Hans Niemann plots a path from chess villain to vindication

HANS NIEMANN CRINKLES his nose, leans forward and, without regard to polite society enjoying brunch on this spring Sunday morning in New York, launches into Joe Rogan and anal beads.

"What type of..." Niemann says and then cuts himself off.

The 22-year-old "bad boy" of chess brushes his unruly brown hair away from his forehead as he sits across from me at Ol'Days Farm to Table, a vibrant cafe that features organic dishes and draws a young, hip crowd.

"Should you really speak about a teenager that way?" he asks.

He narrows his eyes. He wears a sour expression and suave outfit: a gray bomber jacket, black pants and brown suede shoes.

"When it's something so false," he says.

The sentences come out not fully formed.

"The biggest platform in the world."

Niemann's brunch arrives: grilled chicken with butternut squash puree, tabbouleh and arugula, along with a side of smoked salmon and sourdough bread. He has been eating healthy these days, he says, trying to get in better shape to sharpen his mind. He takes a big bite of chicken and, finally, pauses to chew.

Wiping his mouth with his linen, he narrows his eyes and returns to Rogan, who featured Magnus Carlsen, the No. 1 chess player in the world, on his podcast last February. Rogan revisited one of his favorite topics over the past three years and asked Carlsen directly if Niemann used anal beads to cheat when he shockingly defeated Carlsen in a tournament back in 2022.

"There's no empathy," Niemann says.

He purses his lips.

"My chess career was robbed from me," he says.

Now he's ready to take it back.

NIEMANN LOOKS AGITATED. The restaurant has filled up around him, and the ambient noise is picking up volume. He sits up taller. Projects his voice a bit more to make sure he's heard. He's describing, in vivid detail, his infamous Sept. 4, 2022, game when he ended Carlsen's 53-game unbeaten streak at the prestigious Sinquefield Cup in St. Louis.

In his unidentifiable accent -- he says it's from living out of suitcases as he competed across Europe -- he explains to me that he didn't do anything special in the game that changed his life.

Carlsen started with an unconventional opening, but Niemann countered impeccably. Nothing miraculous about that, Niemann tells me. On his 13th turn, Niemann's aggressive bishop move put Carlsen in a defensive position he couldn't escape. Carlsen resigned on the 57th move.

Back then, Niemann was a flamboyant 19-year-old known mostly for his raucous Twitch stream. The young American had started playing chess when he was a kid living in the Netherlands and had become a grandmaster at age 17. The elite chess players were skeptical of his skill and bemoaned his bravado from the start. He was the lowest-ranked player at the Sinquefield Cup when he defeated the best.

The next day, Carlsen posted a tweet quoting Portuguese soccer manager José Mourinho -- "If I speak, I am in big trouble" -- which the internet interpreted as Carlsen accusing Niemann of cheating.

That's all it took to spark the biggest chess scandal since the 11th century, when King Canute of the North Sea Empire ordered a hit on a Danish nobleman who he believed had cheated. This time, a teenager was the target.

A meme claiming Niemann cheated by using anal beads originated on Twitch. It spread to Reddit. And, eventually, to Elon Musk. What? The theory went that Niemann sidestepped tournament security by receiving signals for moves -- think Morse code -- from somebody, somewhere via the beads. People who never use "castle" as a verb or think twice about a bishop's sacrifice traded jokes about Hans Niemann.

Niemann shakes his head as he takes stock of his brunch plate. His arugula remains untouched.

"Frankly, everybody thought Hans had cheated against Magnus," says Erik Allebest, Chess.com's co-founder. "All the top players, people texting, 'This is not possible.'"

Grandmasters threatened to boycott Chess.com's upcoming million-dollar tournament if it didn't bar Niemann from the site, Allebest says. In a move Allebest considered "a bit hasty" even then, the Chess.com team booted Niemann and reinstated an online ban, citing the belief that he cheated on their platform in the past. Allebest says neither he nor chief chess officer Daniel Rensch consulted with Carlsen before banning Niemann. At the time, Chess.com was in the process of acquiring Carlsen's Play Magnus Group app for $83 million.

Two days after his shocking win, Niemann gave an impassioned speech. He admitted to cheating online twice -- at ages 12 and 16 -- and said he had already served his suspension. He denied ever cheating in over-the-board tournaments.

Carlsen's move came two weeks later. "I believe that Niemann has cheated more -- and more recently -- than he has publicly admitted," he tweeted. A couple of weeks after that, Chess.com issued a 72-page "Hans Niemann Report" that said Niemann "likely cheated" in more than 100 online games but found no evidence he did so in over-the-board tournaments -- at the Sinquefield Cup or ever. The report noted that Niemann's results had been "statistically extraordinary."

Carlsen and his father expressed disappointment to Chess.com, Allebest says, that the investigation turned up no evidence against Niemann in over-the-board matches.

