The Next Chess Team: A Novel

By James H. Sawaski

Jim Berzchak has a brilliant mind for chess, yet nerves and fatigue stop his playing ambitions. Simply put, hes afraid to lose. However, from coaching his first team, the Escanaba Eskimos, he realizes there is security in numbers. Now employed as a small town high school teacher, he tries coaching again and is pleasantly surprised to have some girls on the chess team, something unheard of in the past. Everything goes great for awhile.

Mona Jones, the grandmother of one of the boys decides to take a more active role in the chess team. Her influence creates advantages for the boys. They become much stronger at the game than the girls. A rift develops the boys become bullies the team splits in two. Friends become bitter rivals someone must lose. Jims fatigue is worse than ever. Other school activities and caring for his four year old son who cant speak yet drain his energy. He trains the girls for one last shot against Mona and the boys. Will he prove to everyone that girls really can play chess? Or will Mona and the boys capitalize on Jims fears and knock him out of chess forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475924268

James H. Sawaski

James H. Sawaski is an accomplished chess player and coach and has played the ‘Royal Game’ passionately since he was seven years old. In 2007, he became the U.S. Open Correspondence Chess Champion by winning the prestigious Electronic Knights tournament sponsored by the United States Chess Federation.

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Copyright © 2012 by James H. Sawaski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2425-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2426-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908358

iUniverse rev. date: 05/08/2012

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Dedicated to my wife Kathleen and sons R.J. and Henry

Acknowledgments

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I would like to thank Tyler Tichelaar for his excellent editing services. Howard Goldowsky and Andy Catlin for technical and moral support. John Asumaa and Steve Mohar for various help and ideas throughout the years. FM Alex Dunne for a solid proof read. My wife Kathleen who takes the greatest care a husband could ask for—without her help, my time for writing and chess would be nearly non-existent. And the biggest thank you—to the Lord Jesus for making all things possible.

Chapter One

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An ugly pattern formed on the chessboard. In six moves, Jim’s king would be surrounded. Seconds ticked away on a two-faced chess clock. A fleeting look at the score sheet made his teeth grit. Routs don’t happen in championship games.

Jeff Logan, the most talented player from the old Escanaba Eskimos team, was the opponent. His sturdy body leaned forward on the chair, chin atop fists. Pressed clothes were taut; shiny black shoes covered his feet. A dark blue pen with the words MICHIGAN STATE POLICE rested on the table’s edge.

What move do I make? Jim stared at the board. Broken plan after broken plan congested his mind. Intuition failed. Another championship gone; with it my Neo-Indian Defense. The system took thousands of hours to perfect. Countless advantages had been wrought. All but done for when this game hits print. A wristwatch chimed across the room. Pans and other kitchen noises rattled through the wall. How did this happen in only half an hour? The air conditioner above shut off with an abrupt jerk. Thin arms shivered underneath his denim work shirt. Something’s not right.

Dozens of tables covered the banquet room floor. Row after row of players studied their games. At the back of the room, a busboy filled carafes with ice water. Dvoretsky would recommend a walk. Jim stood up, empty cup in hand. Plush carpeting squished against his tennis shoes. Different games flashed in and out of sight. All hack jobs, and I’d play every one of them over my own. Why can’t I think?

Ice cubes sloshed inside the cup. Jim returned to his seat. Stale air squeaked out of the cushion. Long fingers strained through short graying hair. A sharp breath hung in his chest. The walk failed? The walk never fails. I wish Sandy were here. Start from the beginning. Where did things go wrong? Think!

Experience and a tough playing style staved off defeat in the early rounds. One expert called Jim’s fourth round game a junk win. I’m better than that. Logan’s pieces menaced the view. The squares on the board blurred into one big mess. Jim looked up and met his opponent’s firm eyes. Yep, he knows. Kid cost me a championship back then; now he’s taking this one. Did he have to wreck the Neo?

I offer a draw, Logan said.

Jim’s head pumped back. Give me a moment to think about it. The fuzziness cleared. Accurate calculations flowed. I knew I could play. Minutes ticked. Confidence waned. Each hand rested on a knee. I have nothing! Why did he offer a draw?

A draw meant a tie for the title. The Solkoff tiebreak formula would go into effect; a single winner calculated. Wow, I would take the title by a sliver. The room’s lights shined only on Logan.

Word spread. Kibitzers gathered. Whispers insulted the air. These kinds of things don’t happen to me.

