Perpetual Check (5 page)

Randy enters the conference room. He takes a glazed doughnut off a tray and eats it, then looks around for a napkin. He finds a stack of them, but his fingers still feel sticky. So he goes back to the lobby and enters the bathroom to wash his hands.

A toilet flushes and an energetic kid with very short hair and slightly crossed eyes pops out of the stall. He's wearing a letterman's jacket that says Holy Cross Baseball. “How's it going?” he asks, vigorously washing his hands at the sink next to Randy's.

“I'm all right. Are you Brian Burke?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm Randy Mansfield. I think we play first thing.”

Burke sticks out a wet hand and Randy shakes it. Burke's grip is strong, and he has big shoulders. “You stay here last night?” he asks.

Randy nods.

“I went home after the matches. Just got back about five minutes ago. What'd I miss?”

“Nothing much. Some of them played cards.”

“Figured I'd sleep better in my own bed,” Burke says. “We only live about ten minutes away.” He runs his hand over his chin, peering into the mirror and checking a few small zits. He pushes the door open with his shoulder and says, “See you out there.”

And for the first time all weekend, Randy begins to feel nervous. He takes a deep inhale, but his heart is pounding and his stomach feels cold. He can taste those fried eggs.

The clock in the lobby says 8:54. He walks back to the conference room and looks at the brackets again.

Eskederian and Malone are over by one of the windows, laughing. Jenna McNulty is seated at the table where her first match will be, chin in one hand, staring at the floor. Zeke is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, glancing around. Brian Burke is doing
push-ups
over in the corner.

Randy looks for his father, but he isn't in the room. Randy is beyond nervous now; he's scared.

The tournament's Regional Director—Dr. Thomas Kerrigan— is at the registration table, checking his bracket sheet. He's a
somewhat dour man who teaches in the Classics Department at the University of Scranton, which is directly across the street from the hotel. He looks at his wristwatch, says something to his assistant, and asks the players to take their seats for the next round.

FOUR
Fourth-and-Goal

Zeke walks as casually as he can toward the table at the back of the room, where Derek Pham is waiting. He avoids eye contact with Randy. He's seen the brackets; he knows they could be facing each other this afternoon.

As hard as Zeke works in sports, as much limited success as he's had, there's that realization bubbling just beneath the surface that Randy would be a better athlete than Zeke if he wanted to be. Randy'd been such a good soccer player when he was little, dominating games as a first grader against other kids from town in the YMCA league on the narrow field next to the river. He had agility and a natural touch on the ball, plus a good sense of the game. He seemed to love every second of it—the practices, the pregame warm-ups, the “Go-oooooo
Falcons!” cheers. The coach, who was the mother of one of the girls on the team, laughed all the time and didn't try very hard to impart any strategy.

When January came, the soccer program resumed on the Y's creaky indoor basketball court, with fewer players per side and those soft, cloth-covered balls that don't bounce much on the wood. Mr. Mansfield volunteered to coach, so of course Randy ended up on his dad's team, the Panthers. Zeke, a fourth grader and a fine player already, was drafted to help as a junior assistant.

The team developed into an aggressive, good-passing unit that easily won every game and rarely gave up a goal. Randy ended up in tears after two of the games, but he kept playing for a few more seasons before deciding soccer wasn't for him.

As for Zeke, except for that assistant-coaching stint, he's never had a chance to be the big brother in the equation. Randy was always the better student, always had more friends. He also found that first girlfriend, and he usually whips Zeke's butt in chess.

It's clear to Zeke that their father has pretty much written Randy off as an athlete, but this chess thing might be a decent consolation. They never hear the end of how Mr. Mansfield was a year-round athlete back in high school, playing on the kickoff and punt teams in football, getting some decent time on the JV basketball squad before being cut as a senior, and earning a letter in baseball despite spending most of the season recording stats from the bench. He never won a championship or anything, but always said he could have if he'd been given a fair shot at it. And he was sure he could have made the baseball
team at Bergen Community College but passed up the chance to walk on because of his blistering academic load.

So he was only too happy to impart all he'd learned to his sons. That's why he'd have Zeke up at the high school tennis courts in fourteen-degree weather endlessly practicing his serve. He told Zeke that he saw everything that he'd been in his older son, and he wasn't about to let circumstances screw this kid out of his well-deserved stardom.

Randy glances nervously at his father, who's sitting in a row of folding chairs at one end of the room. The parents and other spectators are not allowed to speak to the players during the games; any coaching would be grounds for disqualification. So Randy swallows hard and takes his seat across from Brian Burke.

Burke has his sleeves rolled up. His slightly crossed eyes are fixed on the board.

Randy has the white pieces, so he'll move first. The clock is to his right; it's a simple device with buttons on top to start and stop the timer as each player makes a move. Each player in this tournament has thirty minutes per game; his or her time begins as soon as the opponent hits the clock.

