay ahead on time, unless she gets a position which requires time investment.
Accuracy of captain’s speech: well Hiya’s board is a default, so pretty calm I guess?!

It does rankle that Hiya has to come all the way to the venue then go straight back (or not so straight, the shuttle bus system being less “every 10 minutes” and more “sitting for an hour fed up and powerless in the face of constant prevarication”). This default system seems particularly idiotic. Oh well, one to the good, even if I’d have liked to see Hiya play. The Palau team are lovely, and teach us the word Alii! (Hello!). Apparently they have no word for goodbye; Maybe they never say goodbye.

Liv wins a nice, simple game, although with one slight inefficiency distracted by the possibility of an early shuttle home. Possibly we need to move her out of sight of the clock. Khushi wins an early exchange, then proceeds to block the position up. The game seems to have been cursed: the aircon tries to blow their scoresheets and pieces off; the Palauan player forgets to press her clock, causing Khushi worry. Then Khushi employs en passant on the c5 pawn, dxc6 – only c7-c6 was the unorthodox move two. The arbiter notices, the game rewinds five moves to the illegal move, time is added but the clock refuses to restart. Opponent offers a draw; Khushi offers a draw; there is much debate; our neighbouring arbiter looking on giggling with me; our arbiter hoping to be rid of this troublesome pair. After more discussion, draw! Never mind, both are off the mark, and we’ve got the points to win the match, hurrah.

Kim gets the position we all dream of, pushing knights back and gaining a true olympian centre. But, as some wise coach once said, “With a great centre comes great responsibility”. A motorway pile-up in extreme slow motion, Kim’s position goes from optically perfect to an explosion with limbs everywhere. No one deserves this, but it is a great experience to learn from. I wince as she recovers once, twice, three times, but the final blunder is too much. Black wins. Kim is devastated, and we all feel the same. A win for the team, but in the ugliest manner possible. Drinks in the hotel rooftop bar (for those of us of age) very much needed. It boasts a view of our locale, heaving with lights and heat and noise and everything you would expect from urban India. Kim is kept away from the side.

Round 3: Belgium. We’re outrated by a cumulative 1800+ points. The Belgians play something different each and every game. Fantastic. Location: Away from the doors, but by the arbiter’s station. Spectators, children and noisy infants. Captain’s speech: Keep calm, remember your prep, if they play something odd just roll with it. Sensible chess. Accuracy: Maybe I am still speaking Palauan. 

A little Vietnamese woman barges me out of the way, a new system of sticky red dots having been introduced. Everyone must have a red dot. I ask if tomorrow we will getting a different coloured dot? She looks at me as if I’m mad. Dot the dot lady whizzes around the hall, the first wave of stressful distractions today will offer.

Barely have we started and I storm off into the tournament hall, absolutely furious with myself. In prepping Khushi, I have overwhelmed her with lines and ideas, but failed to cement the basics of her opening. Within half a dozen moves Bxf7+ has won a pawn. The fury of round one is back, but now turned inwards. 

Hiya seems confused by her opponent’s offbeat try, getting herself in tangles and repeatedly moving her queen. Kim has gone for a Benko, backing herself despite never having played it before, convinced her opponent will repeat some innocuous line we briefly practised rather than take the pawn. I presume Liv’s secret prep is working; her opponent seems a bit thrown. But now she is eating time. Is there really a d6 pawn on?

It takes me a long time to calm down from my utter failure this round, stalking around Scum Hall grinding my teeth – more good news for the dentist after my constant intake of Indian sweet things. Thankfully, matters improve. Khushi’s opponent is trying to finish the operation, but using not a scalpel but some kind of washcloth. Kim is again eating time, but at least she’s in the game. Liv is playing wonderfully, her experienced opponent playing some inexplicable moves. Hiya has stabilised the position, and her opponent is looking very worried. I resume my round one hulking presence between occasional mini-naps. During one snooze there is a tap on my shoulder. A member of the spectators is leaning over the barrier – can he have that bottle of water?

During one of my waking-walking moments, I look up to a gasp worthy of an Edgar Allan Poe. One of the male players, 50 metres away, reaches out across the board in agony, his hands clenched in frozen agony. He collapses over the board and spills on to the floor. A crowd forms. There are no shouts for a medic; no clocks stop. The tournament continues more or less as normal, and I can see the man’s legs shaking. I offer up a prayer, hope, and try to extend a spiritual forcefield around my girls. Hiya’s lust for victory in a position I suspect was dynamically level has led to her being checkmated. I take her off to watch Liv, away from rescue operations. 

It is hard to know what to think. I’m well aware that this has happened before at Olympiads, but playing on like this seems callous. My players barely seem to notice, which is good I suppose. Out of the corner of my eye I see a spectator grinning, up on tiptoes trying to see what is happening. In fact they’re all standing up now, trying to get a look. I feel quite ill, sip my Coke and close my eyes. Eventually the man seems to be taken out by wheelchair. Thousands of volunteers and police officers, but where had the paramedics been? 

For the second time, a Belgian male player turns up on our side of the table. I walk up to him, flick his badge, angrily bark “Belgian” like a Teutonic officer of old, and motion for him to go around to the other side. He looks confused. I point again and explain, forcefully – he is Belgian, this is our side, he should be behind his team not facing them. This registers and he apologises. I have a new batch of angry energy to feed my girls. Adam Hunt, the Welsh Open captain, is amused by this encounter. It’s not often you get to tell a 2400 off.

Khushi finally folds, her longest game ever by a wide margin, holding off her opponent rated over 500 points higher for nearly four hours. Kim also concedes, having battled to a rook endgame but playing much better than yesterday. Liv is left, and I wander off to try not to distract her. The position seems winning, her opponent short of time, but there are many paths to examine.

