At two o’clock I sat down at my table, where the traditional, wooden pieces were set up on a high-tech board that was wired to the Internet. Our moves would be instantly relayed to chess sites on the web. I began the game with confidence, expecting to improve on the play of a previous opponent of Nana’s. Nana had played the Najdorf in more than fifty games, but against me she tried a different opening. My heart started to beat more rapidly. I had not prepared for this line, but had no choice but to pretend I was confident. I made a mistake on move eight and lost all the advantage that comes with the first move. After that, I began to calm down and play well. My position improved, but she was solid, and it was not easy to find ways to break through. I definitely did not want to get short on time—each player had only two hours, and I had already used more than one. I played a move and hit the clock. Instantly, my heart dropped. My move was a huge blunder, allowing Nana to win a Rook for a Bishop. The mistake would cost me the game and most probably the match. The only thing to do was pray that she would not notice. It was a vain hope—she won my Rook, and soon after, the game.
The tournament was single-elimination knockout, and the only way for me to advance would be to win the next game with black. I tried hard the next day, and even got a double-edged position in which I had full chances to play for the win. Unfortunately for me, Nana was determined to advance to the next round. She played well, rebuffed my activity, and gained an edge in an endgame. I had zero chance to win. We agreed to a draw. Nana advanced.
The pain was not all-consuming, but there was a lingering sense of incompetence that stayed with me for the whole week, and only began to dissipate when I returned to America. I stayed in Elista for a few days to watch the other games, and support my teammate Irina, who had made it to the second round. I both hoped and expected to see Irina go far. However, having just finished classes at NYU, she was rustier than usual, and missed some tactics in her second match. She was knocked out.
Irina and I were eliminated, but I still followed all the games of the tournament, hoping for a deserving champion who would be good for women’s chess. I was therefore thrilled with the winner: Bulgarian bon vivant Antoaneta Stefanova.
In Elista, Stefanova abandoned her typically wild lifestyle to approach the tournament professionally. She brought a coach. Satisfied with ties in each two-game match, she relied on her superior nerves and tactical alertness to prevail in the tiebreaks. In the third round, Antoaneta was matched against a close friend, Ukrainian Natalya Zhukova. Antoaneta and Natalya made a controversial decision. Instead of playing out their match games, providing excitement for hundreds of spectators on the Internet, the two women agreed to draws after just ten moves, in less than fifteen minutes. Clearly, they had arranged this before the first game of the round. In the rapid tiebreak, Antoaneta won. But she had saved herself two days’ worth of grueling games, giving her an edge over less-rested players. When I saw what Antoaneta had done, I was not particularly surprised: she was tired, needed rest to maximize her chances, and didn’t care what people thought. Antoaneta described the tournament as “exhausting mentally and physically.”
In the fourth round, Antoaneta beat my first-round opponent, Nana Dzagnidze, leading her to the semi-final match, where Antoaneta met her most famous victim in Elista, four-time world champion Maya Chiburdanidze. Stefanova clinched the match victory with a steady game in which she snatched a pawn and played actively to triumph against the Georgian legend.
In the final four-game match, Antoaneta played a lesser-known competitor, Ekaterina Kovalevskaya, a thirty-year-old from Moscow. Ranked only twentieth going into the event, Kovalevskaya had climbed to the top by scoring upset victories over teenaged prodigies Katerina Lahno from Ukraine and the top-seeded Indian, Humpy Koneru. Antoaneta was convincing against Kovalevskaya. She won the first two games, and then drew the third to clinch the title. When the final game was over, she lit up a cigarette and called her family back in Sofia to tell them that she had become the ninth world women’s chess champion.
Antoaneta’s jet-setting lifestyle became even more packed with publicity and tournament engagements. Just two months after winning the diamond-studded crown and $50,000 check, she had made stops in her native Bulgaria and also in Libya, Russia, Spain, and Poland.
