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There once was a boy who was a very good player of
chess. He would play and the teachers would tell him he was very good indeed,
and people sometimes became perplexed by his ability. All of this was fine and
good until a moment of insight in which Gary Pendleton, a boy with a
similar background in the game, lost, and began to cry. The boy did not think
that his chess playing would ever cause anyone to feel badly, and so he made a
pact with himself to always lose.
He was good at the game, so he would play the games
in his head and seek out paths he would need to take to win. But then he would
not win. Other players were very pleased, when they first won against the boy,
who had become a minor legend. But then all the folks decided he was no longer
of any value, since they all wanted to play a champion and win.
So the boy made his failures more elaborate. He won
all but the most crucial games, he won the entire game but lost his King. Soon
it was clear that the boy had a problem coming through in a clutch. Of course,
the boy had played in his head, and beat them all.
When he turned 18, his age, a fast fading novelty
already, made him merely a good player and no sort of prodigy. He finally
competed against the same Gary Pendleton who had cried that one
day, and had turned into a boy who gloated and embraced theatricality,
which annoyed our reluctant hero to no end. So he played, and he made his way to
Gary Pendleton, and he beat him, and Gary Pendleton, 18 years old, threw the
table to the ground.
Our hero quit the game then, and went on to be the
sort of person who encourages others but can do very little for
himself.
These are the ways in which we live our lives, ways
in which intentions have no meanings, except when they are misplaced and destroy
us.
-e.
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