The place of chess in the society is closely related to the

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city washed in a faint silver glow. Streetlights flickered through a thin mist, and a quiet café stood at the corner — its windows fogged, its music soft, like the afterthought of a dream. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. A chessboard lay between them, the pieces glimmering under a tired yellow lamp. The clock ticked, each sound like a heartbeat echoing in a room too still for comfort.

Jeeny’s fingers traced the edge of a white pawn; her eyes, deep and alive, were filled with that peculiar warmth that came before a storm of thought. Jack leaned back — broad-shouldered, grey-eyed, his hands steady, his expression unreadable. The smoke from his coffee cup rose between them like a thin veil, dividing two worlds — logic and belief.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Boris Spassky once said — ‘The place of chess in society is closely related to the attitude of young people towards our game.’ I think about that a lot. Chess is more than a game — it’s a reflection of how alive our minds are, how much curiosity we still hold.”

Jack: “Curiosity? Or nostalgia? You make it sound like the soul of civilization depends on a board of carved wood and a few painted soldiers. The truth is, chess has lost its place because the world changed. We’ve moved past it.”

Jeeny: “Past it? You mean past thinking? Past patience, strategy, foresight? The young haven’t moved past chess, Jack — they’ve been rushed away from it. Phones, scrolling, instant gratification — that’s what took its place.”

Host: A car passed outside, its headlights cutting across the café wall. The chessboard shimmered, the black and white squares alive for a brief second, like two philosophies colliding.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Every generation loses something. We don’t mourn the death of telegraphs, do we? Chess was a tool, Jeeny — a method to train calculation, patience, even ego control. But now we have AI, algorithms, data models — sharper, faster. Chess has become a museum artifact of human limitation.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” — she lifted her eyes, her voice trembling with emotion — “when AlphaZero played chess, it learned to play like a poet. Not a machine. It sacrificed, it bluffed, it danced around human logic. Even an AI rediscovered the beauty of what we forgot.”

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t feed anyone, Jeeny. It doesn’t fix a broken system or pay a bill. The young today are practical — they chase coding, medicine, finance. They don’t care about knights and bishops; they care about survival.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the tragedy, Jack? That we’ve taught them survival instead of vision? That we’ve replaced games of thought with wars of anxiety? When Spassky spoke, he wasn’t talking about chess alone — he meant the spirit of contemplation, of mental courage. When that dies, the society becomes mechanical.”

Host: The steam hissed from the espresso machine, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the rain began again, tapping the window softly like the sound of distant applause.

Jack: “You want to believe chess can change the world. It can’t. It’s a metaphor, Jeeny — a quaint one. People don’t live like chess pieces anymore. They don’t think five moves ahead. The world moves too fast, and the rules change every day.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why they need it, Jack. To remember how to think slowly, to see that consequences matter. Remember how Fischer became a symbol of defiance during the Cold War? That wasn’t just about a game — it was ideology versus ideology, freedom versus control. Chess has always been a mirror of human conflict — and human harmony.”

Jack: “Fischer went mad, Jeeny. Genius doesn’t equal virtue. You want to raise a generation of thinkers — fine — but the world rewards speed, not depth.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world is sick, Jack. Maybe chess — or anything that teaches stillness and strategy — is the medicine.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened; he moved a black knight, its shadow crossing the board like a silent argument. The air thickened with quiet tension — like a storm contained within porcelain walls.

Jeeny: “You remember when we played our first game, Jack? You said something — that chess was a metaphor for life. You said every move reveals who we are.”

Jack: “I was younger then. Maybe more sentimental.”

Jeeny: “No, you were honest then. You just grew tired of losing faith in things that don’t yield results.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair.”

Host: The words hung in the air. Jack’s eyes darkened, but beneath the hardness, a flicker of something fragile appeared — memory, perhaps, or regret. The rain outside grew heavier, like tears against glass.

Jack: “You really believe that teaching kids to play chess can fix this generation?”

Jeeny: “Not fix — heal. Chess teaches you to face failure without excuses. To learn from a loss instead of escaping it. It teaches responsibility, because every move you make echoes back at you. Isn’t that what society has forgotten?”

Jack: “Responsibility… Maybe. But chess also breeds obsession. Look at Kasparov — brilliant, but haunted. Look at the kids who lock themselves in rooms for years, chasing ratings and rankings. Isn’t that another form of escape?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the game that traps them, Jack — it’s ambition. Every passion can become a prison if the heart forgets its purpose.”

Host: The light flickered, casting a dance of shadows over their faces. The clock ticked louder, as if marking not time, but the weight of their words.

Jack: “So what’s the answer, then? Should we put chess in every classroom, make every kid a miniature strategist?”

Jeeny: “Not strategist — thinker. It’s not about winning. It’s about attention, focus, imagination. When a child learns chess, they learn patience, they learn to plan, they learn to see — not just with eyes, but with understanding.”

Jack: “You’re assuming kids want that. They don’t. The youth today live in a blur — games that reward speed, chaos, reaction, not reflection. They don’t want to wait ten minutes to make a move.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why they’re so lost.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not with weakness, but with grief — the kind of grief that belongs to those who still believe. Jack stared at the board, his grey eyes locked on the king, half-hidden behind its pawns. The sound of rain softened, like the breathing of the world slowing down to listen.

Jack: “You think society’s fate rests on whether kids love chess again?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think society’s fate rests on whether kids love thinking again. Chess is just the mirror. What we see in it — that’s who we are.”

Host: The café door creaked as someone entered, bringing a brief gust of cold air. The scent of wet pavement drifted in, mingling with the smell of coffee and memory. Neither Jack nor Jeeny looked up.

Jack: “You always have to make it poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because life is poetic, Jack. Even when it pretends to be logical.”

Jack: “And logic?”

Jeeny: “Logic is the poetry of those who are afraid to feel.”

Host: For a moment, silence — thick, almost sacred. Then Jack laughed quietly, not mockingly, but as if something inside him had unlocked. He moved his queen, placing it softly before Jeeny’s king.

Jack: “Check.”

Jeeny smiled. “See? You still play.”

Jack: “Maybe I just like arguing.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe, deep down, you still believe.”

Host: The clock ticked, the rain eased, and the city lights outside seemed to glow warmer — as if the world, for a fleeting instant, remembered how to breathe. Jeeny moved her pawn, gentle but decisive.

Jeeny: “Your move, Jack. In life and in chess — it’s always your move.”

Host: Jack looked at her, a quiet smile breaking through his sternness. The camera would have caught it — that brief, human surrender. Two minds, two hearts, illuminated by the soft lamp glow, bridging logic and emotion across sixty-four squares of eternity.

The rain stopped.

The world held still.

The game continued.