Page 29 - The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin_Neat plip book

but if I lost it felt like the sky woul d fall. Ther e was one boy who was
particularly alarming. His name was Jeff Sarwer. He was a scary chi ld—s mall,

often bald and barefoot. He didn’t go to school and hi s father had hi m study ing
chess twelve hours a day. When he pl ayed, Jeff woul d chan t kill, kill, kill under
his breath. The kid was all aggression, brilliant, a powerho us e over the bo ard.
When I had just gotten back from my sum mer away I arrived at the Manha ttan

Chess Club for a lesson with Bruce, and Jeff was sitting ther e playing a regul ar.
He approached me with a challenge, whi ch I accept ed. I was rus ty and no t
expecting much of a game—he blew me away. A coupl e of mont hs later I went
back to the Manhattan and returned the favor with a huge crowd sur roundi ng

the board. After I beat him, I heard that he sat crying in a corne r for ho ur s.
Terrible. This was a bitter rivalry bet ween childr en, and it felt like the end of
the earth.
I spent many afternoons studying chess in my room, alone. Sometimes my

dad tried to distract me, lure me away to pl ay footbal l or bas ke tba ll, and I
would have none of it. There was too much on the line. My par ent s worried
that I had become too serious abo ut ches s, and my dad periodi cally told me
that it was okay if I wanted to quit. They di dn’t under stand that qui tting was

not an option.
As the Nationals approached, my training got even more int ens e. I
sharpened myself in the park, soaked in the street-smart adv ice of my hus tler
friends, and did more and more serious work with Bruce. I knew Sarwer was

spending every waking minute worki ng with Grandm asters, honi ng hi s razor-
sharp game. He was a machine, anni hi lating strong adul ts in spe ed che ss
sessions and then humiliating them with his disdai n. One day he sho wed up at
the park when I wasn’t there, and all my buddi es told him I was be tter. He

laughed, and said “Josh is a putz.” They taunt ed him unt il he left my ho me
turf. The New York chess scene was divided between his camp and mine . Thi s
was not child’s play anymore.
The Nationals were again held in Char lotte, North Carolina. I traveled to

the tournament with my parents, bab y sister Katya, and Bruce. Thi s was the
first tournament to which Bruce had ever come with me. He was no t a
competitor at heart and was deeply con cted abo ut chi ldr en tearing each othe r
apart under such pressure. I don’t really bl ame him. Thr ee close friends of mine

from Little Red also came to hang out at the tour nam ent with the ir pa rent s.
They weren’t really chess players—thi s was more of a vacation for the m. I was