Page 95 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Grandmaster waffles.”
“But why the angry face?”
“That’s your game face.”
“I donotlook like this when I play,” I inform him.
“True. You typically save your best scowls for me.”
I stab the waffle with my butter knife in the center of its forehead. “I do.”
His body shakes with laughter as he fetches me the butter and maple syrup.
After breakfast, I sit cross-legged on the floor in the living room and thumb through the playbook Vince has created. I start with the rundown on my first opponent of the day. Statical probabilities of his white opening move based on an average of all his games from the past three years. My potential opening move if I’m white, and based on that move, the statistical probability of his black move.
Vince takes a seat on the couch behind me, giving my shoulders a rub.
“I never knew having an oddsmaker for amanagerwould come in so handy.”
“I’m handy,” Vince agrees, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
I continue flipping, coming to last page of the handbook. My potential opponent, should I make it to the last round:Grandmaster Wesley Morrell. And this time, I’m not letting him off the hook.
We arrive at the convention center in Philly, my coach waiting for us in the lobby. “You ready?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“Ricordate cosa abbiamo praticato. Rimanete fedeli alla vostra strategia, ma non abbiate paura di cambiare rotta se necessario. Soprattutto, tenete sotto controllo le vostre emozioni.”Remember what we practiced. Stay true to you strategy, but don’t be afraid to change course if need be. Most importantly, keep your emotions in check.
I nod, more than ready to do this.
Player, coach, andmanager, we all check in, receiving our lanyards and instructions, and I make a beeline for the nearest chair. Grabbing my headphones from my backpack, I put them on and close my eyes. My pregame ritual is simply zoning out. I don’t even listen to anything; the headphones are simply a deterrent to keep people from talking to me.
Vince nudges me. “You’re up. Give ‘em hell.”
I pass him my headphones in exchange for a soda, marching across the floor to my table. Situating myself, I pop the top and take a sip before extending my hand to my opponent, who looks like he might pass out.
That’s his problem, not mine.
The game commences with my opponent making the Sicilian opening move. Internally, I’m smiling. Vince calculated this to be a forty-four percent probability.
Shaking Vince out of my head, I get into my zone, moving my black pawn and locking in the move.
Play proceeds, with sweat dripping down my opponent’sface. It’s his move, and he lurchers forward, spraying puke all over the board.
“Oh my God!” I cry, shoving back from the table.
He hits pause on the clock, and I aggressively wave an arbiter over.
The man hustles to our table. “Is there a…” He notices the problem, his face turning green, and it’s his turn to puke.
I pinch my nose.
The tournament director hustles over, and thankfully, the man has a stronger stomach than the arbiter. “Do you need a medic?”
“No, let’s continue play,” my opponent says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If it’s agreeable to you both, we’ll get a new board set up.”
