Page 16 - The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin_Neat plip book

A few days later my mom and I were walking thr ough the same corne r of
the park when I broke away from her and ran up to an old man with a gr ey

beard who was setting up plastic pieces on one of the marbl e boards . Tha t da y I
had watched a couple of kids playing chess at school and I tho ught I coul d do
it—“Wanna play?” The old man looked at me sus pi cious ly over his spe ctacles.
My mom apologized, explained that I didn’t kno w how to play che ss, but the

old man said that it was okay, he had childr en, and he had a little time to ki ll.
My mom tells me that when the game began my tongue was out and resting on
my upper lip, a sure sign I was either stuf fed up or concent rating. I remembe r
the strange sensation of discovering a lost memory. As we moved the pi eces, I

felt like I had done this before. Ther e was a harmony to thi s gam e, like a go od
song. The old man read a newspaper whi le I tho ught abo ut my moves, but
after a few minutes he got angry and snap ped at my mom, accus ed he r of
hustling him. A pparently I was pl aying w ell.

I had generated an attack by coordi nat ing a few of my pieces and the old
man had to buckle down to fight it off. After a little while a crowd gathered
around the board—people were whi sper ing somethi ng about “Young Fi sche r.”
My mom was confused, a little concer ned abo ut what had come over he r bo y. I

was in my own world. Eventually the old man won the game. We sho ok ha nds
and he asked me my name. He wrote it on his newspap er and said “Josh
Waitzkin, I ’m gonna read about you i n t he p aper someday.”
From that day forward, Washington Squar e Park becam e a second ho me to

me. And chess became my first love. After school, instead of hunge ring for
soccer or baseball, I insisted on headi ng to the par k. I’d plop down aga ins t
some scary-looking dude, put my game face on, and go to war. I loved the
thrill of battle, and some days I woul d play count less speed ches s ga mes, ho ur

after hour staring through the jungl e of pieces, figur ing thi ngs out , thr owing
mental grenades back and forth in a sweat. I woul d go home with che ss pi eces
flying through my mind, and then I woul d ask my dad to take down hi s dus ty
wooden set and play with me.

Over time, as I became a trusted par t of the park scene, the guy s took me
under their wings, showed me thei r tricks, taught me how to ge ne rate
devastating attacks and get into the head of my oppo nen t. I becam e a pr otégé
of the street, hard to rattle, a feisty compet itor. It was a bizarre scho ol for a

child, a rough crowd of alcoho lics, ho meless gen ius es, wealthy ga mbl ers