Otaké could not say exactly that, but he did lodge a complaint. “I can’t
get enough rest in three days, and I can’t get into my stride in only two and
a half hours.”
He conceded the point, but the contest with an ailing old man put him in
a difficult position. “I don’t want it to be said that I forced a sick man to
play. I would as soon not play myself, and he insists on it; but I can’t expect
people to understand. It’s as sure as anything can be that they’ll take the
other view. If we go on with the match and his heart condition is worse,
then everyone will blame me. A fine thing, really. I’ll be remembered as
someone who left a smear on the history of the game. And out of ordinary
humanity, shouldn’t we let him take all the time he needs to recover and
then have our game?”
He seemed to mean, in sum, that it was not easy to play with a man who
obviously was very ill. He would not want it thought that he had taken
advantage of the illness to win, and his position would be even worse if he
lost. The outcome was still not clear. The Master was able to forget his own
illness when he sat down at the board, and Otaké, struggling himself to
forget, was at a disadvantage. The Master had become a tragic figure. The
newspaper had quoted him to the effect that the Go player’s ultimate desire
was to collapse over the board. He had become a martyr, sacrificing himself
to his art. The nervous, sensitive Otaké had to struggle on as if indifferent
to his opponent’s trials.
Even the Nichinichi reporters said the issue had become one of ordinary
humanity. Yet it was the Nichinichi, sponsor of this retirement match, that
wanted it at all costs to go on. The match was being serialized and had
become enormously popular. My reports were doing well too, followed
even by persons who knew nothing of Go. There were those who suggested
to me that the Master hated the thought of losing that enormous fee. I
thought them somewhat too imaginative.
