Checkmate

February 2021

This is the third piece in a multi-part series on Sarajevo, in which I hope to capture and convey the various emotions I felt on my first journey there in 2019. 

In a small park in the center of Sarajevo, I came upon a large chessboard made of black-and-white pavement tiles roughly half a meter across. The board was topped by knee-height chess pieces made of plastic.

It was a warm summer evening, and a small crowd was gathered around the board, watching a match in progress. A balding Bosnian man in his late fifties or early sixties was prowling across the board, facing off against a young man (I later found out he was Turkish) wearing a grey T-shirt and basketball shorts-- he must have been twenty at most. Crowded at the south end of the park, sprawled on a bench found there, was a group of older men, clearly Middle-Aged Man’s friends. They playfully heckled their friend now and then, chatting amongst themselves the rest of the time. Clearly this was a regular gathering.

Young Turk--let’s call him that--was clearly not a regular. He was getting his ass kicked.

Middle-Aged Man was clearly toying with him, passing up easy kills in favor of unnecessary moves and flourishes, clearly designed to prolong the game. Clad in a green sweater, black skinny jeans, and Vans, Middle-Aged Man whistled to himself as he surveyed the board, cackling every time he took one of his opponent’s pieces. Every time he did so (and he did so often), his friends on the bench would groan, exhorting the kid--in English--to do better, not to let this bully beat him.

About fifteen minutes into the game, Middle Aged Man took Young Turk’s queen, singing extravagantly as he waltzed her off the board in his arms, twirling a few times for dramatic effect.

This was too much for his friends. A white-haired man in a purple polo waved Young Turk over. Leaning on a trash can, Purple Polo gestured at the board making a few sweeping motions as he spoke in a hushed voice, instructing his new protege on how to proceed.

Young Turk nodded, heading back to the board to execute his new strategy. Middle-Aged Man scoffed, cursing in Bosnian at his purple-topped friend.

What followed was a merry dance across the board, Middle-Aged Man and Purple Polo vying for dominance over this ten-meter square of pavement. Purple Polo had entered the fray late, with his side in poor shape, boasting only four pieces to his opponent’s seven. But he was a gamer. Under his savvy hand, Young Turk made those four pieces seem like eight, slowly cutting his deficit as he elegantly navigated his way across the board. Amidst a wave of pressure from Middle-Aged Man, Young Turk sprung a trap and counterattacked, swooping to claim Middle-Aged Man’s queen.

The men on the bench erupted in a cheer. Purple Polo, intently peering at the board, didn’t join in. Middle-Aged Man shook his head in chagrin. Game on.

Middle-Aged Man was no longer toying with his opponent; he’d ceased his chatter and spent a minute in quiet thought before every move. Now his friends turned up the pressure, taunting him to hurry up, suggesting he forfeit now...the usual nonsense.

But as the endgame began, their jeers began to ring hollow. Despite Purple Polo’s assistance, Young Turk had dug himself into too deep of a hole early on. He was down to three pieces, and Middle-Aged Man was fencing him in mercilessly, his smile growing as glimpsed victory approaching. It looked like game over.

But, poetically, in his moment of triumph, Middle-Aged Man overplayed his hand. Once more Purple Polo pointed, once more Young Turk strode over, and all of a sudden it was the bench’s turn to grin. In his rush to attack, Middle-Aged Man had left his king stuck in a corner, and what should have been a simply-avoided check instead became checkmate.

Middle-Aged Man scanned through his options for a minute, realized he had none, and slowly toppled his king, shaking his head wryly. Purple Polo smiled, golf-clapping at Young Turk as his compatriots on the bench cheered like Bosnia had just won the World Cup. Young Turk grinned bemusedly, flashing a thumbs-up to his savior.

Middle-Aged Man came over to shake Young Turk’s hand, asking where he was from (Ankara) and how long he would be in Bosnia for (two more days). He clapped his opponent on the back, told Young Turk to enjoy his time in town and come back again soon, and returned to his gaggle of friends.

Young Turk lingered for a bit before shouldering his backpack and proceeding on his way, waving goodbye to his new acquaintances as he left the park.

The crowd began to disperse, but the old men stayed at their bench, gesticulating animatedly as they broke down the night’s match. Their postgame show had just begun.