baggage on the rack, a tall foreigner hurried over from across the aisle
some five or six seats forward.
“That will be a Go board.”
“How clever of you to know.”
“I have one myself. A great invention.”
The board was a magnet decorated with gold leaf, very convenient for
playing on a train. In its cover it was not easy to recognize as a Go board. I
was in the habit of taking it with me on my travels, since it added little to
my baggage.
“Suppose we have a game. I am fascinated with it.” He spoke in
Japanese. He promptly set the board on his knees. Since his legs were long
and his knees high, it was more sensible to have the board on his knees than
on mine.
“I am Grade Thirteen,”
he said with careful precision, as if doing a
sum. He was an American.
I first tried giving him a six-stone handicap. He had taken lessons at the
Go Association, he said, and challenged some famous players. He had the
forms down well enough, but he had a way of playing thoughtlessly,
without really putting himself into the game. Losing did not seem to bother
him in the least. He went happily through game after game, as if to say that
it was silly to take a mere game seriously. He lined his forces up after
patterns he had been taught, and his opening plays were excellent; but he
had no will to fight. If I pushed him back a little or made a surprise move,
he quietly collapsed. It was as if I were throwing a large but badly balanced
opponent in a wrestling match. Indeed this quickness to lose left me
wondering uncomfortably if I might not have something innately evil
concealed within me. Quite aside from matters of skill, I sensed no
response, no resistance. There was no muscular tone in his play. One
always found a competitive urge in a Japanese, however inept he might be