I can’t take your championship, Jim said.

The kibitzers buzzed.

I have no problem sharing, Logan said.

Championships can’t be shared!

One kibitzer hovered sideways over the table. A small version of the chessboard reflected upside down in his bifocals. Would the rest of them like to sit on my lap too?

I owe you, Logan said. Face it; if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. Nobody in this room has your chess strength.

You do, Jim said.

Logan grinned and rubbed his chin.

You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you? Jim asked.

Yes, sir.

I can’t be washed up. Jim folded the score sheet in half. Did he mature that much—so he could give away a championship? He doesn’t have to be sorry about the past. Jim checked the time and scribbled a message. With a headshake, he folded the sheet into a small rectangle. Why did he demolish the Neo? How did he demolish the Neo?

Hey, Lurch, Jim said to the leaning kibitzer. Hang onto this.

Lurch simpered and pinched the score sheet.

Can I ask one thing before I accept a draw? Jim asked.

Yes, sir.

Would you let me buy the celebration dinner, steaks? We could catch up on old times. I’m not heading back north until tomorrow.

Logan nodded. I was thinking the same thing; it’s been over ten years. My wife is visiting her parents with the kids.

I agree, so you know what I must do next, Jim said and reached for his king.

At the same time, Logan’s arm sprung forward at his own king. A kibitzer covered his mouth. The tournament director walked up and caught sight of the motions. Logan’s king hit the chessboard. Jim’s did the same right after.

I resign. Congratulations, Logan said.

Sorry; beat you to it.

No, Jim, the tournament director said. I do believe his king made contact first. You win the game.

Doesn’t matter.

The tournament director chewed at his lip. Green eyes bulged. I’m in charge here, and I saw what happened. Don’t either of you want to win? Jim is the champion!

He’s right, Logan said.

Does that look like a title winning position?

There’ll be more titles.

I agree, which is why I can’t take this one.

I’m not going to tell you guys again, the tournament director said. This is pointless; Jim wins!

Everyone stared, lungs suspended. The air conditioner hummed back into action. Jim waved to Lurch. Give the boss the sheet.

Lurch blinked twice and handed the paper over. Fold by fold, the tournament director opened it. Cheek muscles tensed. A look at the chess clock pried his mouth open. The sheet slipped from his grip and wafted to the table. Jeff Logan, you are Michigan’s official state champion. Congratulations. Now, this is the final result! Knuckles rapped the table and he left.

Logan chuckled. Kibitzers argued.

How come Logan wins? I saw his king fall first, a kibitzer asked.

Lurch put his index finger on the sheet and read the message out loud, I resign my position at 4:55 according to my chess clock. Signed—Berzchak. He eyeballed the clock. 4:58, huh.

It’s been a long time, Mr. B; you are going to let me buy the steaks, aren’t you? Logan extended a hand.

Mr. Walters always insisted that the winner buys the victory meal. Jim shook hands. Go get your trophy, trooper, and let’s see how life has been for you. I sure hope it’s been good because mine without the Neo-Indian Defense sure feels over.

Chapter Two

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The steel pillars of the Mackinac Bridge reached high into the air. Unshakable support cables loomed over Jim’s sedan. Two lanes covered the road; one concrete, the other a mesh of weatherproof iron. The turquoise waters of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron swirled below. To the east, the white of the Grand Hotel gleamed atop Mackinac Island.

At the north end, the driving lanes widened and led to tollbooths. Jim lowered his window. A cool damp wind nearly blew the money out of his hand. Hello, Upper Michigan. A green light flickered; a crossbar rose.

Along the highway, sand dunes and red pines gave way to cedar trees and swamps. Side brush became thick. Two whitetail deer foraged on the shoulder of the road. Society shrank in the rearview mirror. After seven hours of driving, the final stretch required only one more.

Memories of the steak dinner occupied Jim’s mind. An urge for chess knowledge festered. Not asking for help was the right thing to do. The Neo is my problem. It sure hurts though. The conversation had revolved around life until Logan paid the bill.

I’m starting a new chess program at Grand Rapids High School. I was hoping you’d do the same in Newberry. A friendly rivalry would make for a better adventure.

At the time, Jim had shrugged. Sure, he breaks my playing ability and then suggests I coach. Logan’s words repeated. I knew he was up to something, but what? He’s a cop. I’m a home economics teacher. What the heck kind