Grandmasters in Guayaberas

Yet a 1999 study by Temple University researchers confirmed what many players have long suspected: Chess is, in fact, physically demanding. Blood pressure and breathing rates rise rapidly during the game. During a six-hour match, tournament participants exert as much energy as football players or boxers, the researchers found.

But physical exhaustion is the least of a chess team's worries. A marathon match is an emotional odyssey. "It's like taking a six-hour math exam," Rene says, "except that even if you get every single answer right but then get one wrong, in the sixth hour you lose."

At 4:30 p.m., as the MDC team waits for food at the Marriott hotel bar, the players seem thoroughly wiped. There are blank, vacant stares and lazy sprawling over chairs. Charles, in particular, seems pooped — slumped over a seat, set apart from the rest of the team, dwelling on his match with the Ukrainian girl. Sure there are recriminations. Renier frets about a possible clock malfunction. Rodelay is upset about missed opportunities during the middle game. Charles shakes his head: "I should have won."

Perhaps it's the curative powers of the hotel restaurant's chicken panini. Maybe it's the Café Costa's television, which shows CBS's incessant coverage of another Final Four and another underdog, George Mason University, with a national championship shot.

But moments after Rene calls for the bill, morale improves.

"Revenge is best served cold," Rodelay proclaims to the group, quoting Truman Capote.

Renier, eating an onion-packed panini, jokes that maybe the onions would help.

Then Alberto, often the team jokester, stirs. "What was with UMBC's nicknames?" he asks the group in Spanish. "The Polish Magician? The Kiev Killer? What the hell is with that?"

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The first inkling that the Chess Final Four has ESPN Instant Classic potential occurs late in the second match.

MDC, at the match's outset, looks like certain roadkill. Post-paninis, the team is visibly weary, sucking up caffeinated drinks. Meanwhile the opponent, UTD, is well rested — its players have had more than four hours of rest time since the 4-0 thrashing of Duke. What's more, UTD has relief: two fresh players from its famously deep bench, including a grandmaster.

Sure enough, just two hours into the match, things turn alarmingly bad for MDC.

Charles, seemingly still smarting from his narrow loss, makes a horrible move, losing a bishop only twenty moves into the game. ("We all do it," Rodelay says sympathetically, later.) In less than two hours — a blink in chess time — Charles heads for the showers. Renier, who is in a tough match himself, flashes a fatherly "poor kid" glance as the youngster heads out.

Interestingly, though, Charles's early loss seems to spur the others. Team chess is different from individual play. Down by one game early, MDC's three remaining players have no other choice but to become more aggressive. ("Someone had to get a win," Rodelay recalls later.) It's now time for the team captain's favorite style of chess: street fighting.

9:10 p.m.

The rally begins on board two, around move 30.

Alberto, playing black, is squared up against the Little Grandmaster — Costa Rica's Alejandro Ramirez Alvarez. There are other grandmasters in the room, but no one cultivates the air of eccentricity quite as much as this kid — roughly five feet six inches, maybe 120 pounds, with smarty-pants specs, he frequently sports a Greek fishermanlike cap and a blazer that hangs over his frame like a drape. He's one of the youngest of the 565 grandmasters in the world, and the only one from Central America. He also has 217 ranking points on Alberto and is the only player to bring his own fan base: his father and a cute blond girl in a pink sweater.

During the match, Alvarez, whose look evokes memories of Doogie Howser, MD, almost crosses the line from nonchalance to cocksurety. He's mouthing something to his young lady friend, noticing when she enters and leaves the room. Is this kid — probably the most promising chess mind in the room — so confident he's already making party plans?

But at roughly move 30, two hours into the match, Alvarez's disposition seems to change. No more glances at his fans. He seems agitated. His face crinkles as if he's annoyed. He looks restless, frequently leaving his seat and peering around at other games.

Using facial expressions to predict chess outcomes is not necessarily effective. In match one, The Frenchman frequently had an anguished look on his face. He won easily.

But after one of the Little GM's gesticulations, Rene raises an eyebrow. I meet him outside. "The Little GM is in trouble," he says, almost giddily. "Alberto is looking very good."

Charles joins us. He's brightening, too, and explains the euphoria in simple terms. "One of Alberto's pawns is threatening. If his pawn reaches the end of Ramirez's board, he gets a queen."