The Only Thing More Difficult than Being a Genius is Trying to Reason with One

I used to know a guy who received an all-expenses paid pass into a Ivy League graduate program when he was only 20.

He had previously earned a perfect score on his SATs, as well as perfect marks on his GREs.

He seldom left his apartment, never listened to music, and had a difficult time relating to people and animals.

***
Bobby Fischer was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1943, the son of a Jewish immigrant. He taught himself to play chess when he was 6 years-old, was a chess champion by the age of 13, and in 1972 he became the first American to win the world championship in over a century.

He died yesterday in Iceland, where he lived in a sort of self-imposed exile: emerging only to occasionally offer anti-American and anti-semitic remarks, even responding to the September 11 attacks in New York City by terming the event "wonderful news."

His IQ was purported to be upwards of 180. That is to say: off the charts.
***
My five-year-old nephew enjoys reading, writing stories, playing cowboys and Indians, and watching Sponge Bob.

He's a well-rounded little boy with an active imagination: acting out stories he makes up as he goes along, and insisting that he be referred to only by that day's alter ego (Lone Ranger, Flash, Mr. Incredible, Deerslayer, etc.) whenever it's play time.

He cracks jokes with his grandparents, leans down to button up his little step sister's winter coat, and kisses his baby cousin on the head, asking to hold him.

Necessity all but forced him to learn to pronounce "Afghanistan" when he was two-years-old, and by the age of four he was taking on his Papaw in Bobby Fischer's sport.

And my nephew always won: but then again, he was playing by his rules, moving every piece in whichever direction — and for however many spaces he saw fit.
***
"Hey, T, do you want to play chest?" he asks me just about every time I visit home.

[He thinks "chess" is actually called "chest."]

"Sure," I say. "But how 'bout if this time you let me win?"

He laughs, running towards the hand-carved board my parents keep near the bay window of their small, Midwestern home.