Heads You Win

“I think you’ll find that it’s scheduled for four o’clock this afternoon, Edward,” said Jenkins, handing over the letter of confirmation, with the Senior Tutor’s unmistakable signature scrawled along the bottom.

“Could you give me an hour or so, old chap, so I can rustle up the rest of my team?”

“I’m afraid not, Edward. The match is in the fixture list for four o’clock this afternoon, which leaves us,” he said, checking his watch, “sixteen minutes before play will commence. Otherwise it will be recorded as a whitewash.” The Oxford team were already celebrating.

“But I can’t possibly round up my entire team in sixteen minutes. Do be reasonable, Gareth.”

“Can you imagine what the reaction would have been had Montgomery said to Rommel, ‘Can you hold up the battle of El Alamein for an hour or so, old chap, I’ve got the wrong day and my men aren’t ready?’”

“This is not El Alamein,” replied Streator.

“Clearly not for you,” was Jenkins’s response.

“But I’ve only got one member of my team on hand,” said Streator, sounding even more frustrated.

“Then he’ll have to take on all eight of us,” said Jenkins, who paused before adding, “at the same time.”

“But—” protested Streator.

“That’s fine by me,” said Sasha.

“This should be amusing,” said Jenkins. “Not so much El Alamein as the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Streator reluctantly led the Oxford team out of the lodge and across the court to the Junior Combination Room, where two college servants were quickly setting up a row of chessboards on the refectory table. Streator kept looking at the clock and then glancing toward the doorway in the hope that at least one other member of the team might turn up. But all he saw was a mass of undergraduates flooding in to witness the forthcoming annihilation.

The eight Oxford players took their places at the boards, ready for combat. Sasha, like Horatio, stood alone on the bridge, while Streator and Jenkins, as match referees, took up their positions at either end of the table.

As the clock on the wall struck four, Jenkins declared, “Time. Let the matches commence.”

Oxford’s top board moved his queen’s pawn two squares forward. Sasha responded by advancing his king’s pawn one square, just as the Cambridge captain came rushing into the hall.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, catching his breath. “I thought the match was next week.”

“Mea culpa,” admitted Streator. “Why don’t you take the second board, as the match has only just begun?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Jenkins. “Our man has already made his first move, so the match is under way. Therefore your captain is no longer eligible to take part.”

Streator would have complained if he hadn’t thought Field Marshal Montgomery’s name would have been taken in vain a second time.

The Oxford second board made his opening move. Sasha countered immediately, as more undergraduates wandered into the hall to watch the challenger as he moved on to the next board. Within a few minutes, two more members of the Cambridge team had appeared, but they were also obliged to watch the encounter from the sidelines.

Sasha defeated his first opponent within twenty minutes, which was greeted with a warm round of applause. The next dark blue king fell eleven minutes later, by which time the whole of the Cambridge team were present, but as the hall was so packed they had to watch the proceedings from the balcony above.

The third and fourth Oxford men took a little longer to surrender to Sasha’s particular skills, but they nonetheless fell within the hour, by which time there was standing room only in the hall and the balcony was heaving with undergraduates, and even a few elderly dons.

The next three Oxford players kept Sasha occupied for another half hour, but eventually they too succumbed, leaving only their top board remaining on the battlefield. Be patient, Sasha could hear his father saying. Eventually he’ll make a mistake. And he did, twenty minutes later, when Sasha sacrificed a rook and the Oxford captain left an opening that he would regret in another seven moves when Sasha declared, for the eighth time, “Checkmate.”

Oxford’s top board rose from his place, shook hands with Sasha, and bowed low. “We are unworthy,” he said, which was greeted with spontaneous applause.

“I do believe that’s a whitewash,” said Streator once the applause had died down. “And I think it’s only fair to warn you, Gareth, that young Karpenko is a freshman, and I’ll make sure I get the right date when we visit you next year.”

*   *   *

Sasha wondered if he’d ever get used to a woman paying for a round of drinks. “Have you considered standing for the Union committee?” Fiona asked him as she handed him a lager.

He took a sip, which gave him time to think about his response. “What would be the point?” he eventually said. “I can’t even make up my mind which party I support, so who would even consider voting for me?”