The Theory and Practice of Gamesmanship

by Stephen Potter

  There is an excellent alternative to the development of a private game in your own home. That is to do the same thing in a house belonging to someone else. This is not only inconvenient to the real owner of the house; it places you in the fine games-position of ‘playing on a strange court’.

  J. Strachey has invented a form of indoor hockey which is played with the pointed end of an ordinary walking-stick as the club. As a game it is feebleness itself. But Strachey uses an interesting gamesplay in its execution.

  The game is played in an old shed, five to fourteen a side. Early in the game Strachey says: ‘Hi – whoa! – Look everybody. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Wait a minute, everybody. We mustn’t lift our sticks above the knee, must we. Or else one of us will get the most awful cut. Right.’

  He then proceeds, quite deliberately, to lay about him to right and left so that nobody can come near him. Through this method he has amassed an amazing sequence of wins to his credit.

  Chess

  The prime object of gamesmanship in chess must always be, at whatever sacrifice, to build up your reputation. In our small chess community in Marylebone it would be mock modesty on my part to deny that I have built up for myself a considerable name without ever actually having won a single game.

  Even the best players are sometimes beaten, and that is precisely what happens to me. Yet it is always possible to make it appear that you have lost your game for the game’s sake.

  ‘Regardez la Dame’ Play

  This is done by affecting anxiety over the wiseness of your opponent’s move. An occasional ‘Are you sure you meant that?’ or ‘Your castle won’t like that in six moves’ time’ works wonders.

  By arrangement with another gamesman I have made an extraordinary effect on certain of our Marylebone Chess Club Rambles by appearing to engage him in a contest without board. In the middle of a country lane I call out to him ‘P to Q3’, then a quarter of an hour later he calls back to me ‘Q to QB5’; and so on. ‘Moves’, of course, can be invented arbitrarily.

  JUNIOR MEMBER: I can’t think how you do it.

  SELF: Do what?

  JUNIOR MEMBER: Play chess without the pieces. Do you have a picture of the board in your brain … or what is it?

  SELF: Oh, you mean our little game? I am actually up at the moment. Oh, you mean how do we do it? Oh, I’ve always been able to ‘see’ the board in that way, ever since I can remember.

  Fig. 14. Potter's opening.

  (1) KP-K4: KP-K4

  (2) R-Q R4: B-Q B4

  (3) Kt-B3: Kt-B3

  (4) White resigns

  Potter’s Opening

  This is supposed, now, to be the name of an effective opening, simple to play and easy to remember, which I have invented for use against a more experienced player who is absolutely certain to win. It consists of making three moves at random and then resigning. The dialogue runs as follows:

  SELF: Good. Excellent. (Opponent has just made his third move. See Fig. 14.) I must resign, of course.

  OPPONENT: Resign?

  SELF: Well … you’re bound to take my Bishop after sixteen moves, unless … unless … And even then I lose my castle three moves later.

  OPPONENT: Oh, yes.

  SELF: Unless you sacrifice there, which, of course, you wouldn’t.

  OPPONENT: No.

  SELF: Nice game.

  OPPONENT: Yes.

  SELF: Pretty situation … very pretty situation. Do you mind if I take a note of it? The Chess News usually publishes any stuff I send them.

  It is no exaggeration to say that this gambit, boldly carried out against the expert, heightens the reputation of the gamesman more effectively than the most courageous attempt to fight a losing battle.

  Chess and Parentship, or Gamesplay Against Children

  Many of the regular rules have to be adapted, with a tender hand, I hope and trust, when one exercises gamesmanship against the young. E.g., much use can be made of the fact that children cannot remember their own infancy (Grotto’s Law). For instance, if beaten by my son at chess, I tell him (i) that I have only just taken it up, and (ii) that ‘my first recollection of him was of a tiny figure sitting astride a wall, swinging his legs and playing chess with his minute friend Avrion. Neither of them can have been more than five at the time. How glad I am that I encouraged him to take it up’.