Pascal, Irina, and I had intended to spend a few days in Russia after the tournament, visiting Moscow and St. Petersburg. Those plans were waylaid because Irina and I had an appointment back in New York City: our second training session with number one in the world, Garry Kasparov. As thrilling as this should have been for me, I was not looking forward to it. At the session, I would have to show the games I had just played in Elista, which I dreaded. To show the world champion a game in which I’d blundered so horribly felt like a punishment fit for chess hell. Kasparov was easier on me than I was on myself: “I understand why you blundered—you were better all game—this was the first moment of the game she had a threat.”
Despite the Kasparov training, I felt my confidence and spirit at a low point. My roommate, who was moving out, told me that the landlord would not allow me to take over the lease. I needed to find a new place to live. I was also anxious about the upcoming 2004 U.S. Women’s Chess Championship, which would assemble the strongest female field in U.S. history. My performance would determine whether I would play on the 2004 Olympic team, for which I had trained all year. In a rotten mood, I enveloped myself with negative thoughts. What if I didn’t make the team? What if I lost all my games?
I needed more training, so I called an old coach and friend, International Master Victor Frias, who lived in Chappaqua, New York, and asked if he could help me. “Come on over!” he said. I showed up at Victor’s home with my laptop, a dozen chess books, and a bottle of red wine. The chessboard was already setup on his dining room table, where we immediately began studying my opponents’ games. Victor was no longer an active player, but I have always admired his approach to chess, which is very different from my own. When I first look at a position I check for tactics and specific variations. Frias, on the other hand, goes straight to the pawn structure and attempts to decipher the essence of the position. This way of studying chess is good for me. After just a few hours of studying with Victor, I begin to look at chess in a more complete way.
Victor and I stuck to an intense regime. Every morning I woke up at about seven in the morning, to study until about noon. Then we went to the gym for a couple of hours. After lunch we worked on chess until eight or nine in the evening. Most of the time we spent checking out the games of my opponents, or games with positions similar to the ones I expected to get in the tournament.
The training stopped after five days because I wanted to go back to Brooklyn to figure out where to live. I was also throwing a farewell party for my friend Ben, who was moving to California. Ben is my former high school teammate, who has since given up chess for poker. Many of my friends from chess, including my brother, have shifted their focus to poker, hoping that their intellectual skills (no doubt in part developed from their experience in chess) might make them rich at the card table. For a little over a year, Greg had been earning a good living playing on the Internet and occasionally flying off to play in tournaments.
My father had also gotten into it. When I was playing at the World Championship in Russia, Greg and Michael were in Las Vegas at the World Series of Poker—Greg as a player, Michael as a spectator. Greg still played blitz and rapid chess occasionally, but was more concerned with organizing tournaments and improving the state of chess in America than his own progress. “It’s very sad to compare the situation of poker players with chessplayers,” Greg said. “Chess will probably never be as big as poker, but it could certainly get more attention and sponsorship than it does now.”
After the party, my floors were littered with broken glass and covered in a sticky film from spilled drinks, a mess that seemed to symbolize the state of my life at that moment. I still didn’t know where I was going to live. My bank statement rec
orded the lowest figure it had in years. Even after my hard work with Victor, I was nervous about the upcoming tournament.
The first sign that things were turning my way came when my landlord had a change of heart and I was allowed to sign a one-year lease for my loft, a big space with high ceilings and skylights in place of windows, located in the center of Williamsburg. Once an industrial haven with factories, populated by Polish and Dominican immigrants, in the late 1990s, Williamsburg gentrified. The rents went up, and the ’Burg was now filled with the young and hip—the streets lined with sleek bars, numerous Thai restaurants, and the occasional yoga center or art gallery. It was located right next to the subway, allowing me to arrive in Manhattan in ten minutes flat.
