‘Tangy . . . Jake, it doesn’t matter what flavour they were.’ I push him away. ‘It was just the crunching noise he made when he ate them, and the smell.’

‘We should get him disqualified. Mr Keytes!’

‘Jake,’ Mr Keytes sighs, ‘I don’t think he can get disqualified for crisp-eating. Besides, this is only a blip, and even if it’s not a blip, if it turns into something bigger—’

‘Like a blob,’ says Jake.

‘Jake!’ Rebecca’s sitting next to me. ‘You’re really not helping.’

‘No, you’re not,’ says Mr Keytes, pulling a five pound note out of his pocket. ‘Go over there and get us a drink and some biscuits.’

‘I can’t,’ says Jake. ‘I’m his coach. He needs me. Besides, I thought we were supposed to get a proper lunch.’

I glower at Jake. How can he think of his stomach at a time like this?

‘Okay. Okay . . . I’m going.’ Jake turns away.

‘I think I’d better go with him.’ Mr Keytes glances at me, then at Rebecca. ‘You stay here,’ he says. ‘And, Felix, don’t worry about the last game. It’s all going to be fine.’

I don’t answer and look at the ground.

Mr Keytes is only trying to help, but he’s wrong to tell me not to worry about the last game. Granddad says we always have to analyse them so we can learn from our mistakes and not make them again. I run through the moves again in my head. Pawn to d4, pawn to g4, bishop to f7. Knight to rustle-rustle-munch-munch. It was like radio interference zapping through my head. Then the clock started counting down, every second disappearing at the edge of my vision: 9:30 . . . 29, 28, 27 . . . Pawn to b4. Rook to h6 . . . rustle-rustle-munch-munch. It was only a boy munching Doritos, but I couldn’t concentrate. I started to sweat like someone had plugged my body into the mains. Munch-munch. Checkmate. What? Checkmate.

I hold out my palms. My hands are sweating now like they did in the game. How did I let it happen? I should have blocked out the munching, pretended I was playing a computer. But I bet the Mechanical Turk never ate Doritos.

I shake my head slowly.

Granddad will be disappointed. I imagine telling him I got knocked out in the first round. He’d smile and say it was all right, but his eyes would give it away.

‘I’m sorry, Granddad,’ I mumble. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hey, what are you saying sorry for?’ Rebecca’s standing in front of me.

‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to get knocked out after three games.’ I don’t tell her it’s not losing the game that I’m worried about. It’s about losing the feeling of being good at something for once in my life.