It is a bittersweet memory from a time before I knew the stains of the world, even before I could say I was savoring the full bloom of youth. Since early childhood, I found joy in solitary pursuits—reading books or playing the piano. From the first to the third grade of elementary school, I was particularly devoted to Shogi.
One day, I participated in a local Shogi tournament. Though nervous about my first competition, I headed to the registration desk. A woman—perhaps a female professional player—dressed in a beautiful kimono kindly guided me through the venue.
Among the crowd of boys and girls, one youth caught my eye. They had refined features and large, piercing eyes that emitted a sharp gaze, carrying an aura of a formidable competitor. As fate would have it, this person was my first-round opponent.
We took our assigned seats. My opponent remained silent. In an attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere, I realize now that I might have spoken too flippantly. That intense gaze was, of course, nothing but pure focus on the match.
“You look really strong. This is my first time in a Shogi tournament. I’m glad my first opponent is a boy; I get too nervous talking to girls.”
The moment I finished speaking, their gaze grew even sharper, piercing through me. I instinctively fell silent.
Then, with impeccable timing, a man who appeared to be the tournament official announced the start: “Please begin.”
The furigoma (piece toss) determined that I would take the first move. In Shogi, the turn order is decided by taking an odd number of pawns, shaking them in both hands, and letting them fall onto the board to see how many land face up or face down.
For me, it might have seemed like a lucky start. But exposed to that gaze, it no longer mattered. My hand trembled as I made the first move. It was all I could do just to push the pawn in front of my Rook. Without a moment’s hesitation, the youth made their move, opening the Bishop’s diagonal. They were a Furibisha (Ranging Rook) player.
I struggled to prevent them from utilizing their Rook and Bishop. These are known as the “Major Pieces,” the cornerstones of any attack. However, they dealt with my attempts with calm precision. In fact, I was being handled too easily. The