Sven Hurtsalot sat opposite me, a look of utter concentration on his face. (Not to be confused with constipation, although there was evidence of that too.) His eyes bulged wildly, darting desperately back and forth in search of that final maneuver that could save him.

"Look, I already called checkmate," I said.

"Look, a bird!" he responded.

Frantically, I glanced at where he was pointing, an image of claws and beaks bearing down on me clear in my mind. Ever since that one time when I lost my younger brother at the aviary to a swarm of angry swallows, I was naturally cautious.

"There's no bird, you idiot, that's an octogenarian," I said. I couldn't help but laugh at his stupidity.

Upon turning my attention to the game board, my superior deduction capabilities informed me that something was decidedly different. My king was now surrounded on all sides by the enemy's pieces. Hope seemed gone. In that instant, I realized something that would change my life.

"Oh, this is checkers," I sagely clarified, before proceeding to jump each of his remaining pieces.