Amar moves his knight to C6, and I feel my lungs seize up.

It is my first game of chess against another human being in over ten years, and remembering

to breathe has become a problem.

When I first arrived at the chess club, hidden away on the shadowy second floor of an old

school hall, like some secret society, Amar greeted me with a kind smile and a friendly

handshake.

He had a soft voice and an Einstein mustache.

Now he is moving his knight to C6.

Sometimes, Amar makes his move slowly, thoughtfully.

Other times, he takes seconds, as if the order of play was preordained and he was just there

in some formal capacity as peace-mover.

What else can I say about Amar?

Oh yes, he is destroying me.

Halfway through the game, and his knight is running all over the place.

There is an intense pressure on the king side, where I have nestled my king into a little

foxhole near the ponds.

Both Amar's bishops and the queen are focusing in on my turtle monarch like a triple-barrel

laser.

Meanwhile, that knight gallo vans about the board, picking up a pawn there, a rook here.

Finally, I managed to shut it down, launching my second rook out of it like a breeze block.

But the damage is done.

Amar is methodically cutting off every possible avenue of attack or escape.

...