Go Links | Go Files | Japan | Home This is a series of articles that I have written for the American Go Association E-Journal. Although I find it's the best way to make my stories available, I originally created this page because I was curious to see what kind of editions were being made to my writing. Comparing and contrasting what I submit with what is published helps me to examine my own writing. My hope is that my writing style will improve to make such editing unneccessary in the future, so that what is published will be nothing more and nothing less than what I submit. I am grateful for the fine editing done by Chris Garlock and Bill Cobb (for the E-Journal), and I don't mean to give the impression that I don't appreciate their fine skills. I merely prefer that my words retain the quality of being spoken by me. It is hard to carry the nuance of voice into printed media, but I hope that my writing enables the reader to hear me. My brother says (and I agree) that all the changes being made are good ones. With this in mind, he points out that I should not be bothered by the fact that editors do a lot of work to make their authors sound better. Especially in those cases where the editors take none of the credit for the finished product. He has a good point. You will find the published versions of my articles on the left, with the original submissions available to the right of them. My sincere thanks go to the aforementioned editors, and everyone else who has helped me to refine my stories.

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THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku by Solomon Smilack June 22, 2004 Shitamachi is a little izakaya near Muroto Port. The name Shitamachi means "downtown," though a literal translation would indicate that the area is "under the castle," historically, the place where commoners live. The restaurant/bar's patrons fit the description, but in such a rural area it would be hard not to. Izui Kei, the owner and sole employee, is a jovial newlywed in his early thirties. Average men and women from different walks of life pack into Kei's izakaya to talk, drink, and watch the Hanshin Tigers battle their way towards another pennant. Shitamachi is dominated by the bar, made of polished logs, on which sit huge bowls of fresh appetizers and a glass-windowed cooler filled with fresh fish. The bar seats eight people comfortably, and there are two four-tatami rooms which offer a little privacy or extra space on busy nights. On the night that Kei discovered my passion for go, he dug into his storage closet for a folding board and two containers full of plastic stones. He dusted them off bashfully and insisted on giving me the set, saying that he only knew how to play go-moku-nanabe and suggesting that the set ought to get more use. I accepted the gift, knowing that I could now return the set that I had borrowed from my school. Before I left, Kei introduced me to Izui Yasuhisa (no relation). Yasuhisa is the president of a local ironworks, and has a daughter who is currently studying English in the United States. He has a humble and honest attitude, and a face that makes his balding-pattern look quite dignified. He was more eager to practice his English than he was to play go, but we arranged to meet again at Shitamachi to do both. Yasuhisa had said that we would use his board, but I was not prepared for what he brought. When he took off the wooden cover, the biggest kaya goban that I had ever seen was revealed. The board was well worn and, looked at from an angle, the lines vanished, leaving just the grain of the wood visible. Yasuhisa set the board on the floor between us in one of tatami rooms, and Kei brought us glasses of beer and plates of food. Yasuhisa offered me white, and my eyes widened as I took a handful from the dark bowl. The stones were a pleasant cream color, and the grain of the clamshell had turned chestnut-brown from age. Each move felt special because every stone had its own personality. I was thrilled to play with them. From our low cushions, the height of the board made viewing the game slightly uncomfortable, and I soon found myself winning, which put me further ill at ease. Our skill level seemed almost equal, but three games made clear what Yasuhisa never mentioned: he hasn't played go in years. We arranged another get-together, though he might opt for us to play at his home instead of in Shitamachi's noisy atmosphere. I have been unable to attend the local go club for several weeks, so we might be on level ground by the time we play again. But I'll willingly give him a handicap, rather than risk losing the clamshell stones during nigiri.

The Submitted Draft Comment? This article in context This article was accompanied by a photo on the AGA homepage.

THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku by Solomon Smilack May 18, 2004 During Golden Week I played igo every day. Golden Week is one of Japan's holiday seasons, and includes Green Day, Children's Day and Constitution Day. On Constitution Day I spent the afternoon at Yokoyama sensei's house, where we went over some of my recent misplays. He chides me for not taking an extra move to connect my stones on the third or second line. He has taken to describing my style as "toro toro," the English equivalent of "take take take." He says it so emphatically that, at first, I thought he was comparing me with a bull chasing after a bull-fighter. This wasn't far from the truth - he thinks that my style of play is too confrontational. He keeps stressing the importance of give-and-take: he wants me to be more generous. He tells me that strengthening my own position is a threat that should make my opponent do likewise. If they ignore their own weak points, then I can become a bull in a china shop. In my games with Yokoyama, my handicap has shrunk to three stones. I give and take, patiently making use of my handicap stones. But I don't have the same luxury at the igo club, where I have begun playing even games against Yanagawa-san and Hatakenaka-san. Yanagawa is definitely the more fearsome of the two. He slaps the stones onto the board hurriedly and confidently, even when he's making moves that are clearly unreasonable. Hatakenaka plays hesitantly, but with a very lighthearted manner. As he places stones he often says, "Well, one more stone wouldn't hurt," and he laughs a lot at his own mistakes. Against both of them, I try to play patiently. I try to be generous, and spend more moves correcting flaws in my own groups. But as we approach the middle game, my opponents have admirable territories sketched out and my positions feel over-concentrated. I allow Yanagawa's invasions to jump out, and I happily chase them around the board. I lose against Hatakenaka, and afterwards Yokoyama shows me where I needed to hane instead of extending. He plays out all the possible sequences, and I see where I missed the chance to use my nearby strength to resist. In the evening on Constitution Day, Yokoyama and I spent a few hours eating and drinking in an izakaya (a restaurant/bar). As we pour sake for each other, I ask him what kinds of foods he likes, and he begins talking about World War II. At first I am confused, but he explains that he grew up during the war: during his childhood he ate everything in his bowl because there were meager rations. He says that many people his age are thin and do not have favorite foods. He turns the discussion toward American and Japanese politics. Japanese people value unity and harmony, and this makes the political hierarchy very strong. Everyone is expected to support Prime Minister Koizumi even if they disagree with his decisions (for example, sending Self Defense Forces to Iraq). Yokoyama asks the inevitable question: Do I like President Bush? I think about answering with a simple negative. Instead, I explain to him that I disagree with Bush's foreign and environmental policies. I can be generous and resist firmly at the same time.

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THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku by Solomon Smilack April 13, 2004 Whenever I play go with Yokoyama-sensei in his home, Mrs. Yokoyama attends us with food and drink. She gives us each a cup of coffee during our first game, and endless cupfuls of green tea for the remainder of my visit. She usually plies us with small snacks -- crackers, biscuits, hard candy -- as well as traditional foods such as mochi (sticky rice cakes), anko-filled muffins (anko is a sweet bean paste), buntan and mikan (citrus fruits). Each time that I arrive, I make an effort to talk to Mrs. Yokoyama. It is easy to simply launch into a game with her husband, but doing so seems almost rude. At first I was afraid that she and I would have little to talk about, but I recently found that we both enjoy choral singing. During my last visit I entered the living room and found her seated at the kotatsu (a table with a heater on the underside). She was sewing large, pink flowers, and she explained that they would adorn the choir robes at her next concert. When I asked for details about the concert, she gave me a complimentary ticket and a flyer. Mr. Yokoyama asked why I would want to listen to a choir of old women. I'm not sure if he was joking or not. My friends have mentioned that Japanese men insult their wives, but it is still hard for me to not be put off by his comment. I have trouble reconciling such harshness with his regular, gentle nature. My handicap against Yokoyama-sensei shrank to two stones. It was a brief advancement, because I subsequently lost three games in a row, but I felt stronger nevertheless. My handicap shifts after each best-of-five match, and my progress feels tangible. After each of our games we talk about the winning and losing moves - without fail, I smack myself in the forehead for having known a proper move but having played a poor one. I do not always have to wait until after the game to be told where I failed. Sometimes I know the losing move when I make it, and sometimes Yokoyama-sensei feigns indigestion. I thought, at first, that his groans meant that I had gained an advantage or found a tesuji; I quickly discovered that they were the laments of a teacher with an inept pupil. Now I fear them more than I fear losing.

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THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku by Solomon Smilack March 8, 2004 I have a dream. In this dream, I'm sitting in the go club here in Japan. It is a twenty-tatami room, which is much more space than the five or six regular members really need. The glass windows are closed because the weather is chilly, but afternoon light is still coming through the white paper of the shoji. I'm sitting on two cushions and I'm facing Kubo-san. Kubo ponders for an extra moment, then puts a white stone into my secure territory. With a merciless scowl, I raise a black stone into the air and bring it down directly upon the white one. The clamshell is crushed beneath the power of my black stone, and flaming white fragments go flying in all directions like a firework, burning up in the air before they reach the tatami floor. It's very satisfying, but for the time being it is only a fantasy. In my real world, I am incapable of finding the proper response to Kubo's overplays. Kubo is the youngest of the old men that come to the play go in the cape-town every weekend. He has less gray hair than the other men and noticeably fewer wrinkles on his square-ish face. He doesn't fidget with the stones as some of the men tend to do. He is energetic and has a very aggressive style. I like him, but his moves drive me absolutely bonkers. Even his standard opening: he gives me a four- stone handicap and always begins by using a knight's move to approach the two corners nearest him. After I make my extensions away from the approach stones, he places a stone on the star point between his approach stones. This is how he likes to start, and I've been trying desperately to escape the routine. I make sure not to force his approach stones into pillars, because that would make his position perfect. I use a pincer or a cap instead (depending on my mood), and my whole-board plans generally work well. I usually carry a large advantage into the endgame, and it is then that Kubo terrorizes me. It never fails. Just when I think I have a victory secured, his eyes focus through his glasses like laser beams and he drops a scorching white stone into one of my positions. As I fumble with the invasion, my group dies or has to fight a ko in order to survive. Kubo wrests victory from me either way. I feel insulted by Kubo's invasions because I know that they are unsound, but I am more frustrated with myself for being unable to respond properly. As such moves usually come very late in the game, I'm tired and I want to finish quickly. I am usually too absorbed to see that the tea-lady has come by, so my cups of ocha go cold before I notice them. The single white stone unsettles my thoughts -- it is as if Kubo has flung it into the pathways of my mind. I've gone back to studying tsume-go problems so I can improve my ability to read such situations without becoming confused. I've talked to Yokoyama-sensei about it, and he confirms the fact that Kubo is strong mostly by virtue of his aggression. Kubo's moves aren't really sound, says Yokoyama, but they provide opportunities for me to make mistakes. Yokoyama suggests that I try to play at a slower pace, as I do when we play during our occasional weekday lessons. This may work. But it would also be spectacular to scowl, crush the invading stone into flaming pieces, and then sweep the white dust into the lid of my bowl as agehama.

