I received, hot off the press, one of the first copies of King’s Gambit: A Son, a Father, and the World’s Most Dangerous Game. I’m excited, of course, because the book is the culmination of years of my thinking about chess and what it means to me, an amateur fan, and those who play it at the highest level. The book is part memoir (of growing up with a brilliant bohemian father in New York’s Greenwich Village) and part a deep look at the emotional pressures of championship chess.
Of course, I’m combing the 433-page tome for errors. (I had originally written “tomb,” not tome—an ironic mistake pointed out by a friend: I do feel a bit spent, as well as euphoric, now that the book is done.) I hope I’ve eliminated most of them—many people read earlier drafts—but I know that gremlins, which I’ll correct in future printings, will inevitably slip in.
The book, which will be in stores on September 11, was mailed to reviewers yesterday. Now I just need to sit back and hope that King’s Gambit catches the Zeitgeist.