Part 3: Cheating

CHEATING
Written by Bert Plomp

In his younger years, my father was a skilled football player. He played for years as a centre forward in the first team of VELOX on Kingsroad in Utrecht. We inherited our interest in football and sports in general from him, my two brothers and I. After his active football period, he remained active in sports in his free time, especially in the summer at the campsite. There, my father, Theo, Charles, and I would spend whole days playing badminton. Almost every day, we would fiercely compete for points for hours on end. My brothers and I were also very focused on long-distance running from a young age. We participated in the Het Grote Bos race every Sunday afternoon, a five-kilometre race around this campsite in Doorn. Many times, we finished among the top three. Encouraged by the success of his boys, my father decided to join in once. He was already around fifty years old. The athleticism had somewhat faded in him. His left knee was far from optimal due to an old football injury. Additionally, he struggled with a noticeable belly. Just as we had started and I was still running alongside him, I heard a spectator shout from the bushes: “What kind of old rabbit is that coming?” My father immediately understood that the remark was directed at him, not me. He did finish the five kilometres, but I never saw him at the start of this event again.
Playing games was also a beloved pastime of my father. Especially card games and checkers. It was annoying that he always cheated, especially in the game of ‘Klaverjassen’. During that card game, he consistently managed to shuffle the cards in such a way that he got the cards he wanted. Because he couldn’t match Fred Kaps, a famous Dutch magician, in sleight of hand, it was obvious to everyone that he was cheating. Nevertheless, he vehemently denied it. We often played cards for money, especially when family came to visit. No matter how small the stakes were, as soon as money was involved, the game quickly ended. The cards were thrown away, and the game invariably ended in a big argument.
Another game my father was very skilled at was the “robot game.” This game featured a little robot as the main character. This rectangular, metal figure stood prominently on the game board, holding a pointer stick in its fist. In anticipation of a question to be asked, it remained in a neutral position there. During the game, questions on various subjects had to be answered. These questions were arranged in a circle on the left side of the board. The answers, also arranged in a circle, were on the right side of the board. The player whose turn it was would pick up the robot by its base and firmly place it in a hollow in the centre of the circle of questions. Once the figure, on its rotating pedestal, had been turned to point to the intended question, the answer to that question had to be given. To check the correctness of the answer, the robot was then placed on a round, shiny, metal plate in the centre of the circle of answers. After a few uncertain turns, to the amazement of all players, the robot ultimately pointed to the correct answer. I was often amazed by the fact that my father knew the correct answer to almost every question. It didn’t matter what the question was about. This was even more remarkable because he had never had the opportunity to receive significant education. During a subsequent game, I suddenly realized that my father had simply memorized all the questions and answers.
I still occasionally experience this phenomenon. You unsuspectingly get invited to play a game of Trivial Pursuit. It’s been my experience that someone who eagerly invites you to play such a game has often seen all the questions and answers countless times before. However, if you don’t own the game, you typically hear those questions for the first time. You are then quickly inclined to think that the other person knows so much and you know so little. This can lead to the risk of developing a major inferiority complex. So don’t do it. Once during a fun game with my brother and his son, I experienced that I gave the correct answer. The answer was “Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte,” the original name of the pastry in question. To my great dismay, this answer was categorically rejected. The answer card listed the Dutch name of this delicacy.
I managed to unravel my father’s apparent omniscience at the time by forcibly rotating the upper body of the stubborn little robot half a turn. From that moment on, the robot was completely out of whack. It pointed to the most ridiculous answers. Because I knew how many degrees the little figure had been turned from its normal position, the robot judged my odd answers as correct every time.