The Greatest Player Who Ever Lived
Submitted by
Zug on Fri, 03/14/2008 at 1:28pm.
This is not an article. It's a short story I wrote several years ago just for the fun of it. Even though the chess personalities are a little dated, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
The Greatest Player Who Ever Lived
by Mike Petersen
Harrison Blivett loved chess. He loved it to the exclusion of all other things. He lived and breathed chess. He slept chess. He ate chess. Chess consumed him. Every waking moment, Harrison thought about chess. As a result, he couldn't hold a regular job, so he lived at home with his parents. He was 36 years old. This would have been an ideal existence except for one thing. Harrison Blivett was a fish.
This really presented a problem. Since Harrison couldn't play a decent game of chess to save his life, the fact that he would do nothing else to sustain himself caused his parents quite a bit of consternation. They weren't getting any younger, and although they had long ago given up the hope that Harrison would get a job (or at least make money from chess), they worried about what would become of him after they were gone.
None of this concerned Harrison. He just continued on his unhappy way. Unhappy? Yes, because Harrison knew he was a fish. He knew he couldn't play decent chess. And, since nothing else mattered to him, Harrison was a very unhappy, bitter soul. He used to say he would do anything to get better at chess. Which leads us to our tale.
One day, a day much like any other, Harrison was trying to fathom the complexities of the Sicilian Poisoned Pawn, of course with no more success than he had enjoyed in the past. Frustrated, he decided to get some air, and went out for a walk. Now, you have to picture Harrison. He was about six feet two, all gangly arms and legs. He had a long neck with a protruding adam's apple that bobbed up and down when he talked (which, as a result of the teasing he received, wasn't very often). Harrison never paid much attention to fashion, so his clothes never seemed to fit him right. All in all, Harrison Blivett resembled none other than Ichabod Crane.
So, with this vision of Harrison in your mind, what happened next was most unusual. Harrison had stopped during his walk to sit down, as he usually did, at a bus stop bench, when a distinguished looking gentleman sat down next to him and struck up a conversation. Now this very seldom happened to Harrison. Most people preferred to avoid him, and when they couldn't, any discussions that resulted were usually quite brief. Besides, Harrison liked it that way.
"How are you today, Harrison?" said the stranger.
Harrison stared at the man, slightly puzzled. How did this fellow know his name? He was about the same height, judging from the level way he looked into Harrison's eyes. His clothes were as immaculate as Harrison's were rumpled. "Okay, I guess. Who are you?"
"Who I am is not important, but you may call me Mr. Smith, if you like. I understand you play chess."
This surprised Harrison even more. He had never seen this fellow before, yet he knew that he played chess! He took a closer look. Besides the perfectly combed silver hair, the most striking thing about this stranger was the way his eyes seemed to look right through him. This unsettled Harrison and muddied his already feeble thought processes. "Yeah, I play. What's it to you?"
"What is it to me, indeed. I also understand that you, shall we say, have difficulty winning games."
Harrison took another look at Mr. Smith. He was starting to feel just a little more comfortable with him. At least he was talking about chess, the only thing he knew anything about, even though it wasn't very much. "You can say that again. I can't win a chess game to save my life! If only..."
"If only what, Harrison?" said Mr. Smith.
Harrison was a very frustrated man, and the fact that Mr. Smith was asking him questions about his innermost thoughts, something no one had ever done before, made him open up. "If only I was a great player! If only I could play like the grandmasters! No, that's not it. What I really want is to be the greatest player who ever lived!" Harrison felt silly immediately after saying this, but Mr. Smith seemed to take him seriously.
"You want to be the greatest player who ever lived?" repeated Mr. Smith. "Hmm...perhaps I can help. Would you be interested in some lessons?"
"You? Help me? You've got to be kidding. I'm a fish! My rating is so low that ants can't do pushups under it. How can you help me? Besides, I've never heard of you. I've never seen your picture in Chess Life or Inside Chess. How can you be good enough to help me?"
For several moments, Mr. Smith said nothing. He just looked at Harrison with those penetrating eyes. Finally he said, "That doesn't matter. You've never seen the world correspondence champion have you? Of course not. I'll wager you don't even know his name. I can help you play better chess. As a matter of fact, Harrison, I can make you the greatest player who ever lived!"
Harrison was stunned. Could this be true? But then he shook his head, more to get rid of the confusion he was feeling than as a way of saying no. Me, Harrison Blivett, better than Capablanca, better than Alekhine or Tal? Better even that Kasparov? Could it really happen? He wanted to believe it. And, as he looked into Mr. Smith's eyes, he DID believe it. "But how can I pay you? I don't have any money."
