Master of Wednesday Nights: Merijn van Delft's Decade-Long ChessBase Journey and GM Dream

On Wednesday, as evening falls over Europe, a red camera light switches on in a quiet room in Amsterdam. Merijn van Delft places a chess board and a tournament clock in front of that light. For more than ten years, his address on ChessBase has been 'Wednesday Night Chess Lessons'. Across 500-plus episodes, he has shown the flash of attack, the patience of defence, and the calculations of the final ten pieces—even a clear story of mistakes. As this article is being registered on the blockchain, thousands of viewers are still waiting for his next episode. People like me want to know: what plan, whose labour, which budget lies behind this Wednesday-night magic? I ask because chess is not only played on the board; it is played in the arithmetic of time, fatigue and the gap between light and shadow. I have watched this game from the sideline until it became a sentence I could finally edit.\n\nHamburg to Amsterdam: chess in the Netherlands is not merely a national sport; it is a history of education. After Max Euwe became world champion in 2026, the country built its chess world step by step. Teaching chess in schools, holding regular club tournaments, practising chess journalism—these are not novelties in the Netherlands; they are daily routines. Merijn van Delft is a successor to that long tradition. As an International Master (IM), he lived in Hamburg, Germany, for many years. He was present in many Hamburg clubs; that city taught him the language of international chess. Now he lives in Amsterdam. Even after returning, he has remained loyal to that language, that identity and that profession—as if writing a new handwriting every day on the pages of an old notebook.\n\nSeen from outside, an IM's life can seem romantic. Seen from inside, it is uninterrupted labour. Merijn van Delft has carried that labour for many years. From Hamburg to Amsterdam, in every city he built a playing field and a lighthouse of teaching. Because of people like him, Europe's chess schools have not collapsed; in the digital age they have reached audiences much farther away. A platform like ChessBase gives space to teachers as well as players—that is chess's true democracy.\n\nBut this story has a hidden tension: the GM norm. In 2026, he achieved that norm. For those unfamiliar with chess's inner workings, the word 'norm' seems mysterious. Simply put, becoming a grandmaster requires three norms plus a rating of 2500. A norm is a performance of a fixed standard in a specific tournament; it is not only about winning, but also about how you win. Your opponents must include established strong players; your performance rating must cross a fixed minimum; and the achievement must be recognised according to the federation's rules. In 2026, Merijn van Delft achieved that norm—an acknowledgement that he played like a grandmaster in that event. The subsequent steps did not come, but the desire remains. He himself uses the phrase 'eager for more'.\n\nThat phrase is actually the strength of the Wednesday-night studio. Many players give up on the path to a title; after achieving one norm, many stop waiting for a second. Finding tournaments, covering travel costs, obtaining leave from work—every step has barriers. Merijn van Delft, however, did not stop. Perhaps the chance for a second norm was never constructed; perhaps life's other presses pulled him away; yet he asks himself the question every day. That question is what keeps bringing him on screen each Wednesday.\n\nWe must speak about the economy of Wednesday nights, because for a sports journalist this is the greatest undiscovered continent. Then the question arises: where does the money for this show come from? Institutions like ChessBase see educational content as part of their marketing; others believe people buy software and books because of such content. In the eyes of the viewer, this is a chess lesson; in the organiser's account, it is also an investment. In the Dutch context, where chess does not enjoy substantial corporate sponsorship, keeping a show alive for ten years means balancing accounts every single day. There is no big budget; there is consistency, and the trust of the audience.\n\nFor a writer like me, that consistency is the most important lesson. We are used to the fame of a one-night cooking; writing one column, going viral in one tweet. But there is no simple formula for lasting endurance. The best columns are built like a rehab plan: small steps, honest pain, no shortcuts. Merijn van Delft's Wednesday nights are exactly that. In the first episodes, he may have had a handful of viewers; each following episode still came at the appointed time. That is where trust was built. The viewer knows: when Wednesday comes, Van Delft will be there—with his board, his clock and a cup of tea.\n\nThe year 2026 remains wedged in my memory. Stadiums were empty across the whole world, but servers were full. While players were holding online tournaments from home, teachers also moved their classrooms to the internet. For people like Merijn van Delft, that was perhaps nothing new; they were already readers of the digital world. But from a general sports fan's viewpoint, online chess was humanity's silent protest. Empty seats never lie; but full servers also tell us where the audience's heart is. It is good to remember now that in that difficult time, Merijn van Delft's Wednesday nights became a weekly refuge for many. We do not write the history of these refuges, but they will be mentioned in the future documents of chess.