The Struggle

A Hungarian man shoves me hard from across the table. Taken aback, I pause and weigh the situation. He’s slight, with stick arms, and shorter than I am. His thin salt-and-pepper hair is greased down, and he has an unusually sweaty and, in the evening sun, luminous forehead. His bulging eyes give him a bug’s countenance, and his sour body odor—so pungent that my mouth tastes foul—hangs thick in the spring humidity. He doesn’t look tough. I drive him back and grab hold, cramping his right side. He reacts in kind and crowds in close, trying to pin me down. I circle left, look for an opening, and knock him violently; he hurls himself on me, pounding my guard. We struggle on. Slowly his assault weakens, and his breathing becomes heavy. We tussle for what seems like hours. Three hours and forty-seven minutes, actually. His kingside attack at an impasse and his queenside in shambles, the fellow looks up and offers a draw by crossing two gnarled index fingers into an X. I don’t speak Hungarian, and I’m winning, so I shake my head. Seven moves later he resigns. I love chess.