"Don't worry about money. You'll be making plenty before you're done. All you have to do to retain my services is sign this simple contract, and then I'll take care of the rest." With that, Mr. Smith removed with a flourish a piece of parchment paper from his coat pocket. It read: "I, the undersigned Harrison Blivett, do give up my immortal soul to the individual known to me as Mr. Smith in exchange for his making me the greatest chess player who ever lived."
Harrison stared at it in disbelief. This couldn't be true. Did this guy think he was actually the devil? Absurd! "You mean, all I have to do is sign this paper, and you'll give me lessons, teach me and all that, for nothing?"
Mr. Smith smiled. It really wasn't a pleasant smile. "No, not exactly. If you will notice, the contract calls for me to be able to collect your immortal soul upon your death. So you see, I get my payment in the end."
"Are you saying you're the devil?" asked Harrison. "No way! I know the stories about you. I'm not signing anything."
"Oh, come come now, Harrison. You are a modern man. Surely you don't believe in the devil?"
Harrison thought about that one. "No, not really," he finally said.
"Right. So how can you go wrong? Since there is no devil, signing that parchment won't mean anything. You'll just be humoring an old man who wants to help you play better chess. You'll be getting something for nothing!"
Harrison thought about that one, too. Mr. Smith was right. Why not sign it? What have I got to lose, he thought. "Do you have a pen?" asked Harrison. He signed the contract. With a smile, Mr. Smith took the contract and got up to leave. "Wait a minute! When is my first lesson? You don't even know where I
live!" Mr. Smith stopped and turned around.
"You already know what you need to know," he said, and was gone.
Harrison wondered just what he meant by that. He sat for a while and thought about it, but could come to no conclusion. So, with nothing more to be done, he got up and headed home. That damned Poisoned Pawn!
When he got back home, he said nothing to his parents about his unusual encounter at the bus stop, but went straight to his room. Sitting down at his chess board, he stared again at the position resulting after black takes the b-pawn. His thoughts churned, much as before. But then, as if a veil had been lifted from his mind, he could suddenly see the board more clearly. An idea came into his mind concerning the placement of the black queen in relation to the rest of the pieces. He thought about that, then he thought some more. And then he knew. If white were to follow a certain plan of development, then no matter what black did, his queen would never get back into play. Oh, it wouldn't be lost, but it would never be a factor. He tried out a few of the moves over the board, and it seemed to him to be the correct plan. Harrison now got very excited. What if this guy WERE the devil? Why, this idea might be just the first of many! Then he thought again. Nah. Probably just another one of his fool thoughts that backfire when he tries them out against any serious opposition. But wait. There was a way to test this one. He knew a fellow at the club who played the Poisoned Pawn at every opportunity. And better still, the guy was a rated expert. Immediately, Harrison started planning. Fortunately, this was the night the club met, or Harrison might not have lasted the night, he was that excited.
Arriving at the club, he sought out his opponent. There he was! Cautiously, Harrison asked for a game, suggesting that he had a couple of new ideas in the Poisoned Pawn he wanted to try. This, of course, brought some muffled laughs from those who overheard, but Harrison didn't care. The game started.
And ended. The poor fellow never had a chance. Harrison blew him off the board in 27 moves. "Lucky game, Blivett," he said. "Care to try that again?"
"Okay," said Harrison. Once again, the result was the same, despite the fact that the fellow had varied considerably from the previous game. This one took only 24 moves, but he could have resigned after 19.
"You been taking lessons, Blivett?" asked his opponent.
"You might say that." And without another word, Harrison got up and left the club. He went directly to his room after arriving home and started to study. This is it, he thought. I'm not coming out of this room until I can beat anyone in the world.
For the next three weeks, Harrison wouldn't come out of his room. He insisted on taking his meals there, too, and soon his parents started to worry even more about him, if that were possible. Just as they were thinking of calling in a psychiatrist to take a look at their son, he came out of his self-imposed hibernation.
"Mother, enter me into the next major tournament you can find. The open division."
"What do you mean?" she asked. She knew Harrison only entered the lowest of the sections, but still could not compete.
"Just what I said, Mother. Now, when and where is it? I have to have some time to get some new clothes."
Needless to say, Harrison won that event, and several others afterward. And all without losing a single game. He was written up in Chess Life as a new phenomenon. The US Open was coming up, and Harrison was already entered. No contest. He won it without even allowing a single draw. No one could believe it.
