When I was about fourteen, I used to play draughts for my school, the Christian High in Leeuwarden. I was not particularly good but I played with great enthusiasm, even if with little expertise or talent. Early on I had drawn unwelcome attention to myself by falling into the opening-move traps which the boys who belonged to a draughts club had been warned about at their first lesson. Our best player was Johan Capelle. He would take the first board, the next-best player would take board number 2, and so on. The weakest (‘the weediest’) player sat at the lowest board.

One day we were due to play against one of town's higher-grade schools. Their number one board was taken by Harm Wiersma, thirteen years old but already a legend in Friesland. Before we started the match our team leader called us together. He had a plan. ‘This Wiersma is so good’, he explained, ‘that it would be a shame to waste our strongest player on him, because whoever plays him is bound to lose. Johan'll do better taking on their second board.’ We allowed the logic to sink in. ‘But then, following that argument, the one who, uh …’ someone started; he did not have to finish his sentence. Five or six members of our team turned as one towards me. I went bright red, nodded that I understood and took my seat at the first board.