Free Grandmaster by David Klass Page B

dining alcove so that he was standing on his hands. He kicked away from the wall and began walking on his hands. Finally, with a great effort, he slowly picked his left hand up and stood on just his right, his face turning red from the pressure of his full body weight. “I used to be able to hold this position for two minutes,” he grunted, putting his other hand back down and then falling to his knees.
    “Still pretty studly, Dad,” Eric said proudly. And then he told all of us: “Dad was a varsity gymnast at Stanford. He tried out for the Olympic team.”
    “What about you, Morris?” Randolph asked. “Got anything you want to show the boys?”
    Dad thought about it and smiled. “I’ve got one or two things up my sleeve,” he said. “Check this out.”
    I knew what was coming and almost couldn’t bear to watch. He thrust his head slightly forward on his neck like a turtle poking out of its shell, tilted his chin up so that his bald pate gleamed under the one ceiling light, and concentrated.
    “What the hell’s he doing?” Eric asked. “Is he trying to levitate?”
    “No, he’s wiggling his ear,” Brad snorted.
    “Both ears,” Dad said proudly. “And watch this.” He took off his glasses, and one of his eyebrows cocked up while the other one arched downward. “Pretty nifty, huh?”
    “Morris, as one Mind Crippler to another, you need some new material,” Randolph Kinney told him, and the four of them burst into laughter.
    I found myself on my feet, speaking a little too loudly. “My father’s the only grandmaster at this table, and he just won today with a brilliant rook sacrifice, so maybe all of you should shut your mouths.”
    They stopped laughing. “Looks like Patzer-face is ready to take us all on,” Brad said with a grin.
    “Yeah, well we probably shouldn’t laugh at a team member,” Eric said. “Even an ear-wiggling one.”
    “We weren’t laughing at you, Morry,” Randolph chimed in. “Is it okay if I call you that? And I did hear about that rook sacrifice today. I’d love to see the game. But now that we’ve had a couple of glasses of wine I’ve gotta ask you something.” He lowered a glass of expensive Rhone wine and said: “Why on earth did you give up chess for the last thirty years?”
    The table suddenly quieted.
    “Personal reasons,” my father said, looking straight ahead.
    “What possible personal reason could there be for giving up what you’re best at?” Dr. Chisolm followed up, his cheeks red. He had drunk too much too quickly, and it seemed to bring out the aggressive, nasty side of his character. “No offense, but you work for Howdy Doody, and you wiggle your ears and move your eyes like Mr. Potato Head…”
    Eric and Brad howled with laughter.
    “But you were a monster at chess,” the heart surgeon admitted. “I googled you and some of your games won brilliancy prizes and are posted online with grandmaster commentary. I played through a couple and they’re amazing. And I saw that you came in second at the U.S. Open one year—back when you were still a teenager. So what possible personal reason could make you quit…?”
    I glanced at my father. It was news to me that he had finished second in a U.S. Open.
    Dad stood up. “Daniel, I’ve finished my steak and I think we should go,” he said with quiet dignity. I stood up next to him, without a word.
    “Don’t storm off, Morry,” Mr. Kinney said. “We didn’t mean anything. Sit back down. We were just naturally curious about why you gave up something you were so good at. Stay and have dessert. They make a mean cheesecake, and I was going to order a special port.”
    “I don’t need your special port,” my father told him, looking him in the eye. “Thanks for dinner. Come on, Daniel.”
    We started to walk away.
    “Morry,” Randolph Kinney called again, louder. “We apologize if we offended you. You don’t want the lesson you teach your son to be to walk away from his own team, do