Exhaling audibly, Niemann pours himself some water from a large pitcher on our table.

He tells me he stopped receiving invites to tournaments. He says he believes Chess.com and Carlsen blacklisted him. Niemann sued Chess.com and Carlsen, among others, for $100 million. The lawsuit was dismissed and the sides reached an undisclosed settlement to prevent future litigation. No parties admitted to wrongdoing.

Ever since the scandal broke, I've wanted to understand how such a public and ceaseless shaming has shaped Hans Niemann. He declined several of my interview requests. Now, ahead of the April 7 debut of Netflix's "Untold: Chess Mates," which features all the principals and explores the scandal and its fallout, Niemann is spending a spring Sunday with me. Carlsen did not respond to requests for comment.

"Why did you say yes to doing the documentary?" I ask Niemann.

"How else am I going to fight this?" he says, circling his arms in the space all around him.

Three and a half years ago, Niemann thought he was living the best day of his life. Rather than adoration he got humiliation. He was ostracized by the one community where he thought he would belong. Overnight, he went from prodigy to pariah.

Gathering another bite of chicken and squash puree with his fork, he looks up, his eyebrows furrowed.

"They rewrote my history as a chess player," he says.

A SMIRK CREEPS across Niemann's face as our brunch extends past noon.

"He had a bad day," Niemann says. "But to turn a bad day into something much more than that is a sign of delusions of grandeur."

Niemann recalls making a few mistakes midway through the game that could have cost him the biggest win of his career. But Carlsen didn't capitalize. If Niemann had been getting assistance, why would he have made those mistakes, he asks me, his eyes bulging. He forcefully plants his right fist on the table.

He asks me why a new ban was issued for a mistake he had made as a child and for which he had served his punishment. He clarifies that he had been suspended only once -- and not twice as Chess.com's Rensch had said.

If the team had proof that he cheated in 100 games -- which he says is false -- why did it have to hide behind words such as "likely?" he asks.

His voice gets louder.

"If they were so affirmative in their belief, then why are they so cowardly making their accusations?" he asks.

He brings up Carlsen's relationship with Chess.com and calls it a conflict of interest.

"Every single instance that Magnus made his accusation, he hid behind proxies to do his dirty work for him," he says.

"Cowardice," he says. "At its finest."

He's speaking faster now, his words sticking to each other, as though his mouth is playing catch-up with his speeding brain. He's not done talking about Chess.com.

"They act and influence the chess world as if they're a governing body, but then they take advantage of being a private company," Niemann says. "If you want to be a private, for-profit company, then you don't have the moral high ground to act as the steward of the game -- to grow the game."

"Did you calculate how much money you lost since the scandal?" I ask him.

"Millions," he says, shaking his head. (He has missed out on dozens of tournaments that offered six figures in prize money, so his estimate, if he'd won a few, is not unreasonable.)

He stares out the window behind me.

"I would have received every opportunity," he says, pursing his lips. "The young American who just defeated the world champion, I would have received every sponsorship, every invitation -- every single door would have opened."

He looks at me. Leans forward.

"If I had not been so courageous and so persevering, my entire chess career would have been..." he pauses. "Destroyed," he says, enunciating the D.

NIEMANN SLAPS HIS smoked salmon onto the sourdough bread. He takes a bite.

I ask him about his sense of belonging in the chess community.

"I just don't really like chess players," he says. He takes a sip of water. Then chugs the whole glass. "I don't socialize with chess players. I don't find myself having much in common with them outside of chess."

"I just want to be the best," he says.

Has the scandal changed his relationship to trust generally? I ask him.

He's more guarded now, he says. He's "very aware" of his surroundings. He doesn't like making friends with strangers.

"It's safer that way," he says. "I just appreciate my privacy."

A silence lingers, so we head out.

Niemann, a seasoned New Yorker, slips between cars and jaywalks with ease. "Watch out," he says to me as we come upon what looks like bodily fluids in a crosswalk.

Crouched over a chess board, Niemann doesn't look dauntingly tall, but on the New York streets, he towers over most people. He's 6-foot-1, he says. His shoes add some height. "Incline," he says.

"That's what the looksmaxxers are saying these days," he says, smiling. "Have you seen the videos?"

Somehow, suddenly, I find myself having a conversation with a chess grandmaster about the Manosphere and the influencer Clavicular, whose real name is Braden Peters.

Niemann says his social media is inundated with videos of him. He tells me he saw a video of Clavicular shooting an alligator. Another video where Clavicular boasts of his crystal meth weight-loss routine. Niemann inhales sharply and rolls his eyes, like he's intrigued and disgusted at the same time.

"I promise you my feed is not filled with looksmaxxers," I say.

"Where are you seeing this?" I ask him.

"Everywhere," he says, looking at me incredulously.

