Old Chestnut about an Old Chess Nut

 

Have you heard the one about the chess player who started to believe he was an actual King? It didn’t start like that though. He was an old man who hated checkers and backgammon. His delusions were progressive. First, like many of us, he saw himself as a pawn, trudging along in a pointless existence. Then he found God, and in his newfound religious zeal, went ahead and started calling himself the Bishop. Opponents mostly tolerated his antics. But what could they do? He was the best. 

He'd rant and rave, walk diagonally wherever he saw tiled floors. Bathrooms were maddening for anyone else who happened to be relieving themselves at the same time. He couldn’t just tip the attendant, wash his hands and get out – mint or no mint. He saw himself as a player in a divine human tragicomedy. That didn’t last long though. His faith flagged and he began to act more and more chivalrously, especially around potential paramours. Jousting the exes of would-be flames. He was a knight now, and this is what knights did. 

Good thing he could never figure out what a “rook” was exactly so he skipped that one and went straight for the royal couple. He didn’t want to be the king at first. During matches he’d take up much of his time railing against the fact that there was no “prince” on the board. Princes are hard to come by. Just ask Nicholas II or Henry VIII. 

That’s when he became king. At least in his own mind. He worn a crown, albeit one he bought from a Halloween costume store. But none of his competitors could tell the difference between cubic zirconium and diamonds. He made people introduce him as “your highness” and kiss his hands. The same clammy hands that wouldn’t stop caressing his pieces. 

It went on like this for years. Some people would speak up, but most were shouted down. It got in their heads. They lost and they kept losing. He started wearing capes and rented thrones to sit in during matches. He never explained why a king would be playing chess in a high school gymnasium in the middle of Ohio. But that didn’t matter. Until it did.

One day the Old Chess Nut lost a match and his opponent screamed, “the king is dead.” The man took his crown and broke it, which considering it was mostly plastic, wasn't too difficult. The whole room reverberated with his howls. It hadn’t occurred to him that kings were deposed, sometimes in quite violent fashion. He was lucky then, to still have his head. How could he continue playing chess after that? 

Last I heard he was working on a form of renegade chess where two of the pawns were princes who traverse the board two spaces at a time in any direction. And why not? Princes are usually more limber than kings. Unless they’re hemophiliacs.