Profiles
Tim Pelling
GLCC / Mushrooms / Home Office & Justice
You could say it was all my great-aunt’s fault. This marvellous soul was a frequent visitor to my parents' home, and she saw it as her role in life to amuse us children, especially when we were ill. By the time I was five, I already knew half a dozen card games and could manipulate a deck with almost the skill of a stage magician.
And when I was six she showed me a game played with odd-shaped pieces on an 8 x 8 board. I was hooked. As Auntie (as she was known in the entire locale) barely knew how the pieces moved, I had little chance of improving. There exists a game of ours (where did I learn notation?) played when I was seven of frightening ineptitude. Of course, I wasn’t aware of that then; how could I have been? Sometime after I was given a priceless present – a massive tome entitled “The 1,000 Best Short Games of Chess” by Irving Chernev. The annotations were pithy and often humorous. I treasured it, and still do. Under the book’s influence I began to develop a feel for combination, but my understanding of positional play was non-existent. That lack of understanding remained true for many a year and is still a problem even now.
My lack of opponents, however, came to an end when I went to secondary school. There was a chess club! On day two I sought it out. The maths master, Mr Russell, had turned his room into a chess students’ paradise, and I lived there every lunchtime for the next seven years. Here it was possible to try out one’s ideas and home analysis in any number of games. Although there were no clocks we played quickly to learn more.
Remarkably soon I was deemed good enough to represent the school: a great honour. I won my first ever competitive game by luck really. Never mind! It kept up my enthusiasm. Another honour followed when I was about 14 – I was invited to play for Surrey Juniors. In those days both senior and junior county sides were monster affairs; 60 or even 80 boards a side. In my first game I was put on the dizzy heights of board 59 (out of 60), but my win made me and my parents very proud. By 16 I had started to play for the senior side. It seemed I was making significant progress.
My school had something of a reputation for chess, and on two occasions it reached the last four of the Sunday Times national schools competition. This meant all teams going to a posh venue in the Midlands where the semis and finals were played on successive days. But despite our high hopes, Whitgift School was not then destined to win first prize.
In my penultimate school year it was suggested to me that if I wanted to carry on playing chess after leaving I should join an outside club. As two of my team-mates had just joined the newly-formed Mushrooms club, I did too. Today, 48 years on, the three of us are still playing for Mushrooms.
Returning to the years after I left school, I remember that my ambition was to get a 200 grade. I did get to 199 one year, but it doesn’t have the same ring to it. Yet when I was 29 I achieved a greater success which I hope you will forgive me describing in some detail as it meant so much to me.
It was the 1975 Surrey Championship. My start was not spectacular, drawing four games in the first six. Meanwhile the defending champion, Nigel Povah, had started with six straight wins. Then, in round 7, he slipped. In round 8 we played each other and, in one of my best games, I won. I had caught the great man up! And then I began to have some inkling of the pressure that professionals have to endure: the need to win at all costs, no matter how well or not you feel. There were three more rounds. I won in rounds 9 and 10; so did Povah. Somehow I squeezed a win in round 11 and it was up to my old buddy (and Mushrooms captain) Bill Linton to hold my rival. They adjourned: Bill was a pawn down but had good drawing chances. I rang Bill up after the end of their game: had he drawn? “No.” My heart sank. “I won” he continued. Nigel, desperate to win, had over-pressed. I was Surrey champion! It is just as well that I was interested in the prestige of winning more than the money. First prize? £5. Of course, it’s quite a bit more now.
I never regained the Surrey Championship.
Nevertheless, the success meant that I was eligible for the South of England (one of the four inter-county areas in the country) competition the following year. It became a four-horse race. In the last round I was paired with the leader, C.Cubitt. As I was ½ point behind I needed to win. But that rapidly became out of reach as I got into a bad position in the opening. For hour after hour I defended this mess and he, with equal tenacity, kept on probing for the way through. No adjournment was allowed; no break for lunch: we had to play to a finish. Even so we held up the prize-giving. It turned out to be the longest game of my life, and we achieved the rare, possibly unique, situation where we were both in time trouble three times in the same game. Finally with the 10th hour of play looming he staked everything on a breakthrough (which I had seen coming but couldn’t prevent) sacrificing two pawns to try to promote a third. Could I have held out? I still don’t know, but in the event I could not find the best line and resigned after exactly nine exhausting hours of play. My opponent was justly applauded and congratulated. But there was nothing for me, no words of consolation, after this tremendous rearguard fight. Truly, second place doesn’t count.
Having joined the now defunct Greater London Council a season or two earlier, I finally made my entrance in Civil Service chess. This has resulted in some of my happiest chess experiences. Many friendships have been formed in this friendliest of leagues. Not that we don’t play to win. Oh yes, but not in an unpleasant way. It was satisfying too to have a part in what was probably the GLC’s chess peak in the 70s and early 80s. The GLC may have gone, but the club is still there. The GLC is dead; long live the GLCC!
In more recent years my chess activity has decreased. I still play club chess, but my participation in congresses is virtually nil. But, when I reached the sober age of 60, a new world opened for me. I had managed to maintain a pretty good grade and suddenly I was invited to play for the England Seniors team. To play for one’s country is the ultimate honour, and I felt overwhelmed. Of course I accepted with delight and some trepidation.
The event took place in Dresden, a city which has been beautifully restored to its old glories. The friendliness of the people and the camaraderie of many of the players there made this a truly rewarding experience. And there were 18 grandmasters headed by my hero, Victor Korchnoi, to watch live at the board. Fortunately I played well, the team finished creditably, and I was invited again for the following year. This time it went even better. My personal tally of four wins and two draws from my seven games exceeded my expectations and helped the team to finish above its seeding position. I couldn’t play the following year, but if I can halt the slide in my grade, I hope to be back if they’ll have me.
I still have one ambition left: to beat a grandmaster. I have twice achieved winning positions (one a forced win in 2), but failed at the crunch. Will I get a third chance?
Today, I play more bridge than chess, but I can look back at 53 years of competitive play and I find that a large part of my youthful love for the beauty and art of chess still remains.