Perpetual Check Read online

  “I'll look at it after I eat.”

  “You play some unseeded kid named Brian Burke. From Holy Cross. What do you know about him?”

  “Everything you just told me.”

  “What?”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “He's in the final sixteen and you never heard of him? I'll tell you what, I guarantee he knows all about you.”

  “So?”

  “So you need to prepare yourself, Randy.” Mr. Mansfield picks up his coffee cup and looks into it. He scans the restaurant, then sets the cup down and puts the crust of toast into his mouth, chewing as he talks. “Anyway, after you beat him, you get—hold on.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a napkin. “I wrote it down. Either Lucy Ahada from Dunmore— she's seeded right ahead of you in fourth—or Ethan Rosenfeld from Midvale. You know them?”

  “Lucy beat me in a dual match a few weeks ago, but I figured her out. I can probably win. The guy from Midvale won't beat her. Not a chance.”

  “What's her game like? This Lucy Ahada?”

  “Deliberate. Patient. She loves her knights.”

  “Why'd she beat you?”

  “Because she's good.”

  “Was it close?”

  “Very.”

  Mr. Mansfield stares at Randy, not blinking, narrowing his eyes and looking cold.

  Randy glances away. When he looks back, his dad is still staring.

  “What?” Randy asks.

  Mr. Mansfield raises a finger and points to his right eye.

  “What?” Randy says again, losing patience.

  Mr. Mansfield gives a smirky half smile. “That's called intimidation,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It's our best weapon, pal.” He drops his voice and leans forward again. “Especially against a girl. You're all business out there, you hear me? Put on the game face and she'll fold up.”

  Randy bites down on his lip to keep from laughing. The waitress delivers his food, and Mr. Mansfield asks her for a fresh cup of coffee.

  Randy's nearly done with his meal when Zeke finally arrives. He's wearing an unbuttoned long-sleeved white shirt over a fresh T-shirt. Also Randy's sandals and no socks.

  “Success?” Randy asks.

  Zeke looks away from Randy but says, “Yep.”

  “You check the brackets?” Mr. Mansfield asks.

  “Not yet,” Zeke says.

  “You've got the eighth seed. Some kid from Hazleton. Phan something. Donald. Or Dennis.”

  “Derek Pham.”

  “Okay, so you know him. See, Randy? He's up on this stuff. He knows who's who.”

  “Whom's whom.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Very impressive.’” Randy shoves a large chunk of ham into his mouth, grabs his second piece of toast, and stands. “I'm going to my room to get cleaned up.”

  “Be down here no later than eight-thirty-five.”

  Randy salutes and walks away. When he turns back, Mr. Mansfield and Zeke are trying to stare each other down, working on Zeke's intimidation face.

  It's been more than two months since that play-off game, but Zeke can bring back every feeling, every emotion, within seconds. Almost inconceivably, they were outplaying the top-ranked team in the area, dominating the game even though neither side had scored yet.

  Zeke had the ball, well past midfield, with an open sideline before him and a couple of teammates running parallel. The angle was just right; he feinted once, then streaked past an Abington defender and sprinted into the clear. In a few more strides, he'd loft that ball toward the front of the goal.

  He can still feel his foot meeting the ball, sending a perfect pass toward Greg Foley, a can't-miss opportunity to score. Zeke felt a surge of adrenaline; he'd placed the ball just right.

  Somehow Greg fell down. A dry field, a wide-open space by the goal, but Greg was eating turf. The goalie booted the ball long and hard, and suddenly it was Abington with the numbers, with an onslaught of players near the Sturbridge goal as Zeke and Greg and the other forwards raced frantically back.

  Players went down, the ball flew off the field, and a red card went up. The penalty shot rippled the net. Zeke punched at the air and cursed.

  By halftime it was 3–0.

  He remembers walking off the field, right past his father, who was already complaining to the officials. “You were the best one out there,” Mr. Mansfield said, catching up.

  Zeke scowled, but he nodded. Whatever you say, Dad, he thought. But even then, he knew it wasn't true.

