Imagine being as good as Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods in a competitive sport for 22 years. For more than two decades, no one's been able to touch you. Multi-national corporations devote millions of dollars in research trying to find a way to beat you. And still - except for a few matches here and there - you're still number one. And not just number one now. Because of the fact that more than any other competitive sport, the game is played by the same rules and with the same equipment as it was centuries ago - historians of the game call you the greatest of all time. And you know that they mean it. And you know that they're right.
So what to do? Endure the endless bickering between players, promoters and leagues (okay, federations) as your talent and desire slowly drains away? Embark on a farewell tour, giving the long goodbye to longtime fans and friends over the course of a final, bittersweet season (does chess even HAVE a season)?
If you're this guy, what you do is, after winning the biggest-stakes tourney of the year, tap the microphone a few times in front of a hastily assembled group of reporters and club them over the head with the news. You were never as crazily charming (or, as it turns out, just plain crazy) as Bobby, and they never made a movie about you starring Ben Kingsley and Lawrence Fishburne, but you were good - maybe a little grouchy - but still, The Greatest of All Time. And you'll tip your king whichever way you like, thank you very much.
Thank you, Garry. (And good luck dealing with Chess-Pimp now that he's got all this free time, Vladimir.)
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