Luzhniki Night, the Old Bird Does Not Land: When the Scotch Game Opened Destiny

Luzhniki Night, the Old Bird Understands That Landing Is Also a Way of Flying. On July 1, 2026, at Luzhniki before 79,000 spectators, I wrote the match report for Russia vs Spain. The opponent held 75% possession, but goalkeeper Akinfeev, 32 years old, played like a steel wall. The 1-1 draw sent both teams to penalties; Akinfeev saved Koke's and Iago Aspas's shots, Russia won 4-3. I did not write about the score, but about an old bird like a birch tree standing firm in the Spanish storm. That article earned me my own column "Stories in the Grass," where I was free to write like a writer. But tonight, Luzhniki does not need lights. I sit in my editorial office in Saint Petersburg, looking out at the frozen Neva, and remember a chess game with no ball, no spectators, no score. A game with only two men sitting across from each other over a wooden board, and an opening named Scotland. That was 2026. The chess world was watching the world championship match between Garry Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov. People talked about the Ruy Lopez, the Sicilian Defence, the King's Indian. But few expected that Kasparov — the young challenger with flowing hair and eyes like knives — would choose the Scotch Game. An opening considered bland, without a unique idea, without originality. An opening that the world's top players of that era used to draw, not to win. Kasparov won. Not just one game. He used the Scotch Game as a dagger into Karpov's position, turning a forgotten weapon into a serious threat. After that match, the Scotch Game was no longer a faint shadow in opening theory. It became a strategic weapon, a manifesto of innovation. I followed those games through handwritten notes, through old chess magazines I collected from my youth. Back then, I was just a young Vietnamese man in Moscow, recently graduated with a Master's in Movement Science, fascinated by how chess operated as a sport of the intellect. I did not fully understand the deep variations of the Scotch Game at that time, but I understood one thing: Kasparov did what no one dared to do — play an opening considered mediocre at the highest level. Thirty-five years later, sitting here, I still ask myself: what makes a forgotten opening return as a deadly weapon? And what makes an opening considered dangerous become neutralized by a man named Adrian Mikhalchishin? I found the answer in a chess training column called "60 Minutes." It is a format of short, concise lessons where the world's top coaches share their tactical weapons. And Mikhalchishin — one of the most renowned chess coaches of the Soviet school — chose the Scotch Game as his topic. But not to teach you to play the Scotch Game. He teaches you how to counter it. The story begins here. I remember vividly my days in Moscow, when I was still a student, often sitting in the library of the Russian Chess Federation, turning the pages of old magazines and noting down every game. I recorded moves, thinking time, and even the players' emotions. I believe data is not just numbers — it is story. Every move is a choice. Every choice is a destiny. And the Scotch Game, from Kasparov's 2026 games, became a destiny recorded in data. The Scotch Game begins with 1.e4 e5 2.Nf3 Nc6 3.d4. White opens the center immediately, creating early tension. Unlike the Ruy Lopez — where White builds pressure slowly — the Scotch Game is a manifesto of speed. White tells Black: "I don't want a long battle. I want to settle it right in the center." For decades, top players believed that was not enough to gain an advantage. They wanted control, not chaos. They wanted the Ruy Lopez, where White could squeeze gradually. The Scotch Game, with its open and symmetrical nature, seemed to lead only to a draw. That is why it was considered "bland." Kasparov proved them wrong. In the 2026 world championship match, he brought the Scotch Game back into the light. Not as a way to draw. But as a way to win. He chose sharp variations, pushing pieces into positions Karpov was not accustomed to. He turned the simplicity of the Scotch Game into complexity in practical play. Thirty-five years later, Mikhalchishin looks at the Scotch Game and says: "This is not a problem. This is an opportunity." He does not say it in words. He says it in a 60-minute lesson. I have watched many chess lectures. Most are designed for those who want to win. Mikhalchishin is different. He teaches you how not to lose. He teaches you how to neutralize. He teaches you how to turn the danger of the Scotch Game into boredom. That is a different mindset — the defensive mindset of