Lashing out in muscular Romantic abandon, Gai swishes the
steely rapier of Mate at N. Closetti, a jumpy Italian amateur, who
on the 38th move becomes flustered, blows a Rook, and stumbles,
evidently agitated, from the parlour. To kibitzers Gai laconically
comments, "Witness how the most impregnable defensive shell is
teased unto ruin by the strategically-placed footsie."
Budapest, 1901
The wily Belgian kaffeehauser Poubelle declares before his
match with Todzheim that he will move the White pieces by the power
of telekinesis. He at once launches a blistering attack that leads
to several glaring positional errors -- and most observers agree,
his game is surely doomed. Fortunately it transpires that
Poubelle's method of propulsion is not mysterious "Marconi-rays,"
but instead, concussive puffs of his atrocious breath. Dizzy with
nausea, Todzheim resigns after only thirteen moves.
Moscow, 1921
Thunderously cheered by an audience thick with officialdom,
grimly insistent on playing Red, I. Blodnyov revolutionizes the game
with "scientific Trotskyite" tactics. Blodnyov soon marches his
Kamerad Kommisar into a nest of Illegal Reactionary Ecclesiastics
and Obsolete Cossack Marauders. Sensing perhaps the historic
necessity of Chekamate, foe (and secret German agent) Viktor Kulakstein
commits Tsaricide, pleading sudden illness. With, alas, a bleak
prognosis. In time, the "scientific Trotskyite" school of chess
thought will itself prove rather toxic.
London, 1928
During a grueling blindfold tournament against 452 opponents,
Max Voorvan tallies up an astounding 77 wins and 13 draws. Stunned
analysts are left to imagine the results had Voorvan, too, been
blindfolded.
Havana, 1935
Infuriated at muffing a slight end-game advantage against
Fissure, the Hungarian wunderkind Bratski stomps from the table to
commence plotting his revenge. As though the hidden structural
timbers of the universe were pawed and snuffled at by some demonic
terrier, a remorseless logic begins to hound Fissure, initially by
ordering pizzas up to his room at all hours. The next morning in the
hotel's restaurant, guess whose breakfast is annihilated when impish
Fate sabotages a salt-shaker's top? Dispirited, his concentration
shattered, the haggard champion trudges off to his suite, where a
heaven-sent bucket of water mercifully renders him unconscious
before he can notice that his bed has been short-sheeted. Or, God
forbid, climb into it.
Chicago, 1952
Famed for his wry aphorisms such as "Yo, hot mama!" and "Fifty
bucks, you've got to be kidding," and "Honest, Officer, she told me
she was twenty-eight," the hypermodernist innovator Rex O'Daybuss
returns to competitive form after several decades of enforced
"vacation." Disregarding what many consider his soundest axiom,
"The standard-size Staunton pieces are inedible," he captures and
devours his own Queen, and then plucks a pin from the hem of his
gown and attempts to perform an eyeectomy before being wrestled down
by impatient spectators. The remainder of the match, against the
Viennese theoretician Floyd, is conducted with such horrible gagging
sounds as to seriously discomfit every other player in the hall.
O'Daybuss goes on to utter defeat, insanity, and much acclaim as a
professional flamenco dancer.
Buenos Aires, 1974
Playing Black, Lazaro has found a flaw in Primnitch's feared
Albanian Gambit. After 1. Pawn to King's Knight Four, Lazaro
replies 1. ... Fist to Primnitch's Nose. Unable to finesse the
variation, or stop the bleeding, Primnitch graciously concedes.
The Lazaro Defence enjoys considerable vogue for some years
thereafter, but has lately been neutralized by the Primnitch
Counter Flying Drop Kick.