I wander over to the Welshos. At one point they had looked extremely good again, against Paraguay’s GMs. They go down 4-0, a terrible score from the positions they had. Well Liv will win, then we’ll have outscored the men at least … Idly wandering back Liv is clutching her king. And I can see why. Somehow Black has fluked a tactic, and, when the king moves, a bishop sac will see a pawn through. She later tells me she was not only in shock, but continued to hold her king because she couldn’t recall which square it was on. Her rictus grip seems to last forever, and I swear into the emptied myriad rows of boards. 

Thankfully all is not quite lost. Liv recovers, and makes a draw against her higher-rated opponent. Apparently for tiebreaks just one draw is better than a whitewash, so we go out happier, ready for our nightly arguments with the hotel shuttle service. Next stop Namibia, whose players include “Jolly” and “Patience”. This might just be the match we need right now.

A Kingston star is captaining the Welsh women’s team in the Olympiad which has just got under way in (or, rather, near) Chennai. Here is the first of his regular(ish) reports from the pinnacle of team chess

Michael Healey

A “failed-to-deliver” message has just appeared in my inbox, from the Indian visa agency, presumably bumping around for days in cyberspace screaming for my attention. Thankfully I am already here in Chennai, visa-d up at the last minute. Serves it right to get ignored, after seven hours of internal screaming and a desperate last-ditch, hopeful rush on my part to get to, of all places, Hounslow. 

At Heathrow I bumped into Nick Faulks, south-west London chess stalwart and Bermudean, and met Kim Chong, one of my Welsh team, in person for the first time. Despite my offering her several chess books, she sensibly decided to invest in sleep. I opted for whisky and coffee, doing some “chess work” (vandalising books with coloured biros) and completing the entertaining The Philosophy of Andy Warhol.

The young ladies next to me on the plane, Yasmin Forbes and Daisy Carpenter, are part of the first ever Jersey women’s Olympiad team, powered by the sheer force of their board one, streamer “Lula” Roberts. Among their tens of thousands of mobile photos were their team outfits – sponsored by chess.com, Chessable and a fintech. “Puma pulled out though”, they tell me. Quel dommage! I looked down at my BA-supplied Shirgar Welsh butter and wondered what could have been …

From Yasmin’s dad, Garry Forbes, I learned much about the Jersey chess scene and the attitude of “small nations” (who have their own 10-nation league – apparently Wales want to get in, but are “too big” – maybe lose Anglesey?). The Channel islands, for their size, have always seemed to have properly solid teams, but the likes of Andorra and the Faroe islands are as orcas in a garden pond. Small nations also get representation in the Candidates’ cycle – will we one day see the world title contested by someone who is willing to cross the North Sea for four hours by boat just to play one game? It must certainly breed determination to avoid draws among those Faroe islanders – and a hardiness to weather conditions.

Teenage girls being what they are, the flight wasn’t the quietest, but I was very impressed to see them hack into the airplane’s console and play games against each other while the rest of the plane slept. After a slightly rough landing (you never want to see a member of the cabin crew looking panicked, especially with only her big eyes showing behind a mask), we disdainfully charged past a sea of queueing, plebeian non-chesso travellers, ran the early-morning gauntlet of helpful volunteers and intimidating soldiers, and flopped exhausted on to a coach with Team Eritrea. Cue much bowing and namaste-ing and demanding selfies by airport volunteers.

The sheer levels of manpower and resources being thrown at the 44th Chess Olympiad are astonishing, especially given the rushed bidding process. Yet more astonishing is the number of people wanting selfies with chessplayers, but apparently here we’re all celebrities. The volume of suitcases I’ve brought is worryingly diva-like, but they really are mostly full of chess books.

We left Team Eritrea at a hotel near the airport, and reached our own, halfway to the tournament venue – the Four Points by Sheraton in Mahabalipuram, which is about 30 miles down the coast from Chennai. Supposedly, the strongest teams are closer to – or even at – the venue, England (and, ahem, Jersey) among them. We have been told not to leave our hotel except under armed escort. As I suspected, most of “real India” will have to be seen from the shuttlebus window. Alex Bullen, one of the Welsh team in the Open section, escaped and brought back news of roving packs of dogs on the beach. It’s a real-life Plato’s Cave situation. With us are Uganda, South Korea, Bolivia, Chile, Zimbabwe, Timor Leste and Nick Faulks’ Bermuda. Yes – Bermuda of the famous “Bermuda party”. Oh dear.

Hotels, each filled with special Olympiad staff, are booked out with free accommodation, internet and meals so tasty I will certainly be even larger on my return to the UK. There have been small issues: one of the Welsh team’s luggage has gone walkabout in transit; various rooms have been switched; and I remain technologically incapable. But overall things have been going unexpectedly smoothly (so far!). 

Yesterday, the Chennai branch of the Welsh chess lending library opened, and I did some coaching sessions with Kim and Hiya Ray – a gloriously underrated 1600. It resembles the feeling of being dealt a “shiny” in a football card pack. She is going to take some stopping this one.

Past midnight I was still blitzing practice openings with Kim, before demanding she watch a GingerGM video about one of my games (coaches are very powerful). Morning brought a phone call which I nearly died trying to get to from the shower – “Yes I am aware there is breakfast, I went yesterday!” – and another quick coaching session with Hiya.

The Welsh men’s coach, IM Adam Hunt (wow, did they luck out there!) led the willing to the opening ceremony; the unwilling – me and the wasters of the men’s team – were having a rest. The coffee here is pretty strong, and I’ve been living off it for several days. Khushi Bagga, the Welsh women’s No 4, has arrived, and I’m promised my board one, Olivia Smith, from Mumbai soon. Tomorrow the event proper starts and Wales are up against, gulp, India 2, a team playing on home soil and full of titled players. Time for another coffee, I reckon.