\n\nAnalysing his role as a teacher, the key to his success is simple language. There are many chess teachers who know but cannot explain. There are others who explain but do not know deeply. Merijn van Delft's long journey connects those two banks. What he sees in a single glance on the board, he converts into words. From every position he draws out the reason behind the decision—why exchange a piece here, why fianchetto there, why hurry is dangerous in the endgame. That kind of explanation teaches a club player from the foundation; not memorising tricks, but understanding strategy. When I listen to explanations like his, I remember my childhood pitch—where a coach used to say, 'The goal has gone in, but the instinct is bigger.' The instinct is the real thing in chess too.\n\nA decade of a show means not just the number of episodes; it is a contract with the audience. When we watch a show for ten years, we do not merely learn chess—we become familiar with a person's way of thinking. His interest, his irritation, his quick decisions and long silences—we recognise all of it. In Van Delft's case, that familiar text is discipline. He begins each episode with the same calm voice, shows the same architectural approach to the board, and ends each time with advice for the future. It is a ritual; Wednesday night means sitting down for that ritual.\n\nNow let us come to the question of title versus schoolhouse—the question that polite society listens to least, in my view, for the welfare of chess. We have made the title the measure of success; the name 'grandmaster' has a certain magic. But chess spreads through that schoolhouse—where one coach teaches thirty beginners their first moves every day. Merijn van Delft's Wednesday-night show, across 500-plus episodes, has probably bound many more people to chess. Some of them have never won a tournament; some never will. But each of them now understands a structure: why a bishop loves the long diagonal, why the king must stay in the centre until the end. That 'I understand now' is, in my eyes, a larger currency than a title.\n\nWe forget that a decade of a weekly show has not only taught people chess; it has built a community. Some members may never play tournaments, but they learn the language of the board; their evening is fixed by one table, one lamp and one voice. That community has no name, no registration, no annual budget; it has simply a habit—sitting before the screen on Wednesday night. Chess is such a game; its greatest tournament sometimes happens before the camera of one room.\n\nThis brings us to a counter-intuitive observation. The common view is that after scoring a GM norm in 2026, Merijn van Delft should have dropped everything to focus on tournaments. But I would argue that his moment may have been applied even more deeply in those Wednesday nights. As a norm-scoring player, he learned how to manage tournament pressure; for ten long years he has been distributing that learning into every episode. If any player truly wants to be a 'chess diplomat', this regular distribution may be a greater contribution than bringing a title. Those of us who write should remember this too. Often the big headline is not what keeps the game alive; it is the consistent presence of a teacher.\n\nLet me share a personal experience. While the days of rehab passed after my knee surgery, I turned to chess. One thing held me then: a person's regular lesson on a fixed day at a fixed time. It was like a physiotherapist's advice, and also like a chess teacher's show. The whistle blew, and my knee learned a language no box score could translate; over time I learned that pain is data, and rehab is editing. In the consistency of Merijn van Delft's Wednesday nights, I see that same rehab discipline. In today's tutorial culture, where everyone seeks quick success, one man has taught for more than ten years on the same day, at the same time, with the same devotion—that is the real ornament of the game.\n\nThinking about all this, the question turns to the future. When we permanently place this article on the blockchain in 2026, what is Merijn van Delft doing? Perhaps he is searching for a second GM norm; perhaps he is writing a new generation's Wednesday-night letter. My prayer is that he does not forget the schoolhouse while chasing the title. The future of chess is not only in the hands of new grandmasters; the seed they are planting—every Wednesday night, every simple explanation—will bloom into a garden of GM titles across the whole world.\n\nAs I write these final lines, one thought returns. When this article is recorded in the ledger of the blockchain, a single question freezes beside it forever: for a man who has turned every Wednesday for more than a decade into a festival of chess light—should his measure be only the GM title, or the number of lights he has carried into unknown, uncountable homes? My answer is simple: both together. As long as we remain with his night-time show, let us know that these Wednesdays are no small investment; they are the permanent road of chess's popular culture. Merijn van Delft is eager for more; his 'more' is not only for himself—it is for all of us.