COLD WAR DAYS – IMAGES OF A SURREALISTIC PAWN AMONGST CHESS MASTERS, WRITES ERIC LASTICK

Once spread a campfire on a rustic cold late summer with a former Chess King on the Dis-ta Not Boris!

(My Version and how i see it) To the coldest of New York winter’s…and to the stalls of avenue street lights of wind-blown hazy snows. Pegged like stick-on’s. Frozen walkers. Frozen breaths in the night air, seemingly to never leave—as my mind in the mire of the images of my 1962 Black Bug, wedged and avalanches on a local side street of a New York city drive—–sustained! My friend Bobby, a recluse and reprobate of his own brand of sweeping negativity. Renounce of an age of all religion…somehow & in some crazy way, has requested me as his practitioner…and opposite on his heavy inundated sole chess board of the uncommon, in an opportunity to be a kind of intellectual sparing partner; or just someone to forward the knighted horse handed Bishop…as the pawn that i was…and that i am. Our other friend, Steve, a Domino king in his own writ—–said that Bobby needed someone to hep hone his craft…and help learn a social type of language, by picking me? A lost tenured former small college English professor—-with a proclivity to tilt the bottle a bit to often, and at most inopportune times! Steve, the Domino champion, always felt that Central Park’s own Social security Grey hairs…and  day trippers of the passers by—-with cigar smoke and luncheonette stops, in the bested of your move, then his move.  (CHECK MATE!’) 

So in all this ballyhoo of all our January’s…New Years…old hats…old crews. Old but unwise, too a precocious young Wiz, booting through the thick of snow. The inner rain. Warmth out of the storm. Shovel and hollow-out, like a gilded caravan, too meet at the Chess table…& another take of the Queen—-taking for-granted just how good Bobby really is—while i lose another practice match, looking out windows of ice freezing rain, and nod to the pained of a real master. A player about to go all crackers. (“INSANE”) Odd, but what’s new. Bobby needed a rival. Yet i kept asking myself in quiet mind: “Why me?” —As i lose once again. I raise my head in exhaustion…so sincere of a winter storm, of high packed winds that just will not go away. There are no pleasures at this very table. Squared a board of the calculated. Yet in reflection, it taught him how to win.To even be on schedule as his simulated Russian martyr—too another red-eye loss; though this one time, i actually won! It was crushing for him…as it made him work harder and harder, although this part will never be known. Soon he will be world renowned…world known; as i sit in the day of a lonely table, giving strength, by losing, but making it tougher and tougher on his mind…our mind’s. Inter-connected!

There was a cold War going on. There was also Bobby’s War of mind. Chess was all of life. Relating to everything. I proudly held those coat tails …and gladly watched the match of Television—attached rabbit ears of the early nineteen seventies. And though i never got there…& never received mention, i felt a part of something. Something big! N0, not a second best. Not a seat at all—-too one American…one Russian, Fought on a game board of War not peace! Ironically, there never really was any peace. No peace of mind in which he never had.

AT THAT LAST ICELANDIC ICED, LATE GOODBYE; A hardy sip of good Russian Vodka, with the sounds of the Kodiak…and cross shooting stars. Cool too cold. The look and feel of the sounds of hot springs, whale watch waters. Late Summer campfire burn of flames of his angst. Bitter of his own…as i could not persuade him. Now the chess king, though it now was yesterday’s news. He strung so many negative issues. I suggested to not look back.’One must move forward, yet too no avail…as to leave abrupt with backpack, solely down hill. I watched and i tried to explain it to myself that he would get past the pain of mind. The soaks of genius which often becomes a terrible place.Then it all just fades away, yet the biggest Chess victory ever!