A glorious queen sac can be irresistible and fans will always applaud it. But winning the game is even better – a lesson I learned the hard way in this totemic position from early in my playing career

Michael Healey

An instructive position! Context later, but what would you, as White, do here? Do you long for the security of exchanged queens? Qxb8, Ne4, Rhe1 or maybe even f4 straightening out the doubled pawns? White is after all a pawn up; the rest, as they always say, should be a matter of technique.

Should White keep the queens on with Qg5, then point everybody at g7? Surely Black’s kingside couldn’t survive the firepower of White’s entire army? Or is this a mirage?

Is Rd6 your choice, preventing the queen exchange with an awkward self-pin? Dominating Black like a sumo wrestler sat on a cat?

Or is there something else – something which makes your heart beat faster, dreaming of glory. A taste of immortality. A portal in time to the great chess romantics of the past. To be included in great tomes of tactics books and legendary sacrifices. A kiss from Caissa herself? Can White play Qxf6?!?!

Let’s split the options into four:

• The Dull – f4
• The Daring – Qg5
• The Dominating – Rd6
• The Dramatic – Qxf6

Bet bet bet now! (Obligatory Banzai! music). Betting ends.

Now for some background.

A long time ago, I had started work as a chess teacher. In an effort to test this new-found professionalism, having spent most of my chess life up to this point hacking and worshipping the g5 square, I entered a proper chess tournament (as did future team-mate FM Julian Way). The tournament went bizarrely well. I finished joint fourth with IM Chris Baker in a very strong field. GM Keith Arkell came first, netting the princely first prize of £100.

In round seven I was paired with White against FM (and future GM) Michal Matuszewski, the pre-tournament dark horse. I had been having a strange tournament, scoring my first ever win against an IM, but also suffering in a couple of terrible games. I was very, very nervous, and then shocked to find myself in the above position having played some offbeat nonsense and invested very little time. Here I sank into thought. What to do?

Thanks to my friend and chess history devotee Kevin Henbest, I was thoroughly familiar with the game Nezhmetdinov-Chernikov, surely one of the most beautiful queen sacrifices ever played:

Now, back to my game. Somehow I was a pawn up against an FM, but here I was with a chance to emulate the great SuperNezh himself. My usual calculation was failing me completely; the sacrifice was like a black hole drawing my thoughts away from every other line. Qg5 and Rd6 looked good, then dangerous, then drawish and seemingly dissipating my advantage, then a blur of lines I couldn’t concentrate on because THEY WEREN’T THE GLORIOUS QUEEN SAC!

After attempting to consider the alternatives I returned to stare longingly at Qxf6. I couldn’t see the win, but felt it must be there. Surely only a coward would shy away from such a move? Having taken nearly an hour, I punted.

The game went as follows:

A few months later, proudly showing this game to my friend, FM Thanasis Tsanas, he responded with utter disgust. “You were winning! Why would you play this? Karpov would never play such a move!”

I had been fully expecting praise, maybe even light applause, for my bravery. Yet here was an FM telling me off! Something in me, a crazed romantic, got a lesson that day. Rare and entrancing as a queen sacrifice is, it should not come at the expense of the position. Chess wins are not the result of hit and hope.

What would I do today? Well, older and wiser, I now realise many games between strong players are decided not by tactics or queen exchanges, but by domination – controlling the board and not allowing your opponent’s pieces space to breathe. Rd6 is the key move, and the computer agrees. While the other moves should win with perfect play, Rd6 is the truly brave move – self-pinning, calculating to see that everything is working tactically, and having faith in one’s pieces (and scorn for your opponent’s prospects). 

Rd6! What a move!! Who needs queen sacs?!

Being quick on the draw can be completely rational in certain circumstances and where prize money is at stake. Just do the maths

John Foley

The re-emergence of weekend tournaments has drawn attention (no pun intended) to the use of draws. Chess purists would say that you should always try to win a game. By contrast, game theorists would say that you should always try to obtain the best payoff i.e. financial outcome. This divergence of perspectives gives rise to different draw strategies. We need to set aside the emotions and make a rational case for seeking a draw as players reach the last round.  It is more rational to be realistic rather than optimistic.

Last-round strategy

Let’s say you are in the fortunate position of coming into the last round of a tournament in joint first place, you are paired against someone with the same number of points and you are both a point ahead of the chasing pack. Let’s make this more concrete and assume that the first prize is £400 and the second prize is £200, and that these are the only prizes and this is shared among those in the top places. These figures are not atypical on the English chess scene. Not a lot of money, but enough to give pause for thought for an impecunious chess player.

What is the right draw strategy?  There are three outcomes arising from the game:

You win:          sole tournament victory and £400

You draw:        joint tournament victory and £300 (being half of the total prize money)

You lose:         zero 

The game theorist says you need to consider the probability of each outcome.  As a first approximation, there is an equal chance of a win, draw or loss. The “expected value” of the game is therefore:

(⅓ x £400) + (⅓ x £300) + (⅓ x 0) = £233

It is rational to offer a draw because you are guaranteed a return greater than the expected value from playing the game out. You avoid the possibility of defeat and get a share of the pooled prize money.  You are £67 better off than leaving it to the vagaries of a contested game. To express this in percentages, you get a 29% improvement in expected prize money by agreeing to a draw early on.

Young and ambitious players may prefer to slug it out. Youth knows no fear. Or they may lack objectivity and overestimate their chess skills. More seasoned performers will assess the opposition and, unless they are clearly superior, will often seek a draw.  Tournament organisers are wise to this temptation and seek to impose measures designed to avoid early draws. Nevertheless, the economic incentive remains. 

Penultimate-round strategy

By a similar argument it can be shown that, based on a reasonable set of assumptions typical of local weekend tournaments, if the tournament leader accepts a draw in the penultimate round, their expected value of the prize money is £267, whereas if they take their chances and play out the game the expected value is slightly lower at £256. The tournament leader can thus secure a small financial margin of £11, on average, by taking a draw in the penultimate round against the nearest challenger. That’s the price of a couple of beers if you live in London.

