Ever since I read about Bobby Fisher’s global fame and untold wealth, I had always dreamt of playing chess at the World Championship.
I could imagine myself ordering the organizers to arrange for pink spotlights. Not for the aesthetics but primarily because my complexion comes out beautifully on colour television. And of course, one wants to look one’s best.
I would have dozens of frames made for my glasses to go with my extensive wardrobe of shirts. I spent sleepless nights deciding between a lemon-yellow shirt with a chocolate brown tie and a pale pink chemise with a maroon coloured cravat. These things are of material importance to the Grandmaster. Insofar as shoes were concerned, I found myself in a dilemma. Calf leather shoes looked swell but what of the brand? I vacillated between Jimmy Choo’s and Tod’s.
The suit had to be tailor made in Savile Row, naturally. Complete with a matching pocket square. As for the cologne, I would settle for nothing less than the Paco Rabanne Million. Even if it cost as much. After all, money was no problem at all while playing the Championship. Sponsors would pour it in by the buckets. Rather large buckets, too. My mind made up, I felt positively elated.
There remained only one minor point to be attended to. I still had to learn how to play the game.
feeling quite awkward
in a tuxedo