As the game moved along both of us chucked our chess-book tactics for bare-knuckle combat. He played with an erratic, intuitive intelligence. “Mothafuck!” he cried out.
The glass walls of the student union looked out on Sproul Plaza and a riot was breaking out. Billows of tear gas clouded the glass. National Guard troops, armed in camouflage fatigues, watched from Telegraph Avenue as the Oakland police, in blue uniforms and zombie crash helmets with black visors, charged students with truncheons raised like broadswords.
