Chess Champion to Japanese Plumber
I placed my queen on a1 and felt a cold sweat begin to trickle down my fingers. I had waited weeks for this moment and with one more move, I was about to enter an elite field of chess greatness. I continued to stare intently at the rosewood board, waiting for Dean Franklin to make his only move. I had executed the perfect prophylaxis (yes, it’s actually a chess move and not some grotesque medication used for irregular bowel movements) and now I was about to become the school district’s blitz chess champion. Rook to a2.
“Checkmate!” I shouted.
Dean reluctantly laid down his king in surrender and after a mumbled “Congratulations,” marched off stage.
I imagine he felt somewhat embarrassed and not because he waddled like an oversized penguin. I mean, who wears a tuxedo to a chess match, but that’s beside the point. Next fall, Dean would be attending Brown University and I would be entering the seventh grade.
I was busy picturing the headlines in the local newspaper - Ivy Leaguer loses chess match to twelve year old, when Nolan leaped on my back. Nolan was my best friend and, unfortunately, my lone supporter in the scarcely filled auditorium.
“Dude, you didn’t blow it!” Nolan followed his remark with a playful shove and the M.I.T. salute.
Even though I should probably keep this under wrap, Nolan and I are cofounders of the most prestigious underground society since the Freemasons. It’s known as the Masters in Training, M.I.T. for short, and even though we currently only have two members, ourselves included, we’re hoping to expand soon.
I returned the official salute and said with a hint of uncertainty, “There was never a doubt in my mind.”
Nolan smiled and was quick to remind me, “You do realize that this trophy is partially mine.”
I glanced around and took an extended look at the perennial trophy. The elevated golden cup glistened in the reflection of the bright stage lights and in a short while, it would be inscribed with my name: Aidan Alexander Webb. Nolan was right though. He deserved just as much recognition as I did. After all, M.I.T. was his idea.
Nolan’s comment brought me back two years to a sweltering summer day in the middle of August. We were enjoying a refreshing pitcher of cherry limeade inside our tree house (the tree house is not actually in a tree because Nolan’s afraid of heights) when Nolan brought up the idea of creating a secret society.
“I think we should start a club. A secret club that no one knows about. This could be our command center.” He started to pace the room like he was deep in thought. “It can’t be one of those silly clubs though. No girls. And it needs a purpose.”
I giggled at Nolan’s outburst and suggested, “We should probably come up with a name first. Societies have names. You know, like the Order of the Phoenix.”
“Oh … like in the Harry Potter series,” confirmed Nolan, who had started scribbling in his spiral bound notebook. Without looking up he added, “How about the Society of Remarkable People?”
Considering Nolan’s apparent lack of self-modesty, I knew he was partially serious and answered, “You could create your own club and name it the Society of Dimwits.” Before giving him time to heckle a reply, I quickly continued, “But seriously, we should think of something original. It shouldn’t have words like society or club in it.”
Nolan placed his notebook on the table and, with a most serious face, whispered, “We could always refer to ourselves as the Lactose Intolerants.” He was referring to my slight issue with dairy products. Need I say more? In typical Nolan fashion, he self-vetoed his own idea. “In reconsidering, our tree house is not equipped with the plumbing to handle your bathroom needs.”
I could have easily continued our banter but in a moment of sheer genius I shrieked, “We should become masters. You know … like … Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master.”
Nolan clearly had no idea where I was going with this because he sarcastically replied, “Great idea. Maybe we can buy lightsabers and battle the treacherous Darth Vader.”
“No, not like that,” I said. “We could train ourselves to become masters.”
Nolan was losing patience and with an edge to his voice uttered, “Nope. Still don’t get it.”
I tried to choose my next words carefully, as to avoid another Nolan tirade, and patiently said, “We could choose something. Anything. And try to become …”
Before I even finished my sentence, Nolan leaped out of his chair and yelled, “Wait … you mean we could train ourselves to be masters in something. We could be the Masters in Training.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now we just need to figure out what we can master.”
After bouncing around a few ideas and reconfirming the fact that we were pretty much talentless, M.I.T. took a back seat for several weeks. Its future looked rather bleak until I received a middle of the night broadcast on my walk talkie from Nolan.
“Bravo. This is Alpha. Meet me at the command center at zero two hundred. Over”
Half asleep, I groggily muttered, “Zero two what?”
I guess Nolan was speaking in military code because he shouted, “Tree House. 2 o’clock.”
When I reached the fort, Nolan was sitting crossed legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by board games. He stared up at me and announced, “This is what we’re going to master.”
“Board games?” I chuckled. “What are you? A spokesperson from Hasbro Toys? I’m going back to bed.”
“Wait,” he called. “Let me explain. I was doing some research, right, and next weekend there is a Risk tournament at the Downtown Silver Spring Mall. And get this; winner takes home $1,000 dollars. It’s free to enter and if we practice, we could win.”
“$1,000 dollars!” I contemplated for a nanosecond. “You have my complete attention.”
Nolan and I spent the entire week discussing Risk tactics and game play. If you’re not familiar with only the greatest game ever created, let me debrief you. The purpose is to try and conquer the world. You’re randomly assigned countries and you place your men accordingly. Then you roll dice to attack other players, hopefully earning more reinforcements in the process. We had carefully designed several strategies, each allowing us to prove victorious no matter which continent we conquered first. Needless to say, at week’s end, we were both $500 dollars richer.
After our brief stint with global domination, we moved on to other board games, like Monopoly and Trouble. My personal favorite was Connect Four but financially, it made more sense to compete in multiple player games - the more tournament entries, the higher the grand prize. In just under eight months, Nolan and I had earned a surplus of $4,500 dollars, which includes business expenses.