  Basic Chess Play

  ‘Sitzfleisch.’ I have the greatest pleasure in assigning priority to F. V. Morley who first described this primary chessmanship gambit (see Morley, F. V., My One Contribution to Chess, Faber and Faber, 1947). Morley’s wording is as follows:

  Sitzfleisch: a term used in chess to indicate winning by use of the glutei muscles – the habit of remaining stolid in one’s seat hour by hour, making moves that are sound but uninspired, until one’s opponent blunders through boredom.

  Johnsonian Capture

  The name of Miss C. Johnson will always be associated primarily with certain specialized techniques or styles, recommended, of course, for women only, in the method of capturing pieces. It is, in essence, Differentiated Intimidation play. Playing against men, she has had extraordinary success by soundlessly and delicately removing her opponent’s piece before quietly placing her own piece on the square. But against women, particularly nervous women, she bangs down her own piece with great force on the occupied square, so that her opponent’s piece is, of course, sent sprawling over the board.

  By the way, it is not true to say that Miss C. Johnson, who for some years now has been giving lessons in the ‘Johnsonian Capture’, is the first P.G.W.A.2 Readers will remember the unfortunate case of Miss J. Wethered, whose name in golf might now be forgotten were it not for the famous case in which she was deemed to have infringed on her professional gameswoman status by a series of matches, much too long to pass unnoticed, which were later proved, beyond possible doubt, to have been genuinely friendly.

  Darts and Shove-Halfpenny

  Basic play in these games must always be a variation of the Primary Hamper. Question your darts opponent closely on the exact area of the dart where he deems it wisest to exert maximum thumb-and-finger pressure. Continue to ask if he will be so kind as to demonstrate for you the precise position of the hand in relation to the head at the moment when the dart is released. In the case of shove-halfpenny, hold up game continually by asking your opponent if he ‘will touch with the end of a match the area of the ball of the thumb which should be regarded as the target-of-impact between skin and receiving edge of disc of “halfpenny”’.

  In playing these games on home boards, where you might be presumed to have an advantage, keep talking about ‘How you prefer old pub boards … nothing like genuine pub boards….’

  Cricket

  If there is one thing more than another which makes me regret those pressing requests of my friends which forced me to ‘rush into print’ with this volume, it is the fact that the huge subject of Cricket must remain a blank in this edition of my work G.R.C.(C) (or, to give it its full, rather ponderous, title, Gamesmanship Research Council, Cricket Division) has been in existence scarcely five years. A devoted band of workers have spent their spare time in its service for no other reward than a nominal expenses account, an entertainment allowance, and the nominal use of the Council’s cars and petrol. It will be remembered that after five researchers had found 8,400 instances of gamesmanship in a match at Hove, reduced by rain to a bare one and a half days’ play, between Sussex and Derbyshire, the investigation was completely reorganized, following the resignation of the then Chairman, Sir William (now Lord) Tile, the brother of E. Tile, the sportsman. This meant, virtually, the scrapping of two years’ work, when the researchers were given their new briefing, and sent out all over again in an effort to discover some game, or some act in some game, of cricket, in which gamesmanship was not involved.

  But results are beginning to come in now. Four instances have been recorded from Surrey alone. By 1949 there should be something in print. Till then, good l
uck to the G.R.C.(C), and good hunting. The chapter on ‘Spectatorship’, or the ‘art of winning the watching’ as it has been called, is to be, I am glad to say, in the able hands of Colonel Debenham.

  Note. Historians of gamesmanship often ask the following question: ‘It is said that there is some mystery about the connexion between cricket and G. Odoreida, the celebrated gamesman. What is it?’

  The answer is simple. There is no mystery, for the facts are known. Odoreida did well in his early cricketing days as a spectator, particularly at Old Trafford. He was the first to enclose the Complete Records of Cricket in the cover of Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, so that when, in order to win an argument, he was ‘recalling’, say, Verity’s bowling average of 1931, he was able to achieve accuracy up to two places of decimals, while to the admiring onlookers it seemed that he was casually verifying the time of a train.

  But this spectatorship of Odoreida’s soon had too many imitators: and after he took to the game itself, he was never really successful. When it came to such straightforward irritation gambits as the movements of sightscreens, Odoreida found that the ordinary average cricketer could outgame him every time. Some of the devices he fell back upon were not very happily chosen. He spent an entire season acquiring absolute ambidexterity as a batsman. Coming in eighth wicket down, he was able to irritate an already wearied field by playing alternate balls left-and right-handed, forcing the fielders to change position after each delivery. As a bowler (according to F. Meynell, quoting H. Farjeon), his habit was to shout ‘no ball’, imitating the accent and voice of the umpire, as the ball left his hand. This gambit got him an occasional wicket, but it was frowned upon by the older generation of gamesmen.

  8

  Lost Game Play

  … for the game is one of a series,

  And a fractional loser thou.

  The value of gamesmanship as a training for the British citizen, and for young people in particular, is shown not only in the special qualities it enhances among those who habitually find themselves on the losing side. If it is true that the typical Britisher never knows when he has lost, it is true of the typical gamesman that his opponent never knows when he has won.

  The true gamesman knows that the game is never at an end. Game-set-match is not enough. The winner must win the winning. And the good gamesman is never known to lose, even if he has lost.

  To take one example. Tony Gillies was no snooker player, and no golfer either. But he had this gift – of turning defeat into something very near complete victory. If the match was ‘serious’ – Club event or handicap – he would paint himself as the Abe Mitchell of club golf, who had won everything but the cup. He would bring out astonishing details of unpopular members who had won the event, and refer to their dull struggles, their antlike methods of overcoming difficulties … characters without temperament, and without interest.

  Conversely, of course, if the match he lost had been ‘only a friendly’, he would say, ‘I don’t think I’ve won a friendly match this year. There is some devilish twist in my character which condemns me only to win a match if it is really important. Sheer blind desperation, I suppose.’

  Bookmanism

  This is the place to mention the basic Lost Game Play originated, I believe, by Rupert Duff, of water-polo fame. And I should like to say here that I bear no grudge against the followers of the Oxford Group for their punning use of the term ‘Buchmanite’ transliterated from my own ‘Bookmanite’, ‘Bookmanism’, etc. But let me remind readers that the term Bookmanism, in its original sense, bore no reference to gamesmanship in religion, but was used to cover that small, highly specialized, but very valuable ploy in the Lost Game, which includes the possession of books on the game, and the knowledge of the right moment to recommend them, and to lend them.

  This is more effective even than the suggestion that your opponent, ‘now that he is doing so well’, should ‘have a couple of lessons from the pro (and mind you stick to what he says)’. In at least three respects it is more likely to undermine his game.

  ‘Take my tip,’ you say to him, ‘and study this little book by Z. It’s worth a dozen practice games. Don’t take another practice shot till you’ve mastered the first twelve chapters. Then make up your mind to put into execution what you’ve learnt. Even if it means losing a game or two’.

  Use of Bookmanism in Opponent’s Putt-Play

  I am supposed to be something of a fanatic in the use of Bookmanship where golf is concerned. I have collected a small library of books on the different aspects of the game. The book I select for lending is determined when I have decided which aspect of my winning opponent’s play it is most advisable to undermine. But, in general, all ‘golfgamesters’ are agreed that ‘the putt is the thing to go for’, ‘ANALYSE YOUR OPPONENT’S PUTTING’ is the Golden Rule. Ask him what muscles he brings into play, and from what part of the body the ‘sequence of muscular response’ begins. To deal with opponents who say that they ‘aren’t aware of using any muscles in particular’, O.G.A. are issuing the accompanying diagram-leaflet, with instructions on how to present it. (See opposite.)

  Fig. 15. IMPORTANT: This illustration, taken from p. 472 of Weil’s Primer of Putting, should not be shown to opponent until the third week.

  Gamesmaniana

  Random Jottings of an Old Gamesman

  By

  ‘Wayfarer’

  ‘… And the gamesman’s gone from the ghyll.’

  When the first crocus breaks cover, and the branches of the still-bare trees are peopled once more with sound as the birds begin to practise their spring song, that is the time when the hearts of gamesmen, young and old, stir at the thoughts of triumphs to come. They stir in another way, too, when the last leaf falls and the branches grow silent – stir with memories, then, of a season past, remembrance echoing with the small victories, the tiny conquests, recalling to their minds some grand old phrases of the gamesplay – ‘Losemanys Hamper’, or ‘the weak heart of Morteroy’, memories of the triumphs and failures of the gamesacre.

  Which reminds me – by the way – that the Old Gamesman’s Association continues to grow. O.G.A. or ‘the Ogres’, as they are affectionately called, meet twice a year to deliver judgement on their validity, as a body, and to describe advances in technique. Welcome, also, to the new Ogre tie – and what a sensible notion it was to make the colours and pattern of this special tie precisely the same as that worn by the I. Zingaris! This has the triple advantage of (1) doing away with the need of designing a special tie, (2) allowing the gamesman to be mistaken for one who has the very exclusive honour of belonging to I.Z., and (3) irritating any genuine I.Z. against whom the gamesman happens to be playing.

  A Queer Match

  No, the O.G.s don’t take themselves too seriously. And what a good thing that is! I had the good fortune to be present at the celebrated badminton match between G. Odoreida and the Yugo-Slav champion Bzo in the West Regional Finals – one of the longest games I have ever watched. Both were poor players. Both were at the height of their gamesmanship powers. The match started a good hour before the game began. Odoreida kept Bzo’s taxi waiting twelve minutes and then was short of change when the time came for payment. But the younger player succeeded in exacting his share and came out of it a shilling to the good, only to find himself one rum and orange to the bad on the drink exchange before their sandwich lunch. In the changing-room Bzo prettily pleaded a cut on the palm of his right hand, which he had swathed elaborately in a special grip-improving elastoplast earlier in the morning. Odoreida Frith-Morteroyed in reply, displaying his little finger, the top joint of which was missing. ‘Jet plane,’ he said. ‘The skin has just healed.’ This was dangerous, for many of us knew that the accident happened thirty-five years ago, when Odoreida caught his finger in the chain of a toy tricycle.

  The game itself started with some efficient crowd play. Odoreida opened by exchanging jokes with the umpire, and Bzo countered by patting the head of the shuttlecock boy and comically p
retending to be hurt when a return from Odoreida hit him gently in the middle of the chest. Odoreida drew level by smashing into the net on purpose, after the umpire had (quite correctly) given a line-cock decision in his favour. The applause had hardly died down when Bzo jumped into the lead again. Odoreida had made the mistake of achieving his first hard shot of the game, and Bzo made no attempt to reach it but stood stock still, shaking his head from side to side in whimsical respect, and sporting acknowledgement of his opponent’s skill. Odoreida did well soon after this by discovering a ‘sprung string’ in his racquet and asking with delightful informality whether ‘anyone had got another bat’ as he had not got a spare. This double thrust shook Bzo for a few points, but he soon pulled himself together by asking a spectator ‘not to wave his programme about’ as it was ‘bang in his opponent’s line of sight’. Bzo seemed in full spate. Odoreida, now badly rattled, fought back well with a couple of broken shoe-laces and a request for a lump of sugar. Thus gambit after gambit was tried, and each in turn was effectively countered. After an hour’s play they were still on the first game and the score was deuce for the sixtieth time, when suddenly Bzo came up to the net and spoke as follows:

  ‘Let’s’ (or ‘Why not let’s’) drop gamesmanship and just play?’

  Odoreida assented and the game was then played, to the end. It had, of course, lost all interest to the more understanding spectators, who were puzzled, to say the least, although a small group applauded.

  At the same time, I do not feel we should blame them too heavily. For