Page 59 - The Art of Learning by Josh Waitzkin_Neat plip book
P. 59

CHAPTER 7




                                               CHANGING VOICE










                When  the  film  Searching  for  Bobby  Fischer  came  out  I  was  sixteen  years  old  and

                winning everything in sight. I became America’s younges t Int ernat iona l Master
                that   year,   I   won   the   U.S.   Under   21   Cham pi ons hi p   twice   at   sixteen   and
                seventeen,  and  I  came  within  a  hair’s  breadt h  of  winni ng  the  World  Unde r  18
                Championship       when   I   was   seventeen.   From   the   out side   I   may   ha ve   looke d

                unbeatable, b ut inside I was a kid barely ho ldi ng ev erythi ng t oget he r.
                    While    I   adjusted   to   the   glare   of   the   media   spo tlight ,   my   relations hi p   to
                chess  was  slowly  becoming  less  organ ic.  I  found    myself  pl aying   to  live  up   to
                Hollywood      expectations   instead   of   for   love   of   the   gam e.   I   unde rstood   the

                danger  of  becoming  distracted  by  the  adul ation  and  I  fought   to  ke ep  focus ed.
                But  I  was  slipping.  More  and  more  fans   came  to  my  tour nam ents  to  watch  me
                play   and   get   autographs.   Beautiful   girls   smiled   and   handed    me   the ir   pho ne
                numbers.  Grandmasters  smirked  and  tried  to  tear  off  my  head.      I  was  living  in

                two   worlds,   and   I   started   having   a   pecul iar   sensation   of   detachm ent    dur ing
                tournament  games.      Sometimes  I  seemed  to  play  ches s  from  across  the   room,
                while watching myself think.
                    Around  the  same  time  I  began  training     with  a  Rus sian  Grandm aster  who

                urged   me   to   become   more   conservative   stylistically.   He   was   a   lovely   man—
                literary,  compassionate,  funny—as  human   bei ngs   we  connect ed  but   che ssically
                we  didn’t  gel.   He  was  a  systematic  strategist  with   a  passion   for  slow,   subt le
                maneuvering.  I had always been a creative,  attacki ng  player who  loved  the  wild

                side   of   chess.   I   liked   to   live   on   the   edge   in   the   spi rit   of   Bobby    Fi sche r   and
                Garry    Kasparov,   and   now    my   new   coach   had   me   immerse    myself   in   the
                opposite  sensibility.  We  dove  into  the  great  pr ophy lactic  players,  study ing  the
                games    of   Tigran   Petrosian   and   Anat oly   Karpo v,   ex-world   champi ons    who
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