"Perhaps I'm a young, impressionable 22-year-old?" he says, his hands in his pockets.

We approach a large intersection. Two elderly women are sitting on a bench. Niemann sits down next to them. One of the women moves over and peers at him curiously.

He asks if they know who he is.

"I have no idea," one of the women says. "Are you a politician? Are you running for office?" she asks.

He lets out a big laugh.

"I don't know if that's a compliment," he says.

"How old do you think I am?" he asks them.

"25," the other woman calls out.

He laughs.

"I'm 22," he says, waving to them. "Maybe in a few years..." he trails off.

For now, he says to me, chess is an all-consuming affair.

NIEMANN SHEPHERDS US across an intersection. We're talking about his news conference after Carlsen had accused him of cheating. I'd always wondered: Why did he choose to admit to cheating online? He could have rebutted Carlsen's allegations and moved on. Why open himself up to criticisms in that way?

"There's no reason not to be fully honest and transparent," he says without stopping to think. "I understood that the only way to fight them was with the truth."

But the admission sent him plummeting. He looked at a blank 2023 calendar from January to April and realized he was "screwed." What was he going to do?

"You could have walked away from it all," I say. "Why didn't you?"

Without breaking stride, he says, "Chess gives my life meaning."

"To imagine my life without chess..." he says, trailing off. "I could not."

He's walking faster now.

"That thought never even entered my thousand-mile radius," he says, staring straight ahead.

In a twisted way, this scandal reminded him of the first time he felt the fire in his soul: His chess coach in the Netherlands told him he wasn't good and almost reduced his 8-year-old self to tears. He vowed to prove his coach wrong back then.

He decided to use the same philosophy here.

He bided his time. He spent hours every day practicing. Finally, a breakthrough in the form of an invitation to the Tournament of Peace arrived in November 2023. He traveled to Croatia and won seven games and drew two. He became the first American to win the tournament since Bobby Fischer in 1970.

Still, he felt ostracized in America. First by Chess.com. Then, in 2024, he was barred from tournaments at the Saint Louis Chess Club because he trashed his hotel room after a disappointing loss. He apologized and paid for the damages, but the club still closed its doors to him for the rest of the year.

He traveled alone across Europe and Asia, living out of suitcases and playing in minor tournaments to improve his ranking. Fitness and well-being were an afterthought. He felt tired and looked schlumpy. He recast solitude as independence.

In April 2024, he finished first in the Grenke Chess Open, and by the end of 2024, he cracked the top 20.

Two years after Carlsen changed the trajectory of Niemann's life, he made the semifinals of the 2024 Speed Chess Championships in Paris -- organized by Chess.com.

Awaiting him was none other than Carlsen.

The game had everything. It was close. It went back and forth. There were moments of deep frustration -- and struggle -- from both grandmasters. Niemann lost.

But more importantly, there were no cheating allegations.

Niemann kept up the momentum in 2025, reaching his peak FIDE rating in October: 2,738. He's playing the best chess he ever has. "He's got a shot [at the world championship]," grandmaster and longtime commentator Maurice Ashley tells me. "On any given day, he can beat anybody."

After walking me through his past two years, Niemann pauses.

"Have you talked to Magnus since?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Never."

He tells me that he has started to receive apologies from other grandmasters.

"They were under the spell," he says, "of the soap opera." He rolls his eyes.

Even Carlsen, in his conversation with Rogan last February, acknowledged the absurdity of the anal beads theory. "I really, really, really don't believe that that has happened," he said.

In tournaments, Niemann doesn't feel like a pariah anymore. Sometimes, he even manages to have jovial conversations with his competitors.

We're nearing Washington Square Park. "Do you appreciate the journey despite the pain?" I ask him.

He says his story is unfinished.

"Whatever path that you're given in life, I think it's best to accept it, make the most of it," he says.

He buries his hands deeper in his pockets.

"But, it also feels important to clear your name, if you will," he says.

He stands up taller.

"The greatest thing I can do to clear my name is become world champion."

He nods.

"I feel confident that will be the greatest vindication."

NIEMANN WALKS ACROSS a packed Washington Square Park toward the chess corner. Stone tables etched with chess boards sit in a semicircle. A few players, who spend every weekend in this corner, occupy the tables. They holler at strangers, asking for a game.

Nobody notices Niemann. Not yet.

Niemann's shoulders relax. He lets out a sigh. He goes way back with this little chess corner at the park. He has walked over to this very spot thousands of times to play. First when he was a nobody. Then when he became a grandmaster. And then the poster boy of the chess cheating scandal.

An older man named Johnny notices Niemann.

"Oh my god, it's Hans Niemann," he yells.

"Hans, play one game with me," he says, grinning ear to ear.

