He played chess like a poker player who once was unofficial World Champion in Ukraine, and then after many years in Korean war he returned to American soil to play incognito, unrecognized and unnoticed.
He didn't gave up chess in his old days. No more open tournaments, no more travels, life in hotels became suddenly too heavy for him, just short walks to his chess club for annual club championships. Rounds are played on weekends. Working days he spends in his flat in a facility for elderly people. He hates to be surounded by helpless them he ignores, but he says hell to the "still living" as he says to his granddaughter. On working days he walks by help pf rollator and feeds pidgeons in the park. He pretends no o kibitz blitz games of bloo.dy amateurs.
Happy days, weekends during club championship. He plays because he would die if he didn't. He prepares thermos with coffee and a small tetra-pack of orange juice and a macrobiotic sandwich with soya-beef. He takes his lucky pencil, the one he used when he had beaten Fischer first and only time. (He only replaces "parker" refillers.) He wears woolen sweater even in summer because his circulation is bad, so bad. He stubbornly takes showers alone and does not tell to his nurse that he is going to play chess. He hates being old. He forgets defeat the same evening he lost the game. He pretends not to notice mocking or pitying laugh and/or comments. No one thinks he is a living legend, no he is just an old bug.g.er who belongs to the facility not the chess club.
But he is going on.