In the late 1960s, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I was playing in the novice section of one of my first weekend chess tournaments at the now-defunct Hotel McAlpin near Penn Station in Manhattan. After one of the rounds, my opponent and I retired to the skittles room for a post-mortem discussion of our game. Other neophytes were doing the same thing, when Bobby Fischer, who was in his mid twenties then, entered the room, pulled up a chair, and joined our spirited discussion and suggested alternative moves. He seemed to enjoy analyzing our game, even though we were complete beginners. His explanations were clear and not at all condescending.
When I thought about this years later, I was impressed by how he had treated us as chess brethren.