But still, the entire time, Harrison never heard from nor even saw the mysterious Mr. Smith. Nor did he ever mention the strange meeting that day. And still he continued to win. He began to wonder if the meeting had ever taken place at all. It was like a dream in his mind. But every so often he would think of the contract he signed. He didn't dwell on it though. He was in his element, and nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing!
And nothing did. He easily won the US Closed championship without suffering a single loss. On to the interzonal. Again, he won without a single defeat. As a matter of fact, since that fateful day almost a year and a half earlier, he had not lost a single game. Of course, by this time, he was being hailed as the next Bobby Fischer. The comparisons were hard to resist. Bobby had been eccentric, and so was Harrison. And Harrison was so comical looking, what with his bobbing adam's apple and gangly appearance.
Now came the candidates matches. First, he faced the always dangerous but aging Levenkov. 6-0! Shades of Fischer in 1971. Next came Galevsky. This time Harrison allowed three draws, but won the rest. Finally, Karpov. No one could believe it. Blivett creamed him, suffering no losses. He hadn't even had a bad position! Now the Russians were getting nervous. If Karpov couldn't face up to Blivett, how well would their hero Kasparov fare?
Finally came the match, hailed as the match of the century. Some claimed it would be the match of the millennium, since the next match would not be until
after the year 2000.
Blivett won the first three games, then coasted with six draws. Kasparov was looking quite fatigued. No problem, boasted his supporters. Why, hadn't he lost five games against Karpov and then come back by winning three games until the match was prematurely halted? Nevertheless, Harrison was confident. He won the next game. More coasting. Finally, it came down to the fact that, if Kasparov did not win the next game, he would lose the championship, since Blivett was so far ahead.
It was a tense hall. The spectators sat hushed in their seats as Kasparov opened the game with his c-pawn. Knowingly, they nodded their heads. This was the same style Gary imposed on the game when he had to beat Karpov in their last game to retain his title. Now this Blivett upstart would see some chess! The game dragged on. Harrison decided to trade some pieces early on, then make a decision if he wanted to play for a win. After recapturing a pawn, he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye offstage. Looking up, he could hardly believe his eyes. It was Mr. Smith! Suddenly, it came to him. This man WAS the devil! He knew it. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. He knew it just as surely as he knew he could win this game. Harrison was beside himself. Mr. Smith looked at him again with that enigmatic smile of his. It was all Harrison could do to keep from fainting. For the first time, the board wasn't looking all that clear. He made a move. Kasparov looked up. For the first time, Blivett had left an opening! Eagerly, Gary pounced on the opportunity, gaining a small edge. Finally, the game was adjourned, with Kasparov having the advantage for the first time in the match.
That night, Harrison had trouble sleeping. He was feeling a little short of breath, so he got up and started staring at the position before him on his analysis board. Suddenly, he saw it. If Kasparov had sealed what looked like the most obvious and best move, he could reply with what looked at first like a nebulous pawn sac, but which in reality would end the game in another twenty moves at most. Satisfied, but still feeling a little out of breath, Harrison went back to bed.
The next day, it went exactly as Harrison had expected. He was world champion! That night, after all the festivities, he still felt a little tired, so he decided to go for a short walk to clear his head. He happened across a bus stop and decided to sit down for a while. From around the corner, he saw him. Mr. Smith looked like he hadn't changed a bit since their last meeting, two years ago. He sat down.
"Well, Harrison, you've done it," he said, and smiled. "How do you feel?"
"Well, since you ask, a little short of breath." Just then, a pang went through Harrison's chest. Not much, just a whisper. Mr. Smith smiled again.
"Well, don't worry about it. You won. I guaranteed it."
"I know. We had a contract." Another pang. Harrison winced at that one.
"Hurt a little, Harrison?" asked Mr. Smith, smiling.
Now it really started to get to him, hammering at his chest like a fist. He almost doubled over. And then, then he knew. Yes, he won. He was the world champion. He knew he was arguably the greatest player ever to live. He also knew he was going to die. "But why?" he asked, barely able to get out the words.
"Read the contract," said Mr. Smith. "It expressly states that you will become the greatest player who ever lived. Of course, you understand that, don't you?"
Harrison looked at him through a haze of pain. He didn't understand. He didn't understand at all.
Mr. Smith smiled again, the same smile. "Then I suppose I will have to spell it out for you. Note the past tense, Harrison. In order for you to become the greatest player who ever lived, you will have to be dead."
And he was.
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