Randy didn't use even a third of his time in either game last night. He takes a deep breath, starts the clock, moves a pawn two spaces forward to d4, and smacks the button to shift the time over to Burke.

Burke looks surprised, as if Randy's extremely basic opening move was something original and daring. He hesitates with
one hand over his queenside knight, then blinks slowly and puts the hand to his mouth.

After nearly a minute, Burke makes a move that mirrors Randy's, shifting a pawn to d5 and sitting back with his arms folded across his chest.

Randy holds back a smile.
This guy won two games last night?
He immediately brings out his queenside bishop and looks up to try to meet Burke's eyes. But Burke is squinting intently at the board. And again he makes an identical move with his own bishop.

Randy guesses this is how Burke always plays when he has black, mirroring his opponent for a series of moves before establishing himself. But he senses that Burke is waiting for him to make an error rather than going on the attack.

Randy develops his queenside knight, moves a second pawn, and soon castles on that same side. He's already in a position of strength, controlling the center of the board. Burke is tapping a finger loudly on the table. Jenna McNulty, at an adjacent table, shoots him an icy look and he stops.

Burke is taking a long time with his next move, and Randy's eyes drift over to Jenna's board. He recognizes her strategy right away, an adventurous opening known as the Sicilian Dragon. It's the same game Zeke usually plays, so Randy's become proficient at dismantling it.

Burke makes an ill-advised move, and Randy swiftly captures his queen with a knight. Burke retaliates by taking the knight with a pawn, but the exchange of pieces is greatly in Randy's favor. He wipes out that same pawn with his bishop, and Burke's frown grows deeper.

Ten minutes,
Randy thinks, calculating how long it'll be
before he wins the game. Astonishingly, Pramod is already on his feet a few tables away, shaking hands with his opponent and smirking. Randy watches him leave the room, then looks back at his own board.

“Check,” Burke says, gesturing with a finger toward his bishop, which is attacking Randy's king.

Randy purses his lips and ponders whether to take the bishop with his rook or his queen. He decides on the rook. Burke lets out a sigh and slumps a bit in his seat.

Randy's material advantage grows quickly, and it becomes obvious that Burke is playing for a draw. The early loss of his queen is fatal, though, and Randy forces checkmate a few minutes later.

All of the other games are still in progress. Randy heads for the door, and his father follows him out.

“Was he any good?” Mr. Mansfield asks.

Randy shrugs. “He made some absurdly bad moves.”

“Probably choked.”

“Seemed like it.”

“Could you tell how your brother was doing?”

Randy shakes his head. “He was on the totally other side, practically de-roomed from me.”

“I'm sure he's doing fine… We had a little pep talk before he went in.”

Burke comes out of the room in his letterman's jacket and walks past, shaking his head slowly. “Nice game,” he says.

“You, too.”

Burke laughs. “I sucked. Don't know where my head was at.”

“There's a lot of pressure,” Randy says. “It's easy to mess up.”

“Yeah, well, good luck the rest of the way. I'm out of here.”

“Don't feel too bad,” Mr. Mansfield says. “You probably lost to the champion.”

“Dad.”

“What?”

“Don't get carried away. There's some ass-kicking players in there.”

“Be one of them.”

“Easy to say.”

Malone exits the room, followed a few seconds later by Jenna McNulty. Both are smiling.

“Let's go in,” Mr. Mansfield says. “See what your brother is up to.”

Zeke is frowning deeply—nearly a scowl—and is staring at his black king, which is the only piece he has left. Derek Pham has just a queen to go with his king, but he's forcing Zeke toward the corner of the board and his victory seems inevitable.

An Asian couple is standing as close to the table as they're permitted, about twenty feet away, and beaming with pride. Pham himself is showing no emotion, but he quickly moves his queen and sits back.

Zeke lets out a snorty laugh, gives Pham a hard look, and says, “Stalemate.” He stands up and takes a few steps away while Pham stares openmouthed at the board. Zeke is not in check, but he has no legal moves that would not
put
him in check. So the game is a draw.

Zeke makes a big show of sitting back down and sweeping the white pieces over to his side. “Need a break?” he asks somewhat pointedly.

Pham shakes his head and sets up the black pieces. And they start over.

Zeke moves rapidly now, keeping a sharp gaze on Pham between moves. Pham is clearly flustered from his stumble in the previous game, and Zeke takes control of the center of the board. He wins easily, smacks his right fist loudly into his left palm, and reaches across to shake Pham's hand.

Zeke's is the last game to finish, and the remaining players are milling around in the lobby, waiting to begin the quarterfinals. He's permitted a twenty-minute break, even if the other games begin on time.

The new matchups are quickly posted: