THERE WAS A GIRL DOWN THE STREET once who interested me. She had a little brother. I decided that a good way to ingratiate myself with the girl was to teach her brother how to play chess. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to play chess myself. So I bought a cheap chess set and commenced to teach myself the game. After I’d progressed to a point that I thought was sufficient for my purposes, devious as they were, I gave the chess set to the kid as a gift and showed him how to play. His sister was impressed enough to allow me to befriend her a little more. Everything seemed to be going according to plan until the little brother’s learning curve maxed out my meager grasp of the complicated game. His sister, about the same time, also reached a point beyond which I could not go. It was, after all, the Fifties. “In life,” wrote Isaac Asimov, “unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate.” So, stymied by my own irritating limitations, recognizing that I was neither Bobby Fischer nor Elvis Presley, I moved on. In matters of love and chess, one has to accept one’s losses and keep going. Checkmate isn’t the end of the world.
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