At one point, I lost four games in a row, and the urge to simply pack my bags and walk out was overwhelming
My latest chess tournament turned out to be a relatively successful campaign. I managed to score 4.5 points out of 9 rounds—a solid, above-average result that I honestly didn’t see coming. Considering I entered the event completely unrated, I was placed at the very bottom of the starting list. My expectations were grounded in reality: I was hoping for maybe 2 or 2.5 points, with 3 being an absolute ceiling.
The organization itself was flawless. The playing hall had a massive digital display board that instantly showed your pairings, so there was no frantic searching through printed sheets. The venue was packed with high-quality boards and pieces, and the hum of intense concentration mixed with the quiet clicks of clocks created a truly electric atmosphere.
However, the psychological toll was brutal. At one point, I lost four games in a row, and the urge to simply pack my bags and walk out was overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning in my own mistakes. There were a couple of games where I had a clear, winning advantage and let it slip through my fingers due to time pressure. And then there was that one game—the one that still stings—where I incredibly stupidly agreed to a draw in a completely winning position.
My opening repertoire stayed true to form: I stuck to the English Opening with White and navigated the tricky waters of the Pirc-Ufimtsev and King’s Indian defenses with Black.