Relieved and in slightly better spirits, I invited my brother over to play some blitz. After a few games I confessed to Greg that I was a little jealous that he had found another subculture in which he could thrive. Sometimes I feel burned out by the chess world, frustrated by the lack of popularity of the game. Because of the glamorous TV coverage of poker events and the steady stream of Texas Hold ’Em cash games and tournaments on the Internet, it seemed like Greg might have taken the better course. Also, I was so stressed out and nervous about the upcoming championship that my feelings toward chess were ambiguous. At that moment, chess was just not making me happy. My brother said, “Jen, you have to figure out a way to play for fun.”
Greg was right. Too often, I played chess scared to blunder, as I had in Elista. Playing chess scared to make a mistake is the intellectual equivalent of walking around in the perpetual fear of falling.
2004 U.S. Women’s Championship
Round 1
In the first round of the U.S. Women’s Chess Championship, I played Rusudan Goletiani. Despite my brother’s advice, I was extremely nervous all through the game. From time to time, I would remind myself, “Play for fun!” but the tension was so high that the advice seemed absurd. I got a better position with an attack on her King, but Rusa defended well and I was unable to find a knockout blow. I sacrificed a pawn, a dubious decision. Rusa called my bluff and captured it. I fought back and found a drawish endgame. Rusa played on for the whole six hours, hoping to find a win. It wasn’t there. She stuck out her hand and we split the point. I went home with my half point slightly relieved. It was now impossible for me to lose all my games!
Unlikely as it would seem, this game turned out to be the sole draw of the twenty-game tournament. In most prestigious tournaments, draws are as frequent, if not more common, than decisive results. Such gluts of draws (some of these are good fights, but many are dull and quick) detract sponsorship, galvanizing Grandmaster Maurice Ashley, the first African-American grandmaster in history, to warn of “Draw Death” and start “Generation Chess,” an organization that promotes fighting chess.
Round 2
In the second game, I played against Tsagaan Battsetseg (Baagi for short), a cheerful master originally from Mongolia, where she had won seven national titles. I knew she was a tough player and a creative tactician, but her handling of the clock was impractical—she would often leave herself with less than one minute for more than ten moves. In such situations, it’s nearly impossible for a player to hold on to all her pieces. Baagi and I played a theoretical line that had been played dozens of times by the best players in the world, and I instantly regretted not studying the position more thoroughly. I knew she might play this line, but I had spent most of my energy that morning on another opening.
Baagi played creatively, and I found myself up a pawn but in a terrible position. The only plan, it seemed at first glance, was to shuffle my pieces back and forth, forcing her to figure out how to break through. I started to look at a risky move, placing my Rook in the center of the board, where it could be taken by three pieces. After twenty minutes of analysis, I saw that the sacrifice was unsound, but I wanted to play it, because the move was funny and aesthetic. My fingers were itching. I played the move and took my hand off the piece. Is this a death wish? Baagi thought for almost thirty minutes and captured my Rook. Her position was winning, but it was complicated. Luckily for me, she could only choose one move out of all the attractive possibilities. She began to run low on time and chose a second-rate line, allowing me to get back into the game. Her advantage was beginning to evaporate, and the best course for her was probably to take a forced draw. On move forty, we each got an extra hour. I got up from the board feeling as though my brain had been squeezed to the limit. I laughed nervously, had some water, and paced around. Baagi still had a good position—she was down two pawns, but my King was vulnerable. I would have to fight hard. She began to play too slowly, using nearly all the time she was allotted for the rest of the game in just a few moves. Her clock began to tick down. I was mesmerized, smelling victory. By the finish, I had a winning position, but really I was just waiting for her flag to fall. It did. The game lasted nearly six hours, the maximum time length.
I was happy, but there was so much unreleased tension in my body that I was longing for a jog. I got home and around ten o’clock I went to the nearby track. On my way, I passed several bars and cafés teeming with New Yorkers enjoying the delicious summer evening. It was Friday night. After jogging and listening to an hour’s worth of pop songs on the radio, I went home to prepare for my next game.
