Know Your Audience

A young founder got rejected from the Ivies recently. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to get the message - to get into those schools, you have to write the essay your readers want. And those readers aren’t successful entrepreneurs to say the least. Looking over my personal statement from 2017, it’s deeply cringe and ludicrously over-the-top in its self-importance. But, know your audience.

---

A metronomic roar of iron and oak suddenly comes to a clamoring halt: the two armies are now within stone’s throw, within arrow’s touch. They stare one another down, impatiently; their ranks ripple with unease. The generals rein in their mounts and exchange glances. Grey, wrinkled eyes look curiously into fiery orbs of brown: their flame flickers. The young commander knows: he charges first. Indecision leadens his legs. Should he first send in his infantry? That’s the safe move — the predictable move. No, he knows his opponent too well; orthodoxy will spell death. What of the cavalry? Risky, yes, but promising. The greater risk, after all, would to be to play the elder at his own game. Tension reaches a crescendo: then, it breaks. He calmly gives the order, trying to hide his uncertainty from his soldiers. His opponent already knows.

Knight to F3

My grandfather laughs: “Ah, a bold move, Joshinku. A bolder move than I had expected of you. Are you sure of yourself?”

Pawn to A5

A confident nod belies my apprehension: I’ve never beaten him before, why should I think this will be different? He nonchalantly advances the infantry on his flank and looks at me questioningly: a challenge. Now it’s his mind games I have to worry about. The flames begin to flicker a bit more; the aged general knows the game all too well, and a risk-taking greenhorn is less of a challenge than entertainment. I have to prove myself.

Pawn to D3

But how could I prove myself? The adjoining bookcase to our right towers over me, laughing at my futile efforts, baring its yellowed teeth: trophies — chess trophies. Each of them jeering at me the same two words: “Šachovy mistr,” chess champion. It isn’t my name they are calling. How could I, a kid — my grandpa still called me Joshinku, the Czech diminutive form of my name, after all — win this battle? Each of my cool summer nights before had seen such battles, and result would be the same as it always was — my regiment routed, my troops strewn about the battlefield. I’m no match for the wise eyes across the table; three moves in, I’ve accepted defeat. I won’t give up, though. No, my soldiers deserve much better; they’ll die in a blaze of glory.

Queen to C3

Soon enough we find each other in the thick of battle: black and white troops hand in hand, poised to strike at their general’s order. Soon, though, orders become scarce. Each general cunningly weaves the battlefield with traps, and deliberation grows from seconds to minutes to years. Surely, he sees right through my ruse; his focused eyes belie no folly. His knights charge, bounding just out of my bishop’s arrow’s touch; his pawns dash forward, just barely evading my rook’s pursuit.

My outlook begins to grow dim: he knows the slow game, and the battle is slowly slipping from my grasp. I’ve prepared for this. I know this will take more: I have to coax him into the snare; he won’t bite without a bit of bait. My bishops take aim at the king, my knights sneak behind the flank, cornering him behind his infantry. All that stands in the way of victory is a lowly pawn. Then, the dead man’s gambit.

Queen C8

”Joshinku, there’s a difference between being bold and being foolish.” His pawn butchers my queen. A smile catches my lips. Confusion catches his eyes.

Knight E3

Check mate.

His eyes trace the chessboard; he fumbles through the battlefield. The battle’s over. The war is over. He slowly extends his wise hand.

”Well, Josh, the day has come. The day has come that I see my grandson beat me; it’s come sooner than I expected.”

I shake his hand in solemn victory, and the bookcase recedes, retreats. It fears me. My eyes burn fiery hot.