Things I’ve Learned from Playing Chess (and watching boxing)

I’ve started playing chess again. It’s not really that I ever played chess regularly, but I used to play in a consistently occasional way. Then I stopped, mostly because I didn’t have the time, no longer had chess playing friends (at least that I knew of!), and once one falls out of practice, it’s not as satisfying to play.

Recently, I started again. I’m not sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with my post-pandemic efforts to find more meaningful ways to spend my down time. 

I may also have to do with my renewed interest in boxing. It’s a fairly common trope in boxing commentary to compare a high level fight to a chess match. That metaphor, other than in the most generic way, meant relatively little to me since I hadn’t played much chess lately. More than that, I felt like boxing and chess were the kind of cheap interchangeable cliches meant to merely to indicate that the outward physicality of something masks its more intellectual aspects.

I’ve played about 500 chess games over the past two months almost entirely on Lichess and chess.com. I tend to play 10 minute games on chess.com and 10+5 on Lichess. I’m objectively a terrible player with rating of around 350 on chess.com (placing me in the 15th percentile) and about 750 on Lichess (which puts me in the 5th percentile there). Playing chess in my downtime — over lunch, to take a break from grading, emails, and other academic work, and in afternoon lulls — has given me a greater appreciation for the game both in practice and as a metaphor. In fact, it’s offered some useful reminders and taught me a few lessons that I should work to apply to the rest of my life. 

1. Be patient. One of the more annoying opponents in online chess is the player who immediately attacks with their queen. This not only is unlikely to be successful (even against a player as mediocre as I am), but also sets the stage for what is often a relatively boring game. In boxing, it’s the equivalent to a boxer who come out with a simple and aggressive style. While this might win them the first few rounds, it usually ultimately fails to develop the tactics necessary to win the fight.

This impatient style of play reminds me (painfully) of my approach to life. I tend to want to get things done quickly at the expense of nuance, perspective, and a larger sense of strategy. The result of this is as predictable as my CV which is a hodgepodge of projects, ideas, and “programmes” that look (at best) like test trenches that fail to produce an proper excavation or (at worse) like the flailing sortie of an early queen attack.

2. Activate your assets. Fortunately, chess offers a counter metaphor for the impatient queen. I have worked hard to deliberately develop my pieces in the early game. This means not only thinking about the little people (i.e. my pawn structure), but also moving my more substantive assets into positions where they can do their thing. Again, this involves me being patient (never my strong suit) and being deliberate. As a result, I’ve started to favor openings that prioritize activating my back rank pieces even at the expense of more positive (or “sharp”) game play.

This is likely a flaw in my game and probably speaks to why my rating is rather low, but it does remind me of how some of the great boxers of this current generation — Bud Crawford, Vasiliy Lomachenko, and even Canelo Alvarez — develop their fight strategy over the first few rounds. They calibrate their timing, their distance, and their opponent’s responses. In fact, they often give up a few rounds early to ensure that they can take control later in the fight.

This seems like a good lesson in life: develop your skills, your pieces, and your sense of the situation in a deliberate way.  

3. Embrace contingency. For me, chess is a game of chance. The best I can do in most situations is try to understand the odds. In other words, I recognize that the “known knowns” (moves that are bound to generate a particular response) are in the minority compared to the “known unknowns” (moves that I know are possible, but I can’t evaluate their relative strength or value) and “unknown unknowns” (moves that I simply can’t see and couldn’t anticipate). In my best matches, I feel like my strategy is 30% known knowns, but in most of my games that percentage is much lower.

When I first started playing, I had this expectation that as a closed system it might be possible for me to understand a game in such a way to control the odds in my favor. This might still be vaguely possible, but I suspect that the majority of what transpires on the chess board (for me at least) will remain a game of chance. This probably accounts for part of why it’s appealing to people. There’s enough chance to make it exciting and enough skill to promote the illusion of control.

Of course, in boxing, there’s always a “puncher’s chance.” That means even in a fight that one fighter is dominating, there’s remains enough contingency for a shocking turn of events. The best recent example of this (to my mind) was the Leigh Wood-Josh Warrington tilt where Warrington was objectively the better fighter and had the better game plan against a weight-drained wood, but he still lost. Most Emanuel Navarrete feel this way as well. 

There are times in my life where the illusion of control is pretty strong. Chess is a good reminder that however much I enjoy that illusion, it really just involves me not recognizing the existence of numerous “unknown unknowns.”  

4. Sacrifice. I often “study” the games of master chess payers. (Study is too strong a word, but it implies that I understand what’s going on. Mostly I like looking at classic games and appreciating the virtuosic dance of pieces.) One of the things that strikes me most about these games is that the best players regularly sacrifice pieces. This goes beyond the standard opening gambits and often occurs quite late in the game or at strategically crucial junctions.

Similarly, in boxing, I almost always find counter punchers fascinating to watch. The idea that you have to take a punch to land a punch runs counter to the very idea that boxing is about “hit and don’t get hit.” The best fighters seem to almost prey on their opponents confidence.

I dislike getting hit or losing pieces to the extent that I often make meaningless moves to avoid a sacrifice. This is “not positive chess” and belies my fundamental inability to manage my “known unknowns” in such a way to make a reasonable sacrifice. To be clear, this approach (as my rating indicates) does not improve my play, nor does it improve my odds in any given situation. At best, it delays in the inevitable.

I’m also loath to give things up in my daily life and, as a result, my days tend toward a boring routine. I have a vague idea that playing chess will help me find ways to shake up my life, but giving me the confidence to make the occasional sacrifice in the name of change. 

5. Know when to quit. Since I played timed games, there is a temptation to stall even when you know that you can’t win. The hope is that your opponent makes a mistake (which is always an unsatisfying way to win a game) or that time runs on your opponent first (which is equally unsatisfying). I’ve taken to resigning when the game feels over. It not only ensure that my opponent knows that I’m beaten, but also keeps me from succumbing to the temptation to stall and hide.

I’ve always appreciated boxers (and their corners) who know when to quit in a fight. There’s something honest about knowing when you can’t win and avoiding taking more damage for no positive outcome. I get it, of course, that in boxing and in chess there’s always a chance (see my comments above about contingency) that the fight or the game can turn, but if I can’t see a way forward it means that the game has become entirely a game of chance. As much fun as flipping a coin or rolling dice is, it’s never a very satisfying way to win.

In my daily life, it is as hard to quit something as it is to sacrifice some part of my routine. But chess is helping me realize when I’m just playing for luck rather than doing anything to improve my chances.  

Finally, and as a bonus, contemporary computer chess encourages one to fixate on one’s rankings and various statistics that most online chess sites offer. These are very cool in that they allow you to not only track your progress but also see quantitatively if you played well or not. At first, I found this quite engrossing and I still enjoy seeing where I could have played better. At the same time, I soon found myself chasing a higher rating. At first, I improved fairly steadily, but soon my rating stalled out. I was frustrated by this not because I wasn’t enjoying playing chess (and improving in small and consistent ways), but because I had become fixated on my rating.

This kind of fixation on a quantitative marks seems to reflect larger trends in my professional field of history (and archaeology), in academia, and in American culture more broadly. While it is inescapable when playing online chess (or working out with a smart watch or peddling books or doing any number of other things), it doesn’t seem like the healthiest way to enjoy the game.