Round 3
I was playing white against a sweet, shy teenager, Tatev Abrahayman, originally from Armenia. Uncomfortable with all the variations against her favorite set-up, the French, Victor and I had spent hours searching for the right way to play against her. I still wasn’t happy with any of my regular choices. Then I remembered that my brother had told me her nickname on The Internet Chess Club, “axves.” Tatev, under axves, had played hundreds of blitz games on the ICC, all of which are archived into a database. I logged on to the server and searched her recent history of games in the French opening. I felt sneaky using those games as preparation, as if I were reading a private letter. Many players don’t know that their opponents can access their ICC matches, and often try out new ideas. Through my last-minute online preparation, I saw that Tatev played very badly against one pawn sacrifice. I made a snap decision. I would play the same sacrifice.
Tatev was uncomfortable in the opening I chose. She used too much time and played badly. I was very confident in this game and won in less than thirty moves.
Now I was leading the tournament. With the title and my spot on the Olympic team within striking distance, my urge to win became intense, even animalistic.
Round 4
I was most afraid of the game in this round because I had the black pieces against one of the strongest women players in the world, Anna Zatonskih, a twenty-six-year-old Ukrainian emigrant. Zatonskih had always impressed me in analysis sessions: she calculates well, has an extensive knowledge of opening and endgame theory, and is assertive about her opinions on positions. Anna is a hard worker with a professional approach to the game, studying all aspects of the game year-round, often for up to six hours a day. After giving so much time to chess, it is hard for Anna to understand if she has an unsuccessful result. And this was, perhaps, the only weakness I could sense in her—in very high-pressure situations, Anna’s nerves sometimes give way.
Anna played an opening I hadn’t expected. It was a solid choice for white and secured a small but steady advantage. I had to find an active plan or I would get slowly squeezed. I found a good idea, opened some lines for my pieces, and the game was balanced. I started to dream of mounting an attack on Anna’s King. In fear of this, she traded Queens, and we reached a position that looked like it would be a draw. Anna’s position was still a little better, and she did want to win. My defense was sufficient, and as we neared the end of the sixth hour, it was clear that she would have to split the point. Then Anna made a strange offer—a trade of Knights. I hadn’t even considered the move. After thinking for a few minutes, I could hardly trust my calculations—Anna had just committed an appalling blunder. I took the Knig
ht, simplified the position into a pawn ending, where I made a Queen after just a few moves. Anna was too upset after the game to analyze, but a few days later she seemed to have gotten over it or was at least able to joke about it, telling me with a laugh, “I had nightmares about that move!”
This game happened to be on Father’s Day, and my dad was in town to celebrate. He had left my game when Anna was still pressing for the win. When I called my father, he sounded excited. “I hope you called to tell me you held the draw!” He was in disbelief when I told him I’d won—as a Father’s Day present.
I was excited: with 3.5 points out of 4, I was leading the tournament. One more victory would probably clinch the title.
Round 5
Angelina Belakovskaya, a three-time U.S. champion, had hardly played any serious chess in the past few years, having given up chess for a more lucrative career in finance. While I was invigorated by my great start, Angelina was rusty, and I was hoping to take advantage of that. This time my preparation paid off as the line I studied all morning appeared on the board. The game was close, and it was clear that it was going to be a long struggle. I played well in the first part of the game, gaining an edge. Angelina made a mistake and lost a pawn. It was still tough to win—I had to muster all my energy and make sure that I successfully converted my material advantage. At some point during the endgame (Rusudan Goletiani had defeated the only person who could still catch me, Anna Zatonskih), I realized the title was at stake. Nightmarish thoughts of blundering horribly entered my brain. I breathed deeply and ejected the bad thoughts, forcing myself to play confidently. After nearly two hours my extra pawn was on the seventh rank, ready to become a Queen. With just a few seconds left on her clock, Angelina resigned. I had clinched my second national title with a round to go.2
Chess Bitch: Women in the Ultimate Intellectual Sport Page 27