the old Soviet school. When I was young, I admired attacking players. I loved the games of Tal, of Fischer, of Kasparov. I wanted to see the board burn. But as I grew older, I realized that defense is also an art. And Mikhalchishin is an artist of defense. He does not teach you to run away. He teaches you to stand firm. And standing firm, in the Scotch Game, means understanding the central structure. The Scotch Game has a strange characteristic: it opens the center too early. White exchanges pieces in the center, creating empty squares, diagonals, open files. For some players, that is an opportunity. For others, it is a threat. Mikhalchishin belongs to the second group — he sees the threat and turns it into a defensive opportunity. I remember a quote from him in an old interview: "Chess is not the game of those who want to win. It is the game of those who want to control." Control. That is the keyword. In the Scotch Game, White controls the center by opening it. Black controls the center by recapturing it. It is a war of two philosophies. And Mikhalchishin chooses the second. I tried applying what Mikhalchishin teaches in a training game. My opponent was a young Russian player who loved the Scotch Game and always tried to attack quickly. I prepared. I studied. I waited. And when he opened the Scotch Game, I did not panic. I neutralized. I controlled. The game lasted six hours. In the end, I won. Not with a lightning attack, but with patience. That is Mikhalchishin's lesson. But the story does not end there. There is a strange thing about the Scotch Game that few realize: it is not an opening. It is a manifesto. When you play the Scotch Game, you are telling your opponent: "I am not afraid of simplicity. I do not need complexity. I only need effectiveness." That is why Kasparov chose it in 2026. He did not need a flashy opening. He needed an effective opening. And the Scotch Game is effective. But effectiveness, in chess, is a double-edged sword. If you are effective, you win. If you are too effective, you become predictable. And when you are predictable, you lose. The Scotch Game, after 2026, became popular. Many players began to play it. Many coaches began to teach it. And when an opening becomes popular, it becomes vulnerable. That is the law of chess. That is the law of every sport. And that is why Mikhalchishin teaches how to counter it. I like that paradox. Kasparov made the Scotch Game dangerous. Mikhalchishin makes it harmless. Two men, two eras, two philosophies. But both understand one thing: chess is not a game of moves. It is a game of ideas. And the Scotch Game is an idea. An idea of simplicity. An idea of effectiveness. An idea of opening the center before your opponent is ready. I have spent many years studying the Scotch Game. I have read hundreds of games. I have analyzed thousands of moves. I have tested it in small tournaments. I have won. I have lost. I have learned. And the greatest lesson I learned is: no opening is perfect. Every opening has weaknesses. Every strategy has a counter-strategy. Every manifesto has a counter-manifesto. The Scotch Game is no exception. Kasparov proved the Scotch Game can attack. Mikhalchishin proves it can be defended. Both are right. And both are wrong. That is the beauty of chess. There is no absolute truth. Only choices. And every choice has its price. I remember a story about young Kasparov. He said he never played an opening he did not understand. He did not play to surprise. He played to control. The Scotch Game, for him, was not a surprise. It was a calculated choice. Mikhalchishin is the same. He does not teach how to counter the Scotch Game because he fears it. He teaches how to counter it because he understands it. Understanding to control. Controlling to neutralize. That is the mindset of a coach. And that is the mindset of a man who has spent his life studying chess at the deepest level. As I sit writing this article, I ask myself: does anyone still care about the Scotch Game? In the age of artificial intelligence and supercomputers, do classical openings like the Scotch Game still matter? The answer is yes. Because chess is not just calculation. Chess is story. Every opening is a chapter. Every move is a sentence. And the Scotch Game is a special chapter — a chapter about return. Kasparov made it return in 2026. Mikhalchishin made it return in a different way — not as a weapon, but as a lesson. And that lesson, in my view, is a lesson about balance. In chess, as in life, nothing is absolute. No opening is invincible. No strategy is perfect. There is only balance — between attack and defense, between simplicity and complexity, between effectiveness