The outcomes can be summarised in this payoff matrix. This shows that it is always advantageous to seek a draw in the last two rounds. This decision must be made prior to or at the outset of the game. Try for a win only if you have grounds for believing you can beat the odds. Once the game is underway, then this analysis is superseded and depends upon the chances in your current position. Then the conventional strategy applies: If you are ahead, then go for victory; if you are at a disadvantage, try to get a draw.

There are more substantial benefits of taking a draw before the final game. Nimzowitsch, in an article titled “The Technique of Tournament Play”, explained how he won Carlsbad 1929 ahead of Capablanca and others due to taking short draws to save energy.  The message is to save your efforts for the last round,when you may also have another drawing possibility.

Offering a draw can also have a psychological impact. Your opponent may believe you are lacking in confidence and therefore start focusing on you rather than the board. They may lose objectivity and take a more risky line. As a result, you may outperform original expectations. It is not as if you are bluffing. You are taking a rational approach to winning prize money.

We should acknowledge the legitimate fear that taking a draw could become habitual. We all know players who have a reputation as draw specialists. They are the chess equivalent of people who hug the middle lane on the motorway – ultra-cautious and annoying.

However, what is being advocated here is highly circumscribed. Firstly, the prescription is only relevant to Swiss tournaments where there are only a few top prizes and there is a shared prize pool for people scoring the same number of points. If you are in an all-play-all, then try to win each game. Secondly, it only applies to those two or three people in the lead – if you are in the chasing pack, then try to win your game.

The Sicilian Defence can go horribly wrong, but this lifelong adherent argues that its variations offer rich rewards if you find the lines that suit you and learn from the occasional disaster

Alan Scrimgour

Part 1: Alarms and excursions

“Alarms and excursions” is an archaic expression meaning confused activity and uproar. I cannot think of a better description of the Dragon and Najdorf variations in the 1970s and 1980s.

Ulysses’s odyssey only lasted 10 years, while my journey with the Sicilian Defence has lasted more than 50. I first played it in 1965 at the age of 14 and lost in 19 hectic moves. To be honest it was barely recognisable as a Sicilian. I could have safely been two rooks up, but instead I ended up resigning when about to be mated on the next move. My opponent that day subsequently became one of the world’s best bridge players. 

I decided that I needed to learn a proper Sicilian variation, and opted for the then fashionable Dragon. I played my first Dragon the following year and lost. This time I accepted an unsound queen sacrifice and then resigned, thinking mate was inevitable (it wasn’t and I should have drawn). Otherwise, I had five fairly happy years playing the Dragon before giving it up when keeping up with theory seemed too demanding. 

Game 1 illustrates a number of the common Dragon themes, especially black sacrifices on f3, c3 or sometimes e4. The game was played in a qualifying tournament for a place in the Scottish students’ team. There were four players and we played each other twice. Both of my games with David Watt were Dragons (I did say it was fashionable) and in the first I lost, falling into a Nxe4 sacrifice. In the second it was my turn to sacrifice.

Enter the Najdorf variation – theory-wise this was frying pan to fire – which I played throughout the 1970s, despite losing my first game with it. As if the normal mainline Najdorf wasn’t exciting enough for me, I chose the Polugaevsky variation, which could lead to a position where White first sacrificed a piece on e6, followed by another on b5 for a ferocious-looking attack. I had the position after move 13 three times, losing the first, winning the second and drawing the third. Game 2 shows my victory.

If this has been too exciting for you, in part 2 I will show you my experience with more solid (for the Sicilian) variations.

Part 2: Looking for a safe harbour

Spoiler alert: there isn’t one in the Sicilian (but don’t let me stop you looking).

In the 1980s I moved to the more solid Scheveningen variation, and yes I lost my first game with it. This is the variation that I have played over a longer period and with most games. Statistically, I have done better with the Dragon and the Najdorf than the Scheveningen and the Taimanov, although I do have a plus score in all of them. I estimate that overall, I have played against stronger opposition with the latter two variations. 

Game 3 gives a good example of Black’s counter-chances on the queenside, illustrating an unusual potential mating pattern.

“That is no country for old men” – W B Yeats.

So, in my old age, I started looking for a more sedate variation, hopefully where I would not be mated in under 25 moves (if only – I have actually achieved this in all four variations). This led me to the Taimanov, often called the flexible Sicilian, even The Safest Sicilian (Delchev and Semkov, 2006).

Finally, I did not lose my first game with this variation – it was a draw. The Taimanov is flexible for Black, but it also leaves White with many options. Game 4 shows how Black may succeed against one of the more ambitious attempts.

Part 3: Epilogue

I mentioned earlier that in the 1960s and 1970s I played fashionable Sicilian variations. Game 5 was also in vogue at the time, with theory developing quickly. Just how quickly I found out the hard way.

The main reason for including this game is that, to the best of my knowledge, it is the only one of my games to feature in two books – Chess Olympiad Nice 1974 (Keene and Levy, 1975) and The Najdorf Variation (Geller, Gligoric, Kavalek and Spassky, 1976). OK, I admit it – it does allow me to do some heavy namedropping. 

It is also a game of which I am proud – it was played in round 1 of the Scottish Championship of 1974 against my old schoolmate and eventual Scottish winner that year (and several others), Roddy McKay. Roddy had recently played in the Nice Olympiad and had seen at first hand the Levy-Garcia game, with its Nd5 sacrifice on move 18. The sacrifice had been played before, but Levy found an improvement at the board. I cannot recall how many minutes (maybe 40 or 50) I took over move 18, but it was just as well that we played 40 moves in two and a half hours in those days. I also discovered later that my 21st move improved upon previous theory.

