I learned to play Western style chess when I was a child. I just played casually with a few of my friends. I especially played during the month of Ramadan, when Muslims fast during the day. One of my best friends was Muslim, and he would come round to my house during the school lunch break, and he would keep his mind off food by playing a game of chess with me.
When I came to Japan, someone in an izakaya taught me how to play shogi, or Japanese style chess. I got into it, and played with a friend in the same izakaya. Then I found a shogi dojo and started going there once a week. It was a slightly stressful environment, because I was in my early twenties, and almost everyone else at the dojo was at least in their sixties. I had no idea how to make conversation with them between matches.
After leaving Japan the first time, I hardly played shogi for about 18 years. But I have taken it up again in the last few weeks.
The trouble is, I lost my eyesight about 13 years ago, so I can no longer see the board or pieces. I play against my son, who is seven years old and goes to a shogi dojo (for children) twice a month or so. I tell my son which pieces to move: “Move my pawn from square 8 – 7 to square 8 – 6.” He moves it for me, then tells me his own move. And I have to try to remember it all.
Does it sound difficult? It is exceptionally difficult to remember the whole board. I can visualise little sections of the board, but not the whole thing at once. So I can easily make huge mistakes, such as not noticing that my most important pieces are threatened, especially by a long distance attack from a bishop or knight (“Kaku” and “keima” in Japanese). Fortunately, my opponent is only seven years old and so is, in theory, much weaker than me at the game. This gives both of us a chance to win.
We have been playing for about half an hour or so in the evenings. Games take longer than usual because I have to keep confirming with my son where various pieces are. In our first major game together, I slowly crushed his army over the course of a week. I took his rook (“Hisha”), his bishop, and both of his silver generals (“Gin”). His king cowered in the corner and waited to die. I was just about to kill him off when my son suddenly launched a kamikaze attack with one of his knights, which had become a gold general (“Kin”). His piece was totally unsupported by any other pieces. It had to move into a square next to my king to attack him. This was no problem for me because my king could then simply take the piece.
“Okay”, I thought, “When I hear my son say Ote, I will just take his piece. Until then I will ignore his attack.”
As far as I remembered the rules, players had to say “Ote” when they placed their opponent’s king in check. So I moved one of my pieces forward.
“My next move will finish the game,” I thought.
“Daddy, why didn’t you move your king?” asked my son. “I’ll take your king with my gold general.”
He had moved his piece next to my king without saying “Ote”. I told him that he was supposed to say it. He insisted that it was a courtesy, not an absolute rule. My wife consulted his shogi rule book and confirmed that he was correct. I suppose that for good players, the idea that you wouldn’t notice that your king is threatened is ridiculous. Except that for blind players just trying to keep their son entertained, it might be a nice courtesy to observe.
So after a week’s patient planning,
visualising and memorising of moves, I lost from a sudden suicide-bomber attack
from one of his last desperate soldiers.
Perhaps there is a lesson about real warfare to take from this. Be careful of a desperate opponent, for he
has nothing to lose. And if you are
expecting courtesy from your enemy, remember Shakespeare’s advice that “All is
fair in love and war.”
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