Niemann smiles sheepishly and walks over to his table. He sits down across from Johnny and asks him if he has a clock. He doesn't. So Niemann pulls out his phone and uses it as the timer. Johnny asks Niemann if he can play the white pieces. "Sure," Niemann says and sets up the black.

The game begins. Niemann moves so fast it's hard to keep track of what he's doing. Johnny blunders early. He is so rattled his hands are shaking and he can't place his pieces right. They fall over after every move. Niemann smiles and quietly adjusts them to their right spot.

"I am playing the Hans Niemann," Johnny says, his voice rising an octave. "I am extremely nervous."

People gather. First, it's the other chess hustlers. Then the crowd gets bigger. Ten people. Then 20. Some whip out their phones and grab photos and videos of Niemann.

In this little corner of the world, the scandal that has shaped Niemann's life does not seem to matter. Here, he's the chess superstar who wowed fans with his speed and precision. Here, his fame is not tied to the mistakes he made as a teenager. Here, he's the Hans Niemann. In an alternate world, if he hadn't been accused of cheating by the world No. 1, and if he were not mocked by Joe Rogan to his millions of listeners, one could imagine a quieter kind of fame for this 22-year-old grandmaster. A fame that's propelled by his dedication and his performance. Where even his bravado is universally accepted. Even celebrated.

The game lasts less than three minutes. Niemann shakes hands with Johnny, who is making an impassioned speech to the crowd.

"I tell everybody who sits across from me for 19 years, there are no losers. Not at my table. That's because I've learned over the years, when you lose, you win too, because you learn things. And the journey -- that's where the good stuff is."

Niemann watches Johnny intently. He nods. Fans shove phones in front of him for selfies. He smiles. Another fan walks up to me and pulls up a video of himself playing Niemann back in 2023. A younger Niemann, his curly hair longer and more disheveled, is smiling as he moves his pieces in rapid succession.

Yet another player asks Niemann for a game. "Another day," he says.

"Please," the fan asks. "Just one game."

Niemann takes a seat. The crowd gets bigger. About 50 people now. In minutes, Niemann wins again.

His opponent shakes Niemann's hand.

"Everyone loves Hans," the man says.

WE'RE STANDING OUTSIDE Washington Square Park waiting for an Uber to our final destination: Lucky Strike bowling alley at Chelsea Piers. Niemann, who looks leaner and more muscular than he did in 2022, tells me that New York is the greatest city in the world. How he has seen a nude protest and a person waving a communist flag in the past weeks. Now, he's pointing to a group of "wannabe K-Pop dancers." He corrects himself. "Aspiring K-Pop dancers," he says, smiling.

I ask him about Endgame, an online chess platform and app that he recently launched. It's a direct competitor to Chess.com. He has been working on it since last November. He has made friends with people in the tech world, he says, and they gave him the idea to launch his own company. He came up with a proposal and a term sheet for Endgame.ai, and in a matter of 10 days, he says, he was able to raise $4.8 million. The company has expanded to include eight full-time employees, he says. He's in the process of organizing high-stakes online chess on the platform with some of the top grandmasters.

He's excited for the launch of the Netflix documentary. Niemann tells me he was the last to sign on but decided to say yes because he wanted to stand up to his bullies.

He believed Chess.com and Carlsen -- he often refers to them as the "mafia" -- were trying to ruin him. He felt powerless.

That has changed now, he says. He has a lot more resources at his disposal. And allies.

"He's not a pariah -- anymore," Ashley, the commentator, tells me.

Niemann smiles as our ride arrives.

"I feel fully armed now," he says.

In the Uber, Niemann tells me about his new obsession: tennis. He says that he follows it as closely as he does chess and that he has started to play daily. He has a love-hate relationship with world No. 1 Aryna Sabalenka. "The power is astounding," he says. "But I really don't like Sabalenka moaning. It's ridiculous."

He shakes his head. "It's too much," he says. "It's so unnecessary and excessive."

He turns around from the passenger seat and gives me a wry smile.

"Maybe," he says, drawing out the word.

"That's what people say about my emotions."

His smile turns into a cackle that turns into self-reproach.

"I'm not going to take too principled of a stance," he says.

We pull into the bowling alley and meet up with his friends. They're an eclectic bunch. One is Australian, another South Asian American. No grandmasters. That suits Niemann just fine.

Niemann orders fries and chicken wings for the table. He nibbles on a wing and ribs his friends for drinking milkshakes that are "easily 1,500 calories." In the fourth frame, he picks up an orange ball with his left hand -- his gaze fixed on the pins. He calculates the angle and speed in his brain. He walks up, swings his left hand and releases the ball. It rolls dead center.

A strike.

He turns around and looks at his friends. Waiting for a reaction.

They clap and raise their hands for high-fives.

Hans Niemann slaps each one. He laughs. For 220 minutes, nobody has mentioned anal beads. He knows the Netflix doc will revive the controversy once more. This time, he's ready for the fight.