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THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report From Shikoku by Solomon Smilack February 2, 2004 After half a year in a remote area of Japan, my go playing has found a routine. Yokoyama sensei allows me to invite myself to his house every couple weeks, and my handicap against him has shrunk from five stones to four. Though he is in his late sixties and earned his 4 dan certificate decades ago, he still studies regularly. He also introduced me to a group of old men that play in the cape town nearby. There are six or seven players, all at least twice my age, and on any given Saturday, Sunday, or public holiday they get together for a few hours of light play. Though my game has improved, I still need a handicap between two and seven stones to get an even result with any of them. While I am not playing every day, as I had hoped to, I find that two or three days per week is enough. I actually find a lot of other opportunities to play, study, and even teach. On Sunday morning NHK television airs a recent tournament match, and on other days I can study from books. During a 3 day conference for foreign English teachers, armed with copies of Karl Baker's "The Way to Go," I taught several people how to play the capture game. I also played a game with the Kouchou sensei (principal) of one of my schools. The stones were quite old, and I was lucky not to cut myself on them and even luckier that the Kouchou sensei's game was not as sharp as they were or I would have been slaughtered. Afterwards the Kyoutou sensei (vice principal) solicited a future game with me, and the Kouchou sensei promised to bring his own set for future games. As the Kouchou sensei put the ancient stones back on the shelf, they seemed to sense that their time had come and they slipped from his hands to meet their noisy end on the tile floor. In general, Japanese people are surprised that I play go and even more amazed when I tell them that I learned how to play from the internet. But getting away from the internet has been a boon for me. Not only does it allow me to interact more with Japanese people, but the go board is a bridge that covers the language gap. I find the same satisfaction with sports: the rules of the game provide a basis for mutual understanding. Language ability, if it exists, serves to enrich that understanding. One of the things that drives me to study more Japanese is a desire to better understand Yokoyama sensei's lessons. And the reverse is also true: I have learned a lot of new vocabulary while playing go that I can use in my communication with Japanese friends and coworkers. I still miss playing online, but only because my online rank was a way of measuring my progress. When all is said and done, the rank is just a number -- the personal connections that I am making are much more important.

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THE TRAVELING BOARD: Report from Shikoku By Solomon Smilack September 29, 2003 In preparing to come to Japan to teach, I was looking forward to playing go every day, since whenever I logged on to IGS back home I saw many Japanese players. But after a month here I have only played once. Muroto is neatly tucked away on the eastern cape of Shikoku, the smallest of Japan's four main islands and go has turned out to be hard to find in this fairly rural area. An invitation by Akita Sensei (a fellow teacher) to his father's house in Ogata, a four-hour drive from Muroto, brought my first game in months, where Akita's father deftly cut off and smothered an enormous group of my stones in a running battle. It was tremendous fun. My office has introduced me to Yokoyama sensei, a pleasant old man with a four-dan certificate who retired from our school some years ago. He promises me that if I study with him for three years I will reach shodan (I am currently somewhere around seven kyu). So far, and bearing in mind that these are impressions from just a month in rural Japan, it seems like go in Japan is a bit of an antique. Although 'Hikaru no Go' has apparently jumpstarted a new generation of young players, they are just that: young (elementary school students). Out of 600 senior high school students, not a single student of mine knows how to play go. Once in a while a student (or even a fellow teacher) will tell me that their father or grandfather plays go and while of course I would welcome meeting any go players, my contact is limited and indirect - lack of rapport prevents me from being able to solicit games with people I have never met. So go has become something rare and special. As with improving my game, the very process of finding opponents takes dedication and time. I'm looking forward to spending a year with Yokoyama sensei. Top