Inspired by David Maycock’s theory that spending too much time looking at the board is inhibiting, we spent an evening playing chess in our heads … and our imaginations

John Foley

At our club night on Monday 28 March, we explored the theme of playing chess without looking at the board. The evening started with a talk from David Maycock on how he has been developing this technique over recent months. His argument is that if you can visualise the board, then calculating variations becomes much easier. As a simple example, when you are staring at the board and start to analyse a variation you might move a piece in your head but when that piece still remains in vision it interferes with the thought process and you falsely place it on its physical square rather than the square it moved to in your head.

The argument for blindfold chess would be convincing but for the reluctance of many people to give it a try. Hence, we prepared to overcome this reluctance by means of some simple exercises devised by Peter Lalić, who is also a becoming a proponent of the “no looking” approach to playing chess. Peter prepared exercises in which players were paired with each other to play blindfold a simple pawn game on a 3×3 board. This was then followed up by a pawn game on a 4×4 board. Of course, there were no boards – all the physical equipment was removed before the exercises.

It should also be pointed out that “blindfold” does not mean that the players were wearing a mask around their eyes but simply that they were not looking at a physical board. When Magnus Carlsen was featured playing a simultaneous display against players from corporate America, he wore a substantial blindfold. However, this was more to suit the cameras than out of necessity. It looks impressive, but the blindfold is not necessary.

Some of our leading club members suffer from aphantasia – the inability to form any mental images. Stephen Moss readily accepted that he suffers from a mild form of this affliction but did manage to get through the 3×3 game stage, although the 4×4 game was going too far and he lost comprehensively, choosing the wrong one of two possible pawn moves and seeing (or rather not seeing) his opponent clean up.

We had an interesting discussion about why many of the world’s top players get up from the board and wander about. Clearly they are still thinking about the game. Sometimes they return to the board only to make their move. Our inference is that the ability to visualise the game is an important indicator of chess strength. At some point in every game, a critical position is reached. It is necessary to carry out some serious analysis. In these circumstances, it must be a huge advantage to have a clear mental vision of the board in order to construct a variation tree. Strong players are invariably good at blitz chess – perhaps this quickness of vision is also related to their visualisation ability.

Vladimir Li recalled a point made by Jacob Aagaard, the Danish grandmaster and former British champion, in one of his books: that to be an efficient mental analyst you should not keep reverting to the current position. Instead, you should analyse ahead to the critical position and thereafter use that as the staging post for subsequent analysis of variations. It would be a significant advantage for a player to be looking ahead several moves not from the current position but from a future position derivable, perhaps through forced moves, from the current position.

The evening ended with a grand final of blindfold non-consulting pairs. This paired John Foley and David Maycock against Peter Lalić and Alan Scrimgour. The pairs were not permitted to talk to each other – only to give meaningful glances which could be misinterpreted. I have never played blindfold chess previously, so did not fancy our chances, but surprisingly managed to find some moves which were not terrible.

The four players sat alongside each other in a state of mental distress, with the display board behind us being operated by David Shalom and Vladimir Li. As we called out our moves, the assembled audience veered from fascination to amusement and finally admiration regarding the match. The game would not merit being featured on the Games section of the Kingston website but is a droll divertissement for the blog.

Annotating your own and other players’ games is a crucial part of helping you develop your analytical skills

John Foley

At the end of last year, Peter Lalić – one of Kingston’s highest-rated players – embarked on a series of blitz chess tournaments which saw him play an intense sequence of 45 Elo-rated games in six days. He performed extremely well and won the blitz tournament at the London Chess Classic on Sunday 5 December with an impressive 9.5/11, half a point ahead of Harry Grieve and two points ahead of grandmaster Keith Arkell, who was the top-rated entrant (2398). His overall performance exceeded his prior rating. We would (perhaps self-regardingly) like to attribute this to the new disciplines imposed by Kingston Chess Club – regular opponents and very detailed game analyses.

Peter was so exhausted by his week of top-level blitz that he mooted the idea of someone else annotating his games, all of which remarkably he was able to reconstruct from memory, and the club offered this opportunity to the members as a challenge. Here are three of the annotations that resulted: by the verging-on-master Michael Healey; by me, a strong club player; and by the rather more engine-dependent Stephen Moss. With only five minutes for each player, one cannot expect deep analysis, but nevertheless each game brings out some lessons.

The other aspect which is relevant is that Peter is averse to online chess and hence has not got into any bad habits. The theory is that, by taking chess seriously, even blitz moves are of higher quality: the surfeit of online blitz may lead to a routinised form of play. Time spent studying is more useful than mindless play, and time spent analysing and annotating is always time well spent.

Annotating a game tells two stories: the what happened and the what might have been. The first story is about how one player outwits their opponent at a critical juncture. One should not be tempted to present the moves with the benefit of hindsight – all moves are played under pressure and even an obvious move may require careful scrutiny. The second story is getting beneath the surface to carry out a post-mortem (or should that be post-ludum?) where we explore what might have been if only we had played differently. Each story is important to how we perceive a game, as we balance the conscious with the unconscious.

Annotation by Mike Healey

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Annotation by John Foley

I am acquainted with both players, having captained Matthew when he was a junior playing for my 4NCL team and having known Peter from when we played a memorable game in the Surrey League and subsequently since he joined Kingston Chess Club. Both are talented and even a blitz game between them is likely to be hard fought.

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Annotation by Stephen Moss

Uploading my games to a database for the first time has made my chess life flash before my squinting eyes. And it has not been a pretty sight

John Foley

I recently embarked on the task of uploading my games to a database for the first time. This has engendered the strange feeling of my life passing before my eyes as I scroll through the games. This life review experience is sometimes reported by people when they are falling from a height to their presumed death. One theory is that this is due to “cortical inhibition” – a breaking down of the normal regulatory processes of the brain – in highly stressful or dangerous situations, causing a “cascade” of mental impressions. Looking through my past games is stressful, indeed traumatic. I am recalling matters long since deliberately buried in the recesses of my memory. Twinges of regret are surfacing to remind me of my cognitive limitations (or, if I am being cruel to myself, stupidity).

