Herzog in the Park

A quiet afternoon, a losing game, and the weight of what no longer is.

The park buzzed with the chaotic activity unique to a Tuesday afternoon in the city. Joggers interwove with NPCs on their phones, their faces lit by angled sheets of sunlight. Pigeons—always the pigeons—scattered and regrouped like thoughts that wouldn’t quite harmonize. I sat on a bench near the chess tables, Herzog resting on my lap, a book I had been muddling through all month.

I watched the old man at the chess table next to me set up the pieces with deliberate care, adjusting each one—even the smallest amount—so it faced forward.

Without looking up, he said, “You want to just watch, or are you here to play?”

I hesitated for a minute, unsure if he was speaking to me, but before I could reply, he added, “Yeah, you.”

“Yeah, I’ll play.”

“Great. I’ll take white. You play black.”

“That’s fine,” I said, moving over to the chair in front of him.

The old man moved his queen’s pawn two spaces. Queen’s Opening. The Queen. The Crown. I thought of that TV series, The Crown, and Olivia Colman’s portrayal—how she made duty feel both suffocating and necessary, especially that scene after the miners died. I paused, then pushed my queen’s pawn forward two spaces. Off and running.

We exchanged a few moves back and forth. The old man grabbed his knight to protect his pawn. “Pigeons are smarter than people give them credit for,” he said, pointing to them with the knight in his hand. “They can remember human faces. Remember them for years.”

I looked at the pigeons to see if they agreed, but they were too busy fighting over a pretzel to care.

I nodded, pushing another pawn forward. “I’ve heard that myself.”

I castled kingside, tucking my king in the corner. Behind pawns, protected. Danger delayed. Without him, everything ends.

Seven moves in and the game was taking shape. I could see the old man’s strategy as he developed his army of chessmen against mine. The game was already determined, we were just revealing what was always to be.

I reached for my rook to move it to the center of the board, but stopped. Was that the right move? I thought as I started to play with my ring finger. Old habit. The skin felt smooth, worn like a stone under rushing water. The weight I could still feel—though it no longer weighed on me.

I looked up to see clouds passing over us, casting a shadow across the board when a strong breeze wobbled some of the pieces. “Feel that temperature drop,” the old man observed. “Can feel it in my knees. Means rain tomorrow. Or maybe Friday. Knees aren’t precise. Especially when they lack the necessary cartilage.”

I smiled in response.

The positions on the board were complicating. A crowd formed in the center like the pedestrians, joggers, and pigeons circling around us. Something had to give.

The old man started humming. It sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it—maybe “What a Wonderful World.” I stared at the board while his humming drifted through the air, the pieces waiting. My head drifted back to the tune, and I remembered reading that “My Way” was one of the most played songs at funerals. Must have been the no-regrets part. I had a few regrets this game, I thought to myself, as I pushed my pawn forward.

He moved his queen and then asked, “So you read much?” pointing to Herzog which I had left on the other table.

“Yes, when I can,” I replied.

“Bellow is good, though I didn’t get Herzog. All those letters that he writes in his head and yet never sends anything. What’s up with that?”

Yeah, what was up with that, I thought to myself. Was it a defense mechanism? Maybe. Or a way for Herzog to cope with life? I hadn’t come to a concrete answer.

Finally I offered up, “Maybe it would become real if he sent them into the ether.”

“Or maybe it’s madness. These days it’s hard to tell the difference. Am I right?” the old man said as he captured my bishop.

“Uh huh,” I mumbled as I winced from losing a piece I wouldn’t recover.

Fifteen moves in and we were at the midgame. Plans had crumbled and were replaced with instincts. Surviving the next move.

It was his move, so I leaned into the chair and waited. A woman pushing a stroller walked by, telling the person on the phone that Derek never listened. “He always is…” but the voice trailed off as she walked away. What did Derek always do? Work? Go to the gym? Maybe Derek was part of a KISS tribute band and practiced on his guitar until 2 in the morning. I studied the board, waiting for the old man to move. The pieces sat motionless as my mind drifted again—to surrounding noises, pigeons, Derek and his late-night riffs.

My attention shifted back to the board, as the old man studied his position.

Finally he started to move the Queen but saw the trap I laid out. “Whoa. Almost lost my baby. Hard to win when you lose your Queen.”

I exhaled slowly, touching my finger again as I repositioned in my chair. “Yeah, you don’t want to lose her.”

We exchanged pieces as the board slowly started to clear. My position wasn’t terrible, but the old man was up two pieces. The endgame was fast approaching which meant little room for error.

“Did you know,” the old man said, moving his knight to an attacking position, “that part of why pigeons bob their heads is to see light the human eye can’t see? That’s why they’re always in parks.”

What was it with him and pigeons? Was it even true? He sounded wise, but maybe they were little amusing anecdotes he shared to throw his opponents off their game. Was I off my game? Was I ever in the game? I’d made some moves here and there, but I was never quite invested in the game, was I? Never quite confident in my next move.

The afternoon moved along with the life in the park. The murmur of conversations rose and fell like waves. The sounds of chess pieces hitting the boards as the players around us continued their games. The grass was littered with leaves, the colors vibrant—wine, ember orange with speckled gold. The dogs were happy, wagging their tongues and tails.

The moves continued, pieces falling in the line of battle. In time, the old man scattered holes in my wall of pawns like buckshot, pinning my King with his Knight and Queen.

The smile on the old man’s face grew as he said, “I have no more messages. None. Not a single word…other than checkmate.”

I extended my hand which he accepted. “Good game. Maybe we’ll play again sometime,” he said as he moved the pieces back to their starting position.

I nodded my head in agreement, picked up my book, and walked away from the table.

Where had it gone wrong? Was I too cautious in the beginning? Or did I take too many risks, failed to see the traps that were laid before me? I walked along the path I knew well, following it to the train station to head home. I thought about the path, the one I dragged through in life. And always the doubts. The ones that still vibrated, barely audible, barely gone.

The game was over. I had lost, but there was always a new game. A reset of the pieces, restored to their familiar places. They were where they should be.

I slowly stepped onto the train and settled into the closest seat. The train and I rattled to life as I opened the book and read.