and predictability. The Scotch Game is a symbol of that balance. It is simple to the point of danger. It is effective to the point of vulnerability. It attacks to the point of being defensible. And that is why it survives. I do not know if Mikhalchishin is right when he says the Scotch Game can be neutralized with "simple and practical tips." I have not watched his entire lesson. I have not tested all the variations. I only know that, in chess, nothing is simple. And nothing is practical if you do not understand it. But I believe one thing: if you understand the Scotch Game — truly understand it — you can play it. And if you understand how to counter it, you can neutralize it. That is not a tip. That is knowledge. And knowledge, in chess, is the strongest weapon. Luzhniki Night, the old bird understands that landing is also a way of flying. But sometimes, not landing — continuing to fly — is also a way to live. Kasparov did not land. He flew. Mikhalchishin also did not land. He teaches others how to fly. And the Scotch Game — the opening of simplicity — continues to fly, through decades, through generations, through boards. When the stadium no longer has a ball, memory begins to score. When the board no longer has a game, the opening begins to live. And the Scotch Game, after all, still lives. I remember once, at a tournament in Moscow in 2026, I sat next to an old Ukrainian coach. He told me: "Do you know why the Scotch Game matters? Not because it is good. Because it is true." True. That is a strange word in chess. Chess is a game of abstract ideas. But the Scotch Game, somehow, retains its truth. It does not try to be complex. It does not try to be flashy. It simply opens the center and says: "Let's settle it." And in a world where everything becomes complex — where artificial intelligence can calculate millions of moves in a second, where top players prepare hundreds of variations before every game — the truth of the Scotch Game is a reminder. Chess, at its core, is a battle of wills. Not of machines. Not of data. But of humans. Kasparov understood that in 2026. He did not need a perfect opening. He needed an opening he understood. And the Scotch Game was an opening he understood. Mikhalchishin also understands that. He does not teach a perfect opening. He teaches an understanding. And when you understand, you can counter. That is the final lesson of the Scotch Game. Not an opening. But a way of seeing. I have spent 49 years observing the world of sport. I have seen legends rise and fall. I have seen openings flourish and be forgotten. I have seen games praised and criticized. But I have never seen an opening with such vitality as the Scotch Game. It is not the strongest opening. It is not the most beautiful opening. It is not the most popular opening. But it is the truest opening. And in a world full of illusions and complexity, truth is the most precious thing. The Scotch Game does not promise victory. It only promises a fight. And sometimes, a fight is all we need. Tonight, I sit here, in Saint Petersburg, looking out at the Neva. I have no board. I have no opponent. I only have memory. And memory, as I have learned, is an opening that never ends. The Scotch Game is still there. Kasparov is still there. Mikhalchishin is still there. And I — an old Vietnamese journalist in Russia — am still here, writing about them. Not because I want to. But because I must. Because chess is my story. And the Scotch Game is a chapter in it. A chapter about return. A chapter about balance. A chapter about truth. And above all, a chapter about people — people who dared to choose a forgotten opening and make it immortal. When the heart stops beating, I learn to beat slower but deeper. When the board stops playing, I learn to remember longer but clearer. The Scotch Game does not die. It only waits. Waiting for a new Kasparov. A new Mikhalchishin. Someone who dares to look at simplicity and say: "This is strength." And when that person appears, the Scotch Game will return. As it once did. As it forever will. Because chess never forgets. And true openings — openings like the Scotch Game — never die. They only wait. And I, an old journalist in Saint Petersburg, am also waiting. Not waiting for a game. But waiting for a story. Because that is my job. And that is my life. Luzhniki Night — the old bird does not land. The Scotch Game — the opening of truth — does not either. And perhaps, that is the most beautiful thing. When the stadium no longer has a ball, memory begins to score. When the board no longer has a game, the opening begins to live. And the Scotch Game — after 35 years — still lives. Still true. Still immortal.