Grandmaster by David Klass Read Free Book Online Page A

prayer. One knee, gentlemen.”
    It seemed silly, but when Randolph Kinney gave an order, he expected it to be followed. All of us got down on one knee on the plush blue rug in his hotel suite. “Link hands,” he told us, and I found myself holding my father’s left hand and Dr. Chisolm’s right. Chisolm’s fingers felt wiry and strong, and it occurred to me that this was a hand that had saved hundreds of lives. However intense the doctor was, he was a miracle worker who took very sick and dying people and fixed them and sent them back to their families. My father’s hand felt soft and clammy and shook slightly. I gripped it tightly.
    “A moment of silence, everyone,” Mr. Kinney commanded. Something told me that many years ago he had played football for the Loon Lake Academy, and this pregame ritual was left over from his locker room memories. Then he nodded to my father. “Go ahead, Grandmaster.”
    My dad cleared his throat. It’s interesting how you can know someone all your life but not have a clue how they’re going to react in a new and totally freaky situation. Dad and I had never talked about religion, but I was pretty sure he was an atheist. I’d never heard him pray—even on a family trip to Mexico when our plane hit extreme turbulence and I started making pleas to the almighty, he had kept quiet.
    Even if my dad did believe in God, he’s a fair and logical man, and I was positive that he wouldn’t lead us in the kind of team prayer Mr. Kinney wanted him to give. If there was a God, my father wouldn’t think it was fair to ask an all-powerful being to intercede for us against another team.
    Dad was quiet for a long moment, and then he surprised me by shutting his eyes and intoning in a low and serious voice: “O Lord, who looks down upon us and sees everything we do, this is Morris Pratzer giving you a shout-out from suite 2206 of the Palace Royale Hotel.” I suspected he was poking fun at the whole absurd situation, but at the same time his tone was solemn and he had a very serious look on his face. Mr. Kinney and Dr. Chisolm seemed to be buying it, at least for now.
    “Lord,” my father continued, “help us to be brave and strong and play well and conquer.”
    “Amen to that,” Mr. Kinney muttered, glancing at his watch. “Fifteen minutes, Grandmaster.”
    Dad gave him a quick glance. “And let us be also aware of our own weaknesses.” His voice quivered and for a moment my father’s words sounded like a heartfelt prayer. “Let us not be blinded by false confidence. Help us to remember the great and small blunders we’ve made along the way.” His voice dropped to a whisper: “I, who loved chess as a boy and haven’t played a game in thirty years, humbly ask for your special guidance and mercy.”
    I couldn’t understand why he used the word “mercy.”
    Mr. Kinney was staring at my father, surprised and not pleased. “ Thirty years, Morris? I hope you’ve been practicing on the side, because that’s a heck of a long time…”
    Dad’s voice swelled, drowning Mr. Kinney out. “Most important, Lord, we thank you for the blessing of playing in this tournament with our sons. Perhaps we have been too busy and have neglected them. Maybe we have hidden ourselves from them. Perhaps we have not shown them our love.” I couldn’t be sure, but I think his hand clenched my own just a bit tighter. “Grant us the wisdom to know how fleeting time is, so that we can cherish this precious weekend together. Winning is important, but the love of a father for his son is by far the greater blessing. Amen.”
    Mr. Kinney opened his mouth and I thought he was going to tell my dad that he was wrong, and that winning was the only goal here. Then his finger stroked the side of his cheek. I’m not sure, because he turned his head away, but I believe he might have dabbed away a tear. “Amen,” he repeated in a low voice. “Well said, Morris.”
    “Amen,” Dr. Chisolm echoed, springing to his