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Chess in Harvard Square
There's a place in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where humans, birds and wooden horses can be seen fighting for their lives. Chess players gather together in a small, outdoor courtyard with their sandwiches, cigarettes and cups of coffee, and engage one another in frequently fought battles while the birds feed off the crumbs the humans leave behind. The tensions in the square lower a bit at the end of each game, and tensions raise again with the arrival of a regular in the courtyard, who is sometimes armed with a chess set, and perhaps, a water pistol to keep the birds away.
I love chess. Whenever I get the chance these days, I head over to the Harvard Square courtyard with my chess set (I like the birds and leave my water pistol at home) and set up shop for the afternoon. Temperature permitting, that is. If it's too cold to play outside, there are usually tables available inside Au Bon Pain, the shop which immediately faces the courtyard. Sundays are the best days to go. Parking in Harvard Square is free on Sundays, and I have had one parking ticket too many.
From the time I was 9 or ten years old, the world of chess to me seemed strange but inviting. Filled with passionate players and positions and strategies with colorful names like King's Gambit and the Nimzo-Indian Defense, the game intrigued me with its seemingly infinite variations and combinations, its mathematical beauty and its global culture. As a youngster, I also felt comfort in knowing that the rules of of the game are absolute and unbreakable. It didn't matter if my partner was more experienced than I was. All that mattered to me was that I knew the rules and could play the game with anyone. It was a thrill when I won; it was educational when I lost; and nearly every time, win or lose, the next thing to do was to set up the board and play again. I was never afraid to lose.
Another aspect of the game that I love is being able to add the dimension of time by using a chess clock. During the game the clock tracks how much time each player uses (the older, analog clocks would physically signal the end of the countdown by dropping a small flag), but the clock also places a finite limit on the time available for thought, which would otherwise be theoretically infinite. Believe me, playing without a clock with long periods between moves can sometimes feel like an eternity. In a timed game, there is less time to think between moves but the clock creates a pleasant surprise by inviting instinct and intuition to work alongside intellect.
Time itself can be a dispassionate opponent. However, if I find that I'm playing a losing game - and I can't play for a draw, where neither side wins - it's still possible to "win on time" by changing strategies. Evading, stonewalling or otherwise disrupting a player's momentum can prevail if that player's flag drops first. The clock can become a second partner as easily as a second opponent.
The years went by and I played fewer and fewer games. I still had my set and was always happy to play, but it became harder to find a partner who was both fun to play and had the same inexhaustible hunger as I did. Playing game after game until my head hurt actually felt good, and it was one of the first experiences in my life where I found I could regularly enter a state of mental flow. Chess in the square has rekindled my interest in the game and taught me several lessons.
Arriving in Harvard Square with a chess set is the key to entering a foreign and sometimes uninviting world. There are always more players than there are chess sets, so the act of bringing a set to play with is often seen as a service to everyone. Several of the regulars speak little or no English, but sharing a mental vocabulary and a love of the game crosses all kinds of barriers. Chess is a universal language and the chess board becomes a universal interface.
The knowledge of the rules, which I took so much solace in knowing during my youth, didn't prepare me for the way the game is played in Harvard Square. Some years ago, I received a rude education one afternoon when a stone-faced fellow I was playing broke into a crooked grin and brought one of his pieces down on my king like a hammer. The game was over and I had lost. I didn't move my king to safety when it was in danger, which is technically an illegal but harmless move. In any tournament or chess club I would have been chastised but would be allowed to take back my move. The square has different rules, which I had just learned. If someone moves a piece into danger, even a king, it can be taken. Not everyone in the square plays this way, but most do.
On another occasion, as the afternoon faded into evening, I was listening to a street musician and his flamenco guitar when I realized that I had lost track of time and let my flag drop. My partner, a gigantic man wearing a tuxedo, kept playing and ended up losing several pieces and consequently the game. I pointed out afterwards that I had run out of time and he had actually won, but he simply shook his head and said he had lost. I learned another rule of the square that day, that to lose on time means nothing if one's partner doesn't notice it himself during the course of the game.
These seemingly made-up rules would have been completely incomprehensible to me at an early age. The absolute, unbreakable rules I once prized are absolutely breakable? In actuality, the only rule of the square is that the rules depend on the player. That can only make it a more interesting game, to be sure.
Harvard Square is a chaotic environment, but there is beauty to find in the chaos. The twinkling of Christmas lights decorating the trees in the courtyard, together with birdsong, music from multiple street musicians and smoke from someone's pipe or European cigarettes blend together and create an unusual counterpoint to the industrial sounds of busses and honking cars. What a perfect place to play chess.
~ Christefano, 15 January 2007
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