Anyway, for the past three months, we directed all our efforts towards blitz chess. It is a bit more intense than regular chess. You only have five minutes to complete all your moves and you get to smack a clock with your opponent’s chess pieces. Our efforts clearly paid off.
Well … not at first. You see, besides reading boring chess books and playing online, Nolan and I thought we should get some firsthand experience. This involved taking a bus into Baltimore, hitching a cab to the inner harbor and making our way to a chess hangout near Federal Park Hill.
Besides a great view and the occasional volleyball match on Rash Field, our adventures allowed us to play some of Baltimore’s most outstanding citizens. This ranged from Timothy Stenson, a twenty-eight year old medical student who couldn’t grow facial hair, to Paddle Boat Mike, who, I’m pretty sure, lived on top of Federal Park Hill.
During our first trip into Baltimore, Paddle Boat explained that each match included a five dollar payout to the winner. Unfortunately, he forgot to include how amazing he was at chess. He swindled us out of a hefty sum and we barely had enough money for the bus ride home. During our next trip though, we brought our own chess board and decided to take our revenge on some unsuspecting tourist.
“Please put your hands together for Aidan Webb - this year’s winner of the Hillsboro Regional Blitz Chess Championship.” The sound of the tournament director’s voice clued me back into reality. Just in time too. While he was making his announcement, a slim man with hairy knuckles handed me the first place trophy. It would have certainly capsized me if Nolan hadn’t grabbed the other end.
Since I could hardly lift it, Nolan volunteered to bring it to my locker with the promise that the trophy be showcased at the M.I.T. command center. How could I refuse? It was either that or leave it on stage.
As we strolled down the half lit corridor that connected the high school auditorium to our stomping ground, Hillsboro Middle School, Nolan casually asked, “So, are you going to compete again next year?”
I smiled and encouragingly announced, “We’re going to compete again next year and we’re going to match wits in the finals.”
This seemed to reassure Nolan, who had lost in the 3rd round to a scrawny redhead with neon green braces. Throughout the day, I kept reminding him that winning two matches was quite impressive. After all, we were the only sixth graders allowed to compete in the tournament. It was only meant for players from the local high schools but the tournament director made an exception for us. Actually, he didn’t have a choice. Nolan has a very persuasive father: Senior Senator from Maryland, Richard E. Lewiston.
Nolan placed the trophy at my locker and with a wave of his hand, scurried off to last period. I wanted to remind him that I needed help bringing it on the bus but he had already turned the corner.
I finally managed to lift the trophy into the front lip of my locker when someone behind asked, “Need some help with that?”
I turned around to the horrific sight of Shiko, a 5’10’’ behemoth who looked like she had been raised in a ludus with a bunch of barbaric gladiators. Her presence was reinforced by her unwavering entourage, all of whom were equally as frightening.
“I … I think I can manage,” I stuttered.
“Please, it would be my pleasure.” Shiko grabbed my trophy and before I knew it, began twirling it around like a weightless tea cup.
“Come on,” I pleaded. “Can I please have it back?” Wrong choice of words. Never beg a bully!
“Oh, Aidan wants his trophy back.” Shiko proceeded to forcibly shove the trophy into my chest. My plunge to the floor left me gasping for air with no means of escape.
In the midst of endless laughter, one of Shiko’s friends suggested that I needed to cool off. I began crawling away but Shiko hoisted me upright and declared, “You’re coming with us.”
“Do I have a choice?” I asked, still wheezing for air. No one replied so I took that as a no. Shiko’s momentum brought me across the hall to the entrance of the nearest girl’s bathroom.
“You have to be kidding me,” I yelled. “You can’t bring me in there. Shiko, I… I mean, Amber. Mom would not be pleased with this!” Did I mention that she was my sister? Eh, touchy subject.
“Aidan, did you just call me Shiko?” growled Amber. “Now you’re really in for it.”
Shiko was the Japanese sumo wrestling term for stomping one’s leg. It was also my way of reminding my sister of her overly plump physique.
Amber brought me directly into a stall and I was now face to face with a not so clean toilet. I knew all hope was lost so I decided to go down with dignity.
“Hey, Shiko,” I yelled loudly, “I bet if I put some Twinkies in there, you’d go bobbing for them!”
What followed next was the world’s wettest swirly. My head went into the toilet. Shiko flushed the toilet. My head was removed from the toilet and then placed back into the toilet. I lost count after the sixth flush but I must admit; my ears had never felt cleaner.
On her way out, Shiko reminded me, “If you tell mom or dad, I’m going to kill you.”
I gave her the thumbs up but it didn’t matter. She knew that I would never tell because there was no one to tell.
You see, our parents were a little absentminded of us but mostly because they’re workaholics. Our dad, who blessed me with my undersized frame and high-pitched voice, was currently digging in the Middle East, searching for the next Rosetta Stone. Good luck with that! While he explored the realms of ancient civilizations, I was left outlining strategies for my next War of Warcraft campaign. Video games were great for entertainment but not for escaping the tortures of an older sister.
With my dad away, my mom spent all her waking hours in her office at Georgetown University. She was a professor of medieval literature, which I have found to be both traumatizing and embarrassing. While some families said grace before enjoying the comforts of a home cooked meal, our household was required to recite versus of medieval classics in Old English.
Speaking of embarrassing. I had spent the remainder of last period crouched inside a girl’s bathroom stall, waiting until I was certain everyone had left and the hallway was clear.
Upon my exit, the only person left in the corridor was Nolan, who was sitting at my locker. He was holding the trophy, which had surprisingly survived the mishap in one piece.
Nolan looked me over. “Shiko?” he asked.
“Yup! And paybacks a comin’!”
