I’m not a great chess player, but I’m reasonable, and life has taught me that there is no such thing as checkmate if you’re healthy and alive—there’s always a move. Very few people know this. In fact, I haven’t played anyone who knew it before I showed them. When you’re in checkmate, your opponent will sometimes get up from the table. It’s unconscious psychology. Looking up to someone signals to your brain that they have power over you. So, you stay seated, position your hand under the table, relax, and ever so slightly lift one side of the table just enough to slide the tip of your shoe underneath it. Keep your head down, don’t look at them, and continue staring at the chessboard as if you’re trying to calculate another move. Focus on finding a scenario that would give you an out, and memorize it.
Don’t let them provoke you, or get into your head in any way, shape, or form! Your challenger will get nervous, they’ll start pacing around, and soon they’ll begin doubting their last move. Just before they go verbal—most of the time, they do—you calmly say, “There’s another move!” They’ll go mad, rush to sit down, often with dramatic flair, and start re-checking the game. But as they lower their body, you calmly pull your hair back with both hands, get up, and carefully slide your foot out from under the table. The table will rock and some pieces will fall, but you already know the position that suits you, and you quickly adjust it. When they inevitably protest, claiming it’s not valid, you simply say, “Prove it.”
At worst, it’s a draw, and if they agree to continue, you still have a chance to win. If they choose to stay seated, it becomes even easier. You continue studying the board until they snap, then say, “I have one more move.” Let them investigate the situation, and when they insist there isn’t one, you remain persistent. You calmly reply, “Oh yes, there is. I’m willing to show you if we agree on a draw.” You have to be convincing and self-confident, and soon they’ll go mad and agree. Then, you grab the king and place it next to the chessboard, prompting a moment of laughter. Whether you won, drew, or lost, you did so with style and dignity. And even if you lost, you beat them psychologically because you proved there was another move—and that realization will leave a small scar in their subconscious.
Now, is this cheating? Does it matter?
Let’s think about it. In Mexico, during the 1986 FIFA World Cup, Diego Maradona punched the ball with his hand into the net in the quarterfinals against England. Argentina won that game and eventually the World Cup. A few million English football fans hated him for it, but he was celebrated worldwide and became a football legend. To this day, he’s remembered as one of the greatest players ever.
On the other hand, Gary Lineker was an excellent English striker, outscoring Maradona by a bit in his career and even playing in that controversial game. He never won a World Cup, though. He’s mainly remembered by middle-aged football fans from Leicester and a few others in Great Britain. He’ll go down in history for two things: never having received a yellow card in his entire career and for his controversial tweets. I refuse to call him a football presenter, though, because if the BBC keeps raising their television licensing fees, only a handful of people will care about his shows.
I don’t complain about it, though. There were 6,586 black-and-white TV license holders in the UK in 2022, and I hold two for my two properties. Am I cheating the system? Not really. I just bought two 6-inch black-and-white televisions from the late ’80s online, and they’re sitting next to my flatscreen. If the BBC investigates and forces their way into my home, and it comes to a court case, it will be impossible for them to prove which television I watched. So, it’s not cheating; it’s just living with the circumstances.