Variations on Death - 4. New Friend

I remember the first time I met him. Someone came to me at recess, when I was sitting under an oak tree reading a book, and told me there was a new boy in school that was beating everyone at chess. I said, "Oh yeah? Well, he may beat the others, but he can't beat me. Who is this upstart?" I could now beat even my father every game we played, though my mother advised me, in private, to let him win, both as a kindness and a shrewd political move.

The classroom had no teacher during the recess hour. Two dozen boys crowded around the chess game. I craned my head over the shoulders of others to catch a glimpse of the combatants. One I knew, a weak player to whom I could give Rook odds. The other was the new boy and he was unlike every other boy in the room. The new boy had tucked his shirt in, first of all. He wore a belt, his clothes looked brand new, and every hair on his head was clean and in place. He whistled a tune I had never heard before with considerable skill. His manner was polite, and there was nothing uncertain or frivolous about him. After he checkmated his opponent, I asked for the next game. He agreed, but then a player to whom I could give Queen odds protested that he had been promised the next game, so I sat back down and watched again.

His tactics were sharp, but his strategy was street, that is, he played like a hustler and not like a master. Early did he expose his Queen, launching some rash attack, but he intimidated his novice opponents, who, like me, were further intimidated by his confidence and unusual manners. He won in twenty or thirty moves. His favorite opening was the Center Game as White or the Center Counter as Black, usually the QxP variation. I used to play it myself before attending the local chess club and playing adults. I had learned about tempos, the way that one can gain time by attacking a valuable piece such as the Queen and thereby develop one's pieces rapidly for an overwhelming counterattack.

After his checkmated opponent vacated the chair, I seized it before another could intercede and began setting my pieces. To my surprise, he stood up and offered his hand. "Hi, my name is ---," he said, just as proper as you could ask for, "What's yours?" Here was someone with class and style, someone I wanted to be like. I imagined he must be from another country, maybe even England, which seemed culturally better, more refined somehow than my own country. I shook his hand as I replied, and his grip was firm, and he looked me straight in the eye. My heart grew warm, my pulse quickened, and my eyes that had not seen twelve summers liked what they saw. He was better than I could ever have imagined someone being, a breath of fresh air in this stale school. I burned with curiosity about the newcomer. No doubt I was blushing.

I wished to prove myself the stronger in chess, but had an even greater desire to befriend him. While I gave a reasonable account of myself on the board, I heeded my mother's advice and lost on purpose, toppling my king in resignation when my position was hopeless. In defeat, I took care to match his politeness by thanking him for the game and shaking his hand again. He complimented my play, and after the bell rang signaling the end of recess, he approached me. Everyone was talking, shouting, walking, and opening and closing lockers to get their books, and the resulting cacophony made conversation difficult, but we were both determined and cupped our hands to each other's ears to whisper our phone numbers. Later that evening, we spoke on the phone for hours about every conceivable subject of the remotest importance to eleven year-olds.

As months turned into years, we became not only best friends, but exclusive friends, in that we had little interest in others. Other friends might associate with us during school hours, but our weekends were for each other and only each other, to the perplexity of our elders. From what we learned in our history class, we adopted an identification with the ancient Greeks, he preferring the Spartans, because of their military prowess, and I the Athenians, for their culture. "Death before dishonor" was our motto, and we defended each other whenever the situation demanded it.