This late-chess-life crisis all started after I had given John Nunn a lift to Ashtead for the Alexander Cup final, the Surrey team knockout championship, in 2018. In the pre-digital age, we had met in the London Under-14 championship and inevitably I had lost, but I couldn’t remember anything about the game. I went on to win the London Under-16 (ahead of a certain Jonathan Speelman) whereas at the same time John Nunn won the London Under-18. Given his prodigious talent, he won everything as a junior in England and had set his sights abroad. By the time I won the Oxford University Chess Club (OUCC) championship in 1976, he had a doctorate in mathematics and was well on his way to becoming a grandmaster.

As we wended our way back through the Surrey Hills, I nonchalantly mentioned that he was the reason I had given up chess. He seemed abashed at my unwonted revelation. I explained that it was apparent some people were so talented that there was no point in competing with them. On the principle of comparative advantage, I should spend my time doing something else. However, I was foolish; I had misinterpreted the data by observing only those around me – the “availability bias”. I had not twigged that I was amongst a special generation – two of my university contemporaries, John Nunn and Jonathan Speelman, were the core members of the England team that went on to win the silver medal at the Chess olympiads in 1984, 1986 and 1988, behind the mighty Soviet Union. I mentally placed chess in a box called “it was fun while it lasted” and embarked on a modelling career (not that sort of modelling!).

The Yugoslav Attack after 10.h4

Soon after our trip, John sent me the game we had played in the Under-14 championship in which I had succumbed to his Yugoslav Attack. I winced as I recalled my temerity in playing the Sicilian Dragon without having even read a book on it (although to be fair maybe one had not yet been written in English). The game is too embarrassing to show, at least if I am to retain any sense of dignity. What struck me was that Doccy (as Nunn is universally known in the chess community) had recorded, studied and still remembered every opponent and probably every game he had ever played. You don’t get into the top 10 players in the world by being casual; you need focused application.

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I recall a conversation with Mike Truran, progenitor of the 4NCL, the national chess league, just prior to his being ensconced as chief executive of the English Chess Federation (ECF). Over an entertaining lunch at the Fleece, his favourite hostelry in Witney, he casually mentioned that we had played in the university championships. “Oh really”, I enquired, “what happened?” He had won, he beamed. I could not recall the game, let alone the result. Nor could I remember my opponent, but I was too polite to mention this – he probably wasn’t as handsome then as he is now with a trimmed goatee. It turned out that Mike had also kept a careful record of all his encounters over the board. By contrast, in those days I had seen myself as being on the grand tour of intellectual self-discovery – and, dare I admit, romance – whilst occasionally conceding to the seductive charm of chess.

It is only in hindsight that one can make sense of disconnected comments. When I resumed chess after 25 years in the “real” world, I was playing in an evening league match next to Robin Haldane, the terrific and prolific suburban competitor, who informed me that I had beaten him in a “very nice game” in the London Under-14. This was the final proof that I was in the minority of players who treated the game without the respect it deserved. I should have been keeping a record of each game. Only thus would I be able to respond to Robin with some informed pleasantry such as “but you put up a stout defence”.

Yet I should have been forearmed. In the OUCC championships of 1975, I played Dominic Lawson, now a distinguished journalist and the esteemed president of the ECF. Dominic played a crisp, albeit obvious, combination to win. He was surprised to discover later that the combination had been included in a compilation book (presumably for beginners). As he recounted to ChessBase in 2014, and previously in Chess magazine in the 1980s, he was pleased by this recognition and cited it as his most memorable game.

White to play and win

Dominic Lawson v John Foley (Oxford University Championship, 1975)

Although not thrilled to be on the receiving end of a published combination, I drew some comfort from the dictum that it takes two players to make a game. It is only worth publishing moves in games where there is some reasonable opposition. I noted that my repertoire had moved on from the Sicilian to the French Defence, but I could still be crushed in both. My regret in reading Dominic’s article was not that I had lost to a cheapo (the move, not him), but that I could not lay my hands on the game in which I beat him the following year on my way to the championship title. I recall I played the Modern Benoni with the f5 flourish, as made famous by Jonathan Penrose, who beat the then world champion Mikhail Tal in the Leipzig Olympiad in 1960. If only I had had that game, I could have fashioned some riposte. Actually, I have not quite abandoned the last thread of hope, because there are still some storage boxes in the attic which have not been disinterred in decades.

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I fancied that a future biographer would write an encomium about how an average club player could, after years of apathy, apply himself intensively and become a grandmaster. This was more or less the theme of The Rookie, the book written by my Kingston colleague, and another contemporary at the OUCC, the Guardian writer Stephen Moss, which tracks his odyssey through chess (and life).

Yet subconsciously I had evolved almost the same attitude as Ken Inwood, one of Kingston’s strongest players for decades. Ken discards his scoresheet after each game in what appears to be a careless disregard for self-improvement. But then Ken does not have anything to prove, having won the London Under-14 and Under-18 titles before becoming the British Boys’ Champion at Hastings in 1953 and playing top board for England in the Glorney Cup. He has for many decades made a pilgrimage to the Hastings international tournament at the turn of each year to watch the top games with flask at the ready. There comes a stage when chess is played for pure enjoyment, win or lose.

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At least I had the foresight to hang on to these precious documents. Wads of distressed scoresheets have been strewn in drawers and stuffed into bookshelves. The process has begun of collating and painstakingly transcribing the moves of the games I can unearth into Hiarcs, the Mac-friendly chess database and engine. Some of my games were conveniently retrieved from doubly checked online databases such as 4NCL’s. That made me realise what a terrible written record I had kept of the moves.

Note on notation: the algebraic system gives rise to reflection errors when recording: a becomes h and b becomes g; 1 becomes 8 and 2 becomes 7 etc, so there is a lot of decoding required. One must play a game out until the moves no longer make sense and then reverse back to the last reflection. Descriptive notation largely precludes this sort of error. 