  Randy had come down from the bleachers and was walking cautiously toward his brother. Zeke looked up. “Don't say one frickin’ word,” he said sharply. He jabbed a finger in Randy's direction. “At least I was out there. At least I had the balls to try.”

  It's 8:21 when Randy enters his room. He clicks on the TV and finds a fishing show on ESPN. The TVs in the players’ rooms are blocked from tuning in the pay-per-view movies. Randy tried last night anyway.

  He takes one each of a black rook, bishop, pawn, knight, and the king and places them in predetermined positions on his chessboard, then does the same with a white bishop, rook, two pawns, and the king.

  He stares at the board for several seconds, then shifts the black rook three spaces forward. He smiles slightly and tips the white king onto its side.

  Last night was the first in his life that he ever spent alone, at least until Zeke showed up. He watched a college basketball game on TV, took a hot thirty-six-minute shower, and read the room-service menu and the description of the hotel's amenities.

  Randy has his own bedroom at home, but there's never been a night when at least one of his parents wasn't under the same roof. Lately he's started to wonder when the time will come that his parents are always under different roofs.

  He enters the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and picks up the small containers of shampoo, conditioner, and skin cream and drops them into his gym bag.

  He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. His short, straight brown hair is parted on one side, and his ears stick out slightly. He turns on the hot-water faucet and dampens his fingers, then runs them through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and having it fall a bit more symmetrically to each side.

  He tucks in his T-shirt and grabs a long-sleeved brown corduroy shirt from his bag and puts it on, buttoning it up and nodding at himself in the mirror.

  He checks the clock: 8:33. So he looks around the room, picks up the key from the dresser, and heads downstairs.

  Pramod Eskederian and Buddy Malone are in the elevator. Malone is wearing a sleeveless black workout shirt, and his right bicep is encircled by a tattoo that looks like a chain. He's won district swimming championships in the butterfly and backstroke, and he's already been accepted at MIT.

  “Hey, little Mansfield,” Buddy says. They've never met in a match. Buddy defeated Zeke in the season opener back in November, when Zeke still had the first chair for Sturbridge.

  “Your brother up yet?” asks Pramod, who's wearing a gray V-necked sweater that says HARVARD in small red letters.

  “Yeah.”

  “He's probably hungover. We got pretty wasted last night.”

  “You did, huh?”

  “Yeah. He didn't get back to his own room until four.”

  Randy shrugs. “Heard you bepokered well.”

  “What?”

  “I heard you won some poker money.”

  “A little,” Pramod says. “Maybe two hundred bucks. I didn't play very long. Met a few ladies and”—he breaks into a big grin—”showed them my best moves.”

  The elevator doors open at the lobby. “Good luck, guys,” Randy says.

  “As if we need it,” Pramod replies.

  Randy stops and glances at the brackets.

  THIRD ROUND. 9:00 a.m. SATURDAY

  A. Jenna McNulty (Scranton Prep) (no. 1 seed) vs. Darius Haywood (Stroudsburg)

  B. Derek Pham (Hazleton) (8) vs. Zeke Mansfield (Sturbridge)

&nb
sp; C. Lucy Ahada (Dunmore) (4) vs. Ethan Rosenfeld (Midvale)

  D. Randy Mansfield (Sturbridge) (5) vs. Brian Burke (Holy Cross)

  E. Pramod Eskederian (Wilkes-Barre Jesuit) (2) vs. Tami Nixon (Scranton)

  F. Silvio Vega (Meyers) vs. Garion Liberti (North Pocono)

  G. Buddy Malone (Weston South) (3) vs. Stephanie Irving (Tunkhannock)

  H. Colin Lucas (Abington Heights) vs. Serena Leung (East Scranton)

  QUARTERFINALS, APPROXIMATELY 10:15 a.m.

  A. Match A winner vs. Match B winner

  B. C winner vs. D winner

  C. E winner vs. F winner

  D. G winner vs. H winner

  SEMIFINALS, 1:00 p.m.

  I winner vs. J winner

  K winner vs. L winner

  CHAMPIONSHIP, APPROXIMATELY 2:15 p.m.

  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.”