Page 27 - The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin_Neat plip book

After winning huge tournaments, all was well and the sky was the limit. Whe n
I was playing badly, ev erything could l ook bl eak an d o ur dr eams absur d.

It is true that I played with the knowledge that my dad ’s hear t was on the
line side by side with my own—but I also knew that he woul d love me
regardless of the outcome. There is little ques tion that some ps ycho logi sts
would frown upon such co-dependen ce bet ween father and son, but whe n you

are pursuing the pinnacle sometimes limits mus t be pus hed . The re are bi g
games, climactic moments, final surges wher e you di g for ene rgy and
inspiration wherever you can find it and pick up the pi eces later. One thi ng is
for sure—through thick and thin, my dad has always been in my corne r 100

percent.
After a month on Bimini, my po p go t restless and arranged a match
between me and the best chess player on the island. He was worried tha t I was
taking too long away from the gam e, and also he was just itching to see me

play again. I wasn’t so eager for the match, preferring to fish with my ha nd line
and go diving for lobster. Chess was still a bur den to me, but the ide a of the
Championship of Bimini sounded harmless and amus ing. We tracke d do wn the
guy and faced off in a bar. He had go ld teeth, and a huge gold ne ckl ace

hanging down over the board—remnan ts of a drug- smuggl ing past. It took me
a few minutes to get into the gam es but then I came alive, the old love
trickling back. I recall the feeling of inevitability, like chess was part of me, no t
to be denied. Something steeled in my eight -year-old self that sum mer—I

wouldn’t go out a loser.
When I got home in the fall, Bruce was preoccupi ed with book de adl ine s
and had no time for me. He cancel led lesson after lesson, whi ch felt like a
terrible slap in the face. I had lost and now my teacher didn’t like me. The

equation was simple. When we did meet, his mind was elsewhe re and the
lessons were technical and alienating. Maybe he was bus y, but I was a ki d in
need.
I also transferred from the Little Red School Hous e to the pr estigi ous

Dalton School on the upper east side of Manhat tan. The transition was di ffi ul t
—instead of a few blocks from home, school was no w a long bus ride away. I
missed my friends at Little Red and felt out of pl ace with all the rich ki ds at
Dalton. I remember the first time a coupl e of us went over to my ne w friend’s

apartment uptown and I walked into what seemed like a pal ace. Ther e were
doormen and maids and chandeliers hangi ng from dupl exed ceilings . I was