The Most Important Move Isn't on the Board

Every chess player studies moves.
We spend countless hours learning openings, solving tactics, calculating variations, and analyzing endgames. We search for stronger moves, more accurate moves, and better decisions.

Yet after many years in chess, I have come to believe that some of the most important moves have nothing to do with the board at all.
I remember one of my first major tournaments.
I was completely alone.
I knew nobody. I had no idea what players normally did between rounds or how to fit into a room full of strangers.
Then a player walked up to me, introduced himself, and asked where I was from.
We spoke for only a few minutes.
That was all.
Yet years later I still remember that moment vividly.
More importantly, I still remember the person.
The story did not end there. He introduced me to other players. At future tournaments, I would see familiar faces, people to greet, people to talk with between rounds, and people whose games I followed and who followed mine.
Without realizing it, that simple conversation had given me something every player wants: a sense of belonging.
Looking back, I no longer remember my result from that tournament.
But I remember him.
To this day, he remains one of the people in chess I respect the most.

In the picture above, me vs Gheorghe Bighiu,(the first person i met in a big tournament) years after the fact, a friendship that lasts years

Years later, I met a player online who used a wheelchair.
After months of talking about chess, I convinced him to attend a real tournament.
When he arrived, he was excited but also completely alone and unsure what to do.
Unfortunately, the elevator wasn't working.
A few of us carried his wheelchair up the stairs to the playing hall. We were exhausted by the time we reached the top, but I still remember the smile on his face.
The next day we did it again.
And the day after that.
What could have been a frustrating experience became something entirely different. He felt welcome. He felt accepted. He felt that he belonged.
At the closing ceremony, his result was nothing special. He won no prize and finished far from the top.
Yet as I looked around the room, I noticed something remarkable.
He was smiling more than the tournament winner.
Think about that for a moment.
The winner was happy because he had won a tournament.
The player in the wheelchair was happy because he had found something much bigger.
He had found friends.
He had found a community.
Years later he would become Italian Under-1700 Champion, but that is not what I remember most.
I remember that smile.
As the years passed, I started noticing him doing exactly what others had once done for him.
Whenever he saw someone sitting alone, a newcomer who looked nervous, or a player who seemed isolated between rounds, you could often see him slowly moving his wheelchair across the playing hall toward them.
He would introduce himself.
Start a conversation.
Help them feel that they belonged.
A few players had carried a wheelchair up some stairs.
Years later, that same player was carrying others in a different way.
A simple act of kindness had started a chain reaction.
Someone helped him feel welcome.
He helped others feel welcome.
Those people would eventually help others.
That is the kind of victory that never appears in the standings.

In the picture above me vs Roberto (wheelchair) , on our first match over the board after hundreds online

There is a scene that has nothing to do with chess, yet I think it explains all of this perfectly.
Imagine a mother and her child standing outside a pastry shop.
Behind the glass are beautiful cakes, chocolates, and sweets.
The child stares through the window and dreams.
The mother knows they cannot afford even the smallest treat.
Eventually they walk away.
What always strikes me is not the poverty.
It is the hope.
The child keeps looking because part of him believes that maybe something good might happen.
Maybe someone will notice.
Maybe someone will care.
I think many people spend their lives standing outside different kinds of windows.
The lonely player at a tournament.
The newcomer walking into a room where everybody already knows each other.
The elderly man sitting alone on a bench.
Often they are not asking for much.
They are simply hoping someone notices them.
The child outside the pastry shop will never forget the stranger who buys him a sweet.
Not because of the pastry.
Because somebody cared.
Because somebody noticed.

The same thing happens in chess.
Players forget openings.
Players forget ratings.
Players forget tournament standings.
But they rarely forget kindness.
They remember the player who invited them to sit down.
The person who introduced them to others.
The stranger who became a friend.
They remember the people who made them feel that they belonged.
The beautiful thing about kindness is that it spreads.
Someone welcomed me.
Later, I helped welcome another player.
Later, he welcomed others.
And those people will welcome someone else.
That is how communities are built.
Not through trophies.
Not through ratings.
But through people caring enough to make the first move.
The next time you attend a tournament, look around.
Notice the player sitting alone.
Notice the newcomer.
Notice the nervous junior.
Notice the elderly man sitting by himself.
Offer the empty chair.
Start the conversation.
Include them.
You may forget it the next day.
But they might remember it for years.
I know I did.
Because the strongest moves are not always found in opening preparation.
The most memorable victories are not always won with trophies.
And sometimes, the most important move isn't on the board.
Thank you for reading.

See you in the next motivational blog.
Have a great summer ahead!