If you remember, he's not a good loser - or in fact, even a good understander of the game. I tried to help him think about his moves but all he wanted to do was cheat so that he could win.
"No, you can't move backwards," I heard myself say, several times. "No, one space at a time, diagonally. No, you can't jump that one, no, diagonally. Think, don't cheat. Look at the board..."
It was exhausting. In the inevitable end, he broke down into a screaming fury, tears rolling down his face because he didn't want to move (he could see I would take his pieces) but couldn't understand that that meant he lost. He was absolutely out of control, throwing arms and legs around and totally refusing to listen, wailing the same thing over and over again about how I had cheated by giving him a hint. He had lost and he could not handle it. It was, once again, a microcosm of the human condition.
I'm not sure I like the look of it. The first worrying lesson he's learned somewhere is that resignation is better than perseverance. Who has taught him that awful lesson? Wanting to win is commendable, but if it's combined with the idea that you can just throw in the towel when it looks like you're losing... that's awful. If he'd stuck with it, he might well have won. Instead, he gave up - he just gave up. And that, I think, is actually worse, much worse than losing.
The second lesson he's picked up is that the rules bend and break around him, so long as he gets to win the game. I hope and pray that this can somehow be channelled into some entrepreneurial diligence someday, but without perseverance, it's utterly useless. How do you know whether someone is a winner? They win. And how do they win? They start off by losing - this is success 101 isn't it? Every winner has to be a great loser. And if there's one thing losers understand it's how the rules work.
The worst lesson of all though is the one which has taught him that he is the centre of the universe. We're all like this - we all do everything we can to justify ourselves and shovel the blame out of our own self-dug trenches. It's pride - a natural, human, selfish pride.
At the end of it, with the distress of him screaming and not listening, I found myself heartbroken at the thought of it - the thought that I'm like this too. I can't stand being wrong. I detest being wrong and embarrassed and I flush hot with anger if I'm wrong, embarrassed and ignored. And I think we're all like it.
The older I get, the more I realise that loving other people, championing them and helping them as much as you would yourself, is one of the greatest keys to happiness you will ever find. It beats me how people don't get this, how it results in an astounded "What's he ever done for me?" or a "Why should I?" as though those were even the right questions to ask. I wish the rest of my family could figure that out, especially as they all know that it's exactly what Jesus teaches.
My nephew is seven, which I think is the age to at least start understanding all this. At the end of the game, while I was dolefully packing away the draughts, I wondered whether I should have explained the rules again, more clearly at the start. Maybe next time. In a way that he cannot possibly understand at the moment, I am desperate for him to beat me at draughts. I hope that day is soon.
My other nephew came through and very innocently stared up at me. He's a little younger.
"Uncle Matthew?" he said, holding his hands behind his back. "Do you know the person who invented the door knocker?"
"Um, no, I don't," I said, scratching my head. "Do you?"
"No," he said, perfectly, "But he deserves a nobel prize."
I roared with laughter, which it seemed, was exactly what I needed.
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