The End of an Era

Well, it's official. Thursday night was my final visit to the Waitemata Chess Club for the foreseeable future. I have decided to quit competitive chess. To your average, non-chess-playing fellow, this statement probably seems inconsequential. But for me, it's a big deal, because I've been playing chess very regularly for the past 13 years. I've steadily improved my game over that time. I'm quite proud of the level that I'm at. But now it's time to take a break. There are two main reasons for my decision:

1) Other priorities. Playing chess to a reasonable standard requires a lot of study. Recently, I started to question whether the payoff was worth the investment of time and effort. There's only one reason to continually improve your game, and that is the thrill of winning. Not so long ago, I tried to tell myself that winning and losing mean nothing to me, and that my only desire in chess is to further my understanding of the game. Now, can that really be true? As Stefan Zweig put it in his classic novella The Royal Game, chess is "thought that leads nowhere, mathematics that add up to nothing, art without an end product, architecture without substance." So, was I looking to further my understanding of the game because chess is a good subject to know a lot about? Seems a bit unlikely. The motivation to improve has to come from a desire to win. And this brings me to my second reason.

2) Lack of motivation. I think my competitive nature has waned in recent years. Especially in the chess arena. This might be because I've gotten what I needed out of competitive chess. I proved to myself that I have what it takes to be a good player. Now it's as if there's no reason for me to be putting myself through a stressful battle of wits where, as Charles Krauthammer put it in his essay Did Chess Make Him Crazy?, "the essence of the game is constant struggle against an adversary who, by whatever means of deception and disguise, is entirely, relentlessly, unfailingly dedicated to your destruction."

When I was younger, I wondered how possible it was to become a professional chess player. The more experienced players I kept company with said the opportunities were there if you lived in England, or Europe, or the US, but not in New Zealand. The game just isn't popular enough here. For me though, there's a further reason why I could never make it as a professional chess player. I don't have enough of the killer instinct. When he was young, Bobby Fischer was asked why he played chess. He replied, "I like to see them squirm." He also once said during an interview, "I like the moment when I break a man's ego." If this kind of outlook is what's needed to become a great player, then I am seriously lacking the goods.

There's no doubt that becoming a master requires a certain amount of obsessiveness. George Steiner once wrote, "A chess genius is a human being who focuses vast, little-understood mental gifts and labours on an ultimately trivial human enterprise. Almost inevitably, this focus produces pathological symptoms of nervous stress and unreality." Ultimately trivial human enterprise? The same could be said about rugby, cricket, golf - in fact pretty much any sport. The difference is though that these sports draw the crowds. So the money-making potential is far greater. But getting back to chess and obsessiveness. As I see it, the obsessiveness arises from a relentless need to be the best. The problem is, there's always going to be someone better. Which means that the quest is neverending.

The president of my now ex-chess club has a constant need to prove that he's the best. Just a couple of nights ago, he caused a ruckus while playing a blitz game against a fellow club member. As it was a handicap blitz tourney, Mr. President, Bob, started the game with two minutes on the clock, while his opponent, John, had five. Not surprisingly, Bob got short of time, but the position was drawn and moves were being repeated over and over. However, since there is nothing in the rules about blitz games being subject to the three-fold repetition of position rule, John played on, hoping to win on time. It was at this point that the commotion started.

"Draw!" said Bob, in a raised voice. John played on. "Hey everybody, John's trying to win on time in a drawn position," said Bob, seemingly trying to get back at John by discrediting his reputation. John played on. "Come on, take the draw, be a sport John," said Bob. "No," said John. Bob lost on time. He then got up from the table in a huff, and ranted about lack of fair play for the next few minutes.

Might this behaviour be signs of an addiction to winning? People can become addicted to anything that provides pleasure or stimulation. I guess I stuck with chess for so long because playing and winning gave me a high. These days, the intensity of that high has reduced considerably. If I suddenly forgot all my chess knowledge, would I feel compelled to learn and become good at chess all over again? Difficult to say. My competitive nature is not what it used to be, so perhaps a reduced motivation to win would likewise reduce my motivation to improve my play. How to inject some spark back into chess playing? I know...


Back in the early '70s, many Americans became interested in chess because of the world championship match between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky. Chess became a metaphor for the Cold War conflict between the US and the USSR, and when Fischer won the world championship, patriotic Americans everywhere felt as if their superiority over the Russians had been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Maybe if there was a big, dramatic chess story in the news headlines, it would rekindle my interest in chess. Until then, I will treat chess as nothing more than an interesting pastime.