The Chess Player

Every afternoon after school, Luis walked through Washington Square Park on his way home. And every afternoon, the same old man was sitting at the same stone table near the fountain, with a chessboard in front of him and a small sign that said: "Chess. One dollar. Beat me and I pay you ten."

The old man's name was Walter. He wore a gray coat even in summer, and he hardly ever spoke. People said he had played chess in the park for forty years. Tourists, students and businessmen sat down in front of him, put a dollar on the table and lost, usually in less than fifteen minutes.

Luis was sixteen. His parents came from the Dominican Republic, and his grandfather had taught him chess on the balcony of their apartment in Washington Heights. He was good, but was he good enough? "If I played him, I would lose in five minutes," he told his friend Kevin. "If I were you, I'd try," Kevin said. "It's only a dollar."

For weeks, Luis just watched. He noticed that Walter always started with the same move, that he tapped the table when he was thinking, and that he never smiled, even when he won. Luis began to imagine the moment he would finally beat him. What would he do with the ten dollars? Would he frame the bill and hang it on his wall? Would Walter shake his hand?

One cold afternoon in November, the park was almost empty. Luis put a dollar on the table and sat down. Walter looked at him for a long moment. "I've seen you," he said. "You watch. Good. Most people don't."

The game lasted almost an hour. Luis lost, but it was close, much closer than anyone else's game that month. When it was over, Walter pushed the dollar back across the table. "Keep it," he said. "Come back tomorrow."

Luis came back the next day, and the day after that. Walter never let him win, but he started to explain his moves: why he attacked here, why he waited there. Slowly, Luis understood that the old man was teaching him.

In the spring, Luis finally won. Walter looked at the board, nodded, and took a ten-dollar bill out of his coat. For the first time, he smiled. Luis held the bill in his hand and realized he didn't want to frame it. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd rather play again."

Walter laughed, a deep, rusty laugh. "If everyone were like you," he said, "I would be a poor man." Then he set up the pieces, and they played until the streetlights came on.