The main defect of transcription, however, cannot be cured by any notation system. The problem occurs towards the end of each game. When time is short, accuracy goes out the window. Distinguishing between moves and squiggles becomes impossible. In the worst case, when the remaining time drops below five minutes, it is no longer mandatory to record the moves. The end of the game is lost to history unless the opponent is obliging. Returning to a game years later, one plays through to a perfectly good position up to move 35 or so, but then the scoresheet puzzlingly records the game as a loss.

The advice for constructing personal game histories, learned late in my life, is to correct the scoresheet immediately after the game. Ideally, one should make some quick notes on the game – perhaps during the post-mortem analysis conducted by the players – and input the moves without delay.

The games I am currently inputting are from random dates in the past. I am up to game 150, which must be a tiny fraction of the games played in my chess “career”. The games are not of any theoretical importance, except that each game can trigger a personal memory or give rise to a newly perceived finesse with potential instructive value. A game fitting this latter category was one I played as Black against Martin Gruau in a Surrey v Kent county match in 2018. After a hard-fought and complex game, we reached the following position. I was so sure I was winning, and the move so obvious, that I did not think I needed to calculate my next move.

Black to play and win

Martin Gruau v John Foley. Surrey v Kent, 27 January 2018

Like anybody else who has been striving for victory for five hours at the board in a chilly community hall, I was exhausted, but finally the win was within my grasp. In the diagram, Black is playing down the board. My king had advanced and pushed my opponent’s king to the back rank. I could capture the a3 pawn and then saunter over to pick up the h6 pawn, whilst the white king had to deal with the passed a4 pawn. I should be able to shoulder off the white king if it tried to race over to stop the h pawn. This much was clear and there was no need to consider any other plan. So I played 70 … Kxa3? There followed 71 Ka1! I followed my ill-thought plan and we reached this position after Black’s 75th move.

White to play and draw

I was on track but my opponent seemed confident, which was rather worrying- wasn’t he supposed to resign? I finally began to put my brain in gear and realised that I had sleepwalked into a draw. The final position is shown below. The black king is forced to the edge and cannot escape without allowing the white king to reach the drawing square h8. Dagnabbit! I dealt with the anguish by the technique of instant forgetfulness – the nostrum of choice for the disappointed player.

Drawn

So as I was inputting and reviewing the game again, I noticed something surprising. I had been right to believe that I had a winning move in the opening diagram position. The finesse is to refrain from capturing the a3 pawn! I had played a pedestrian move, failing to recognise that I was standing at a crossroads. During a game one is not presented with a caption “white to play and win” which would immediately raise the level of awareness.

The crucial point is that if Black captures the a3 pawn, then the white king is given a shortcut to Black’s a4 pawn via a2 in two moves instead of the long way round via c3 and b4 in three moves. In an endgame, a tempo can make all the difference. White gains a move to advance and promote the h pawn. Black should have been counting tempi rather than material. In fact, in the diagram, remove the a3 pawn and white still draws a pawn down. A common error and one which the diligent student of the game should have been able to figure out. There may be many more such gems yet to be recovered from the past.

Reverting to the classic lunch at the Fleece (or should that be the Golden Fleece), Mike Truran, who studied languages at Oxford, vouchsafed to me a line from the Aeneid: forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Classical scholars still debate the precise translation, but one interpretation is: “Someday, perhaps, it will help to remember those troubles as well.” The positive take on this aphorism is that, far from forgetting unpleasant experiences, we should instead wait and integrate them into our personal experience when we are ready. There will come a point when we confront adversity and feel more complete for doing so. The more I review my historical games collection, the more I understand the narrative of my life.

Photo credits: Sophie Triay (Mike Truran); Linda Nylind (Stephen Moss); Brendan O’Gorman (Robin Haldane)

Covid and its attendant lockdowns have seen a boom in online chess. Now some of this new generation of internet aficionados are looking to join real, live chess clubs. Here we offer a beginner’s guide to making that all-important move

Ljubica Lazarevic

Did you take up chess during the pandemic? Were you inspired by the phenomenally popular Netflix series The Queen’s Gambit? Finding yourself wiling away the hours on chess.com and contemplating your next steps? Then look no further, we’ve got you covered. In this blogpost we’ll outline what to expect when you decide to dip your toe into the world of “over the board” (OTB) chess at your local club.

Step 1: Finding a local chess club

There are many chess clubs in the UK, and indeed around the world. Your first step could be using your favourite web search engine to see if there’s a chess club in the town you live in. You’ll also discover there are many social chess gatherings springing up in libraries, pubs and other social areas. If you’re looking to just keep it friendly, have a chat and meet new people, then these are likely to be a great fit for you. If you’re looking for something more serious, then you’ll find a “proper” chess club will fit the bill.

If you don’t find something in your immediate area, have a look at your country’s national chess federation website. They will typically have a resource for finding chess clubs near you. For example, on the English Chess Federation website, you can use their “find a chess club” tool.

For those of you who are parents of children who are looking to play chess, do be aware there are chess clubs who specialise in having junior members. Many other clubs will be happy to have chess-enthusiastic children visit the club, provided there is a parent or guardian in tow.

Step 2: Visiting the club

So you’ve identified some clubs you’re going to go visit. Great work! Before popping down to the club, be sure to make contact ahead of time. Especially during this uncertain Covid period, you need to make sure there’ll be someone there to greet you. For smaller clubs, they may have home and/or away matches (more on that later), and the night you’re intending to visit, there may be nobody at the venue there to say hi, or lots of people there who are in the middle of a game and too preoccupied to give you the time of day – a common problem in chess clubs. Once you’ve got confirmation that the club is meeting, pop on over and check it out.

Step 3: Figuring out if this is right for you

Pretty much every club will be happy to accommodate your first few visits to make sure the club is a good fit for you. There will rarely be any expectation for you to pay up for membership on your first visit. However, chess clubs have many financial obligations to keep running, such as paying rental for the venue, and buying, maintaining and replacing chess equipment. This was before the additional burdens of the pandemic. If you do decide the club you’re visiting is a great fit for you and you want to keep coming, don’t forget to ask (and promptly pay!) your membership subs. Also, many chess clubs will be in pub/club function rooms. Please be a thoughtful guest, and also buy a drink or two from behind the bar on your way up to the chess room.

Differences between internet chess and over-the-board chess

There are some significant differences between internet chess and playing over the board. Let’s look at some of these, and explain each one in turn.

A slower pace
Unlike playing a three-minute “blitz” game on sites such as chess.com, you’ll notice that games tend to be somewhat slower, even the friendlies. There are just more moving parts (literally!) as well as the risk of knocking things over, and just generally it seems like it takes a little bit more time to take in the physical board. Enjoy the moment.

Use of clocks
A big difference you’ll find is the introduction of clocks. We are very spoilt when playing chess on the internet: yes we have to be conscious of time, but all we have to do is make our move, and the server handles all of the other details for us. Not so with over-the-board chess. You will most likely be using a digital clock, and you’ll have to remember to press the button each time you play your move. Don’t be afraid to ask someone how to set up and use the clocks. Good clock etiquette is to press the clock with the hand that touched the piece, and don’t make a move until your opponent has pressed his or her clock.

Quieter during longer games
For longer time controls (ie longer than blitz) you’ll find that it will be quieter during games, and there won’t be much opportunity to chat. Typically it is good etiquette to not speak to your opponent (or your neighbours) whilst longer games are taking place. Once the games are over, it’s always good fun (and an excellent way to improve your chess) to go through your game with your opponent. In chess parlance, this is called a post mortem, though the hope is that no one has died.

Writing down the moves
Another gift internet chess gives us is to automatically record the moves we make during the game. Much like the clock, another thing required of us in certain types of game (when teams from different clubs are playing each other, for instance, in games that will be officially rated – see under league chess below) is the need to write down moves. The notation used worldwide to record chess games is called algebraic notation. As well as checking out the provided link, if you’re not sure ask at the chess club and it can be explained to you. Whilst you can buy a scorebook (stationery to write your games in), most clubs will provide you with a scoresheet to record your game.

Touch move
Another key concept used in over-the-board chess, especially in the formal setting of a chess club, is touch move. The idea is simple – if you touch a piece, you must move it (unless moving that piece would result in an illegal move). Similarly, once you’ve let go of a piece, the move is complete. Don’t panic if you’re new to chess/new to over-the-board chess, for friendlies you will very likely be accommodated for a few bloopers until you get into the swing of things. However, once the serious chess starts, you’ll be held to touch move.

The handshake
It is polite to shake your opponents hand before and after the conclusion of the match (even if wasn’t the ending you were expecting …). In these Covid times, you’re not expected to continue this practice, and indeed, fist pumps, elbow bumps, toe taps, or just a nod and a wave will suffice. Whilst the handshake may not be in use, its sentiment is still there.

Getting competitive – league chess

A common activity at most chess clubs is getting involved in league chess. As the name suggests, these are leagues typically involving clubs located in the same area/region, duking it out across different divisions. Most of these league matches tend to take place in the evenings during the week. There are a few variations depending on where you play, but typically the following will stand for most clubs:

Team chess
Most leagues consist of a number of players making up a team. Typically there can be anything from six to 10 players per team per match (though county teams can be ever larger than that). Whilst chess is very much an individual person’s sport, it’s all about the teamwork when it comes to league matches. Sometimes you might need to subordinate your individual requirements to the team’s needs: accepting a draw to secure a match, for example, even though you are pretty sure you can win the game. The team’s needs come first, so why take the risk you might lose when the draw that seals the match is there for the taking?

Rated games
Most chess federations use an Elo-based rating system for games. This is used to measure a player’s strength, and is used for determining what the team order is for a match. For this, most clubs will require you to have membership of the national chess federation, eg in England you need to be a member of the English Chess Federation (ECF). As a condition of this, you will also be expected to write your moves down. An advantage of being a member of the ECF is that you will also be able to play in weekend tournaments and other events.

Long games
Whilst each league will have variations in how long a game is, they will likely be significantly longer than you’re used to when playing online. For example, each player could be allocated around 75 to 120 minutes each per game. In addition, with the advent of digital chess clocks, each player may be allocated what is called an increment per move. For example, if each player has an increment of 10 seconds, that means each time they complete a move, an additional 10 seconds will be added to their clock. If this all sounds complicated, don’t worry – it’s pretty straightforward. If you’re playing your very first competitive match, your team-mates will be on hand to help show you the ropes. Scoring and managing the clock are be a little unsettling at first, but you will soon get the hang of it and come to terms with the rhythm of over-the-board play. It is vital not to play too fast: try to get into a good position and then you will find good moves flow naturally. There is no point having oodles of time left on the clock if you lose. It’s a contest, not a race, and tortoises often beat hares.

Home and away matches
Much like football and rugby leagues, in chess leagues you have home and away matches. Most chess clubs will have a regular club night, and these will typically cover scheduled home matches. Some leagues will guarantee all teams will have home matches; for others it will be the toss of the coin. For more rural locations, it is common for clubs to organise car pooling to help get team members around to the matches. In more urban areas, people often make their way directly to a match after work, usually powered by public transport or in their own vehicle.

Wrapping it up

We’ve given a broad overview of how to take your next steps from the online world of chess into the physical, but this only scratches the surface. Your friendly chess club will be able to fill in the gaps, and if there’s something you want to know more about, feel free to add a comment or a question on this blog and we’ll get back to you. Good luck with making the move from the virtual chess world to woodpushing reality.