Healy - Coffeehouse Chess Tactics

Coffeehouse Chess Tactics

John Healy

Coffeehouse Chess Tactics

New In Chess 2010

To the memory of Harry the Fox

2010 John Healy

Published by New In Chess, Alkmaar, The Netherlands

www.newinchess.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission from the publisher.

Cover design: DOG AND PONY

Supervisor: Peter Boel

Proofreading: Ren Olthof

Production: Anton Schermer

ISBN: 978-90-5691-328-1

Blood Sport

Gross and uncultured, half a barbarian, he seemed at first a worse lieutenant than either Furius or Cossinus. So Lavinia remembered standing dishevelled and dusty, but still with beauty upon her, in the presence of the slave who had shaken Rome.

Spartacus

In one of my earliest games of chess I had the misfortune one evening to be matched against the former expert international, and triple winner of the Essex county title, Mike Wills. I managed to take him to a king and pawn ending and was therefore peeved to eventually lose. Reluctantly resigning I told him, You are no Master, you just wait for a blunder. So thats what makes a Master, well you just wait and youll be a master too, replied Mike kindly. Im still waiting! But patience is a mighty weapon that can be used and wielded by a chess player. With ordinary talent and extraordinary perseverance all things are possible

It was Christmas 1971. I was just finishing a twelve month sentence in Pentonville prison, when Harry Collins, a burglar known as the Brighton Fox, asked me one day if I knew how to play chess. When I said no, he said, Why dont you learn? On a chessboard you can do all that you do now without getting nicked for it. What else is it but breaking and entering when you force your way into your opponents castled position, hijack his pieces, steal his pawns, abduct his queen and kill his king in broad daylight? With nothing better to do, I gave it a try, little knowing it was to alter my life. Whether in here or outside, everyone is striving for happiness, total absorption in someone or something; and chess supplied this total state free of charge. For hours I became completely intoxicated on this new brandy, its meditation of moves, losing consciousness of my surroundings, totally immersed, undistracted by cold or hunger, heat or thirst. What magic!

Its a pity more people in here dont know the bliss inherent in chess, I said to Harry. Are there any books on it?

Books! he laughed. Theres no end to the books on chess (though a lot is discovered by accident and more still by mistake). Every phase is covered. The double phalanx, the inverted phalanx, the long distance opposition, the healthy majority, the crippled minority and and here he smiled wickedly, You know what?

What?

There is no substitute for victory, so never become a cheap pawn grabber. Always attack.

What about strategy? I asked, trying to be smart. This made him frown and push the pieces about.

What about it?

I dont know.

Thats right, you dont. You aint even got a clue you may never have you could be too old to pick it up now I dont rightly know. But you got somefink you can see miles ahead as for strategy, try to gain the edge and put yourself on the winning side. Failing that, try to extricate yourself from the losing side. And if you cant manage that, ask for a draw. Now lets get on, he said, taking a pull on his fag. Try not to get your king in zugs.

In what?

Zugzwang. And if you forget to take your opponents pawn en passant and its looking bad for you, you say adoubes and chop it off before you make another move.

What more was there to say? Everything had to be learnt over and over again in this new chess language. I was all fired up, I wanted to master chess in a month two at the most. I had tasted and now craved to devour.

Then Harry told me a sobering little tale. Churchill wanted to fill the coffers to aid the Second World War. He hit on the idea of awarding titles to people in return for money. He began to create dukes and knights, barons, lords and so on. An ex-prisoner, a burglar who had just stolen a vast sum of money, went up to Churchill and said, I want a title. The Prime Minister said, Yes, I can give you a title, the price is such and such. Give me the title of chess master, cried the ex con. Churchill recoiled shocked. This I cannot do, he said. Ask me for something else. I can make you a king, I can make you a queen, I can even make you the governor of Pentonville Prison, but only you alone can make yourself a chess master.

Make no mistake about this, said The Fox, if you want to be good at chess it will claim a large part of your spare time. Certainly in the beginning you will have to devote many hours to its study, something like the energy needed for lift-off on a space rocket which, however, once airborne, cruises more or less of its own volition.

To allow us to clean them, the screws used to leave the cell doors open on Saturday mornings. Harry appeared at my open door and tipped me the wink. Lets take a walk, see the prison players.

We came to the end of the landing. In here, said H, pushing back a cell door. Inside, half a dozen cons sat, their shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing arms covered in words and images. Promises of undying love tattooed on perishable flesh. Slump-shouldered, they stared down, lost in thought, over makeshift chessboards. Time had become their toy. When finally they made a move, their technique looked so assured, I thought. They must have learnt it at an early age or else they were all lifers, until my tutor put me wise.

In the beginning its just a question of whos got the best book one library against another, so to speak, whispered Harry out of the side of his mouth. We watched in silence. I was dying for a game, but after each game ended the cons would hold noisy, lengthy post mortems, bawl-outs, each player proclaiming to have found the truth of the position in the form of a win for themselves. Only total and annihilating victory will satisfy. I was thirty years old and had become completely besotted with chess. It had driven out and replaced all former desires in my mind.

Formidable and grand on a hilltop in Camden, the glass-fronted Prompt Corner chess caf dominated the approach to Hampstead. It was springtime in England, one year before Bobby Fischers conquest of the chess world. I walked into the caf full of confidence, eager to test my new chess skill. All around the sides people sat at tables smoking, watching and playing chess. There was some noise bursts of approval and dwindling growls of disappointment but not enough for so large a group. Laughter was aware of itself, and so was conversation. A short middle-aged guy in a much faded suit sat with patrician remoteness watching a game near the door. There was a strange feeling of isolation and expectancy. I ordered a coffee and caught his eye. Fancy a game? I mouthed silently. He nodded a yes.

We set up the pieces at an empty table. Well play for the board fee, he said. We tossed for colours. I drew Black. My opening blunders soon became his middle game brilliancies; my difficulties had gathered a delighted crowd. Inwardly trembling with competitive anxiety, I glanced at the steady gaze on my opponents face while he calmly analysed positions invisible to my patzers eyes. Behind me the caf kibitzers (all lowered eyelids and knowing smiles) mumbled conspiratorially the faithful speak a cryptic tongue. Their nervous responses were keyed to the different tensions. The whole atmosphere was charged with stress. You could almost feel the silent throb of intense minds as my opponent lifted his fianchettoed bishop. My heart rose: that bishop was guarding the path to his king I see my knights pulling off a quick mating coup. My mind in a mix-up I go through the attack with rash courage once more. In a crude pillaging butcher-boy fashion I mentally recite if I go here, does he go there? If I do this will he do that? Then he placed the bishop on a certain square slowly, easily, marvelling at his advantage and the swift cruel sac cut through all that inner chat.