sfm: I love the move 41.Rg7(!!)
It does not make much sense, does it? What is the rook hoping to accomplish there?
Unless White had seen it all! Black could now get a very good game with
I don't know how that would end but doesn't it look good for black?
Some think chess is a game where you sit and move pieces around. Passing time. Like playing domino, or monopoly. Oh, no.
Dammit! He will play 41.-,Rf8. Of course he will.
He might even look up with a little smile saying 'Now, you didn't think I'd overlook that, did you really?'. I sit there, hoping for the miracle. Faking relaxedness, even trying to look a bit disinterested.
I look at the queenside of the board. Definitely not at the kingside, as if something could happen there. No poker player ever did a better job.
Maybe it worked.
My heart skips a beat when his right hand start moving. With disbelief I see his hand passing by the rook on b8. He grabs the the b-pawn!!! While still in triumphant chock I see his hand move it to b5 and press the clock.
Now I can feel my face heating up. I look it all over. Again. 10 times at least. All variations. There are so few. I spend a full minute, though I was deadly certain before I even started.
My heart sings with extreme joy. I know how the football player feel when scoring a goal.
But still nobody could tell. I do my move, now maybe even shaking a bit. But it doesn't matter.
It's over mate. Over!! Can't you see it? What will you do? Resign grandmasterly, to save a bit of your honour? Or go for
and mate in 2 more moves?
Hah! Fool! You have seen nothing!
Or - maybe you have seen it but hope that my last 2 moves were random luck and _I_ might not see your end?
Now I look up, look at your face. Will our eyes meet in a microsecond, saying everything, before you instantly look down, pretending to study the position?
No. Your eyes are on the board already, your face calm, satisfied. You believe you may win.
I think it over one more time. It doesn't take one second. The next move is a little faster than usual.
I instantly look up at you again. No more poker needed. Two seconds pass by, then your face changes expression. Pain and terror. You consider resigning, but instead we play the last couple of moves. With some degree of sportmanship you say 'Cute mate!' We shake hands, sign scoresheets.
The threat of defeat, humiliation and depression is all over and I leave the tournament room flying on a pink cloud. The world is beautiful and there is no sorrow anywhere, only joy, surplus, friends and blue skies. No shot of any drug could have made me happier.
Then, of course, there were the times where you lost.