En Passant
Making the moves
This short (200-word) story came from a failure.
I had a longer fiction in mind; it was to be a tale of a young man on the wrong tracks, mentored to a point of redemption by a retired boxer with a gentle and patient character. I started it months ago when this publication was in its infancy. But the story never came to me.
This week Substack has been doing beautiful things with its app. It is gorgeous, ripe for readers and new discovery. Distracting for the distractible writer. As I swapped notes with Andrei Atanasov about the amount of time we were spending on ‘celebrating others’ I resolved to write something fresh.
This is what emerged from that previously-abandoned draft.
Cause for modest celebration.
You just know. The man opposite clings to a false hope that you are in trouble. They mistake the beads of sweat on your brow, furrowed with concentration, as a ‘tell’, as the first sign of fear. He rains blows down upon you, quickened moves, that insistent right hand jabbing away.
Sometimes you meet it head on, then you back off. You’re in control, breathing steadily. Your defence is stronger than all his aggressive moves, attack foundering on your adherence to the principles drummed into you by repetition. Lose in practice, win in competition. Words from a mentor, a mantra repeated like quick combinations. But this combatant should know better. He’s been here before. He should be able to read you like a book but somehow you disguise your intentions.
Your fingers ache, the ones you curl and uncurl as they hover above the chess pieces.
This old man looked skywards, alert now to the darkening sky. Humidity compresses the atmosphere adding to the tension of a finely-poised game. Their eyes meet. Two old friends whose bond had formed in the ring. Sparring, gladiatorial, one-on-one. Boxing is a metaphor for chess, and boxing is what he knows. What he knew.
Loved this! I’ve recently begun taking my first steps into the world of boxing, so can really feel this story. I hope I’ll be like that old man when I grow old. Patient, kind, but with a hidden strength about him.
Brain and brawn... there are so many, perhaps well disguised, parallels! Great writing Barrie, this made me think of an old bare knuckle fighter friend, long gone now but he played chess like pro, tired to teach me too even but sadly I’m all brawn!