It’s not Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. You’ll never find yourself on the corner of Grant and Royal.
The squares are each designated by a letter and a number, sixty-four squares. The rows are labeled “a” through “h” and the columns “one” through “eight.” The square in the lower left is a1 while the one at the top right is h8
They’re tough streets. Just last week a Bishop was slain at the intersection of Avenue C and 4th Street. And a few days ago, my son, Chris, was there. He got there through the Internet Chess Club portal. I was watching him play.
The Internet Chess Club attracts the best players in the world, and it attracts the rest of us too. Chris was playing a fifteen-minute game. His position was better than his opponent. His opponent had a light square weakness. Chris was exploiting it nicely.
I was watching, and commenting as the game proceeded (talking to myself). Chris couldn’t hear me, but the game would have turned out differently if he had.
The game reached a critical point. His opponent played his Knight to e4 blocking his Queen’s defense of critical light squares. Chris didn’t hesitate, he immediately played his Queen to f3 threatening mate on g2.

His opponent moved his Knight to g5 attacking the Queen and the Bishop, and preventing the mate on g2.
The move Queen takes the pawn on f2 checking the White King followed.
The King forced to retreat moved to the only legal square, h1, allowing a forced mate.
I was talking out loud again.
“Queen f1 check,” I said. “Rook takes Queen. Rook takes Rook mate.”
He didn’t play it immediately. “Queen f1,” I said, a little louder. I was trying to stay calm—it wasn’t working. “Queen f1,” I shouted.
I kept thinking: He must see it. Why isn’t he moving? What’s he waiting for? He has 12 minutes on the clock, if he’ll just take a minute he’ll see it. It’s a simple calculation—it’s a Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess position.
Finally, he made his move.
“No! Damn I can’t believe you missed that,” I said, as I watched him retreat the Bishop. I couldn’t watch anymore. I disconnected from the chess server, but continued yelling at him. Asking him what the hell was wrong with him.
My wife, hearing the commotion, hurried into the room.
“What’s the matter,” she said, “are you okay?”
“It’s Chris,” I said.
“Is he hurt, what’s wrong,” she said.
I quickly assured her that he was okay.
“He had an easy mate and missed it. I can’t believe it. Two moves I couldn’t watch anymore,” I said.
“A chess game?” she said.
It took me a minute to calm down.
I said, “Chris is coming over later tonight for dinner and a movie. Why don’t you call him and see what he wants to eat. Oh, and while you’re at you could say this. . .”
I wrote down a list of the moves he missed along with my comments, on a slip of paper, and handed it to my wife.
“I have no idea what the moves mean, she said, “but I get the point, he screwed up.” She laughed, picked up the phone and dialed.
“It’s your mom.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”
“Jesus Christ Chris, Queen f1 check!” she said. “And Rook takes Queen, Rook takes Rook mate! What were you thinking?”
I had to laugh. What must my son be thinking, “What fucking game is she talking about? It has to be the one I played on the internet earlier. Dad must have told her what to say.”
“Funny, real funny, mom” he said to her. “Oh and tell dad two can play at this game.”
