Littbarski’s Gambit
Simon Hood
Published by Simon Hood at Smashwords
Copyright Simon Hood
Pierre Littbarski will be my lynchpin. Partly because he’s drifted into the middle of a crowded midfield from his usual place on the wing, but mainly because his is the only name I can make out. I assume I’m 1980s West Germany, purely on the basis of that one legible name. We’re playing in red. Strange, because our traditional white wouldn’t have clashed with the opposition’s blue. Not much of what’s before me makes sense. We’ve got a black guy at centre forward, although Littbarski and Gerald Asamoah could never have played in the same team. Perhaps his inclusion up front is an over-the-top post-war corrective gesture? If it’s a pre-Asamoah table, then it’s guilty wish-fulfilment. Maybe my right winger used to have a star of David for a face. It’s impossible to tell as both he, and the opposition goalie, have been decapitated. I’ll chip that stunted ‘keeper before the game’s out. Reparation for all those checkmates.
Stefan leans across the table to shake hands, averting his gaze as always at the point of contact. He is a tall, thin man with quick, darting eyes and a fine-featured face. Good bone structure, even if those bones are a little too close to the surface. An intimidating presence across the chess board, but I think I’ll get the better of him here. His introspective Slavic soul is more suited to whispering death in a king’s ear than to the crude fury of table football.
"The very best of luck." He has a pleasant voice, if a little thin. I’m guessing at his words. It seems the sort of thing that one ought to say in this situation, and Stefan seems an earnest, formal sort of man.
"Good." I can’t remember the word for luck, even though I think he’s just said it. Instead of making a spluttering attempt at it, I smile and nod my head and withdraw my hand from his. We both take a quick, deep pull from our gin and tonics. Stefan reaches into the space behind his goal to retrieve a ball. Won’t be the last time you do that, mate. He slips it through the hole in the middle and we’re off. The ball drops straight to Littbarski, who threads it expertly through to Not Asamoah, who places it calmly to the left of the headless goalie; Albert Camus, I guess. 1 – 0. The blue stooges haven’t even touched the ball yet. Think of that next time you imperil my queen with your rook/knight combo. Stefan picks the ball out again, winces at me and drops it back into play.
I am a good player. This is an objective viewpoint. I’m not given to boasting. Chess is one of the many things I'm terrible at. But I am a good table football player. I learnt to play when I was very young on a flimsy formica-clad table in our garage. Rows of red and yellow strung out in that dashingly cavalier 2-5-3 formation. My older brother, a Liverpool fan, saw to it that I was always yellow. It wasn’t long before I was making a mockery of our ten year age gap, thrashing the ball past Clemence with unabashed glee. I honed my skills on family holidays in France, crowding round the table with the local boys, my sun-tinged English face a pink buoy in an olive sea. Their control mesmerised me. Standing on the ball, tippy-tappy passes, one-twos off the wall, pinpoint shots from defence, all tricks I copied when I got back home, tricks with which I was now battering Stefan into submission.
"What’s the score?" Stefan’s wife Ella has wandered in from the kitchen to watch. Ella bought the table across the border in Germany, the previous owner having presumably painted on the names. An exiled Pole perhaps, who wrote Pierre’s name first, then, too enraged at the Littbarskis’ defection, couldn’t legibly scrawl the others. I’m glad Ella bought the table, it makes a welcome change from being drubbed across the chequerboard. Stefan is my girlfriend’s uncle. We meet once or twice a year. We drink gin and tonic and he beats me at chess. He speaks no English and my Polish is very basic. We’ve probably shared more games of chess, and certainly more gins, than we have words. This is an agreeable arrangement for us both, and we like each other.
"Yes, what’s the score?" Why don’t you check, mate?
"Nine zero." I don’t know the word for nil. I nudge the ball forward with my 'keeper to the left back. He flicks it first time to Littbarski, who spots a gap in the busy midfield and drills it low and hard to Camus’ right. He stands as immobile as my king. Ten nil.
"Another?" I know the shorthand, it means both game and gin.
"Yes, why not?" I’ll go easier this time, but will still win. An orange ball is produced from behind the goal.
"Because of snow, yes?" I don’t know how to say outside and he makes no attempt to understand. I’m toying with the idea of sprinkling icing sugar on the pitch to demonstrate when Stefan nets his first goal. We to-and-fro, the game becomes bogged down. The midfield dances; half can can, half haka. We’re as entrenched as WWI soldiers, and make as much headway. I toy with him, let him think he might win, before pulling pitilessly ahead.
"Six four." A third game. It will be the last. I once saw a French teenager chip the ball. My only goal in this match is to replicate his arrogant skill, to impart enough spin on the ball to loft it over Camus’ shoulders and in. It’s more difficult than I imagined it might be. I slice repeatedly wide, miss the ball completely, stand on it and hurt my wrist. Stefan plunders goal after goal. He’s nine nil up. Littbarski picks out Not Asamoah for the umpteenth time. A vicious downward stab, the table indents, and the ball arcs upwards, briefly granting Camus an orange face before it drops behind his back and rolls into the net. Success.
"Nine one. Good play."
"Another?"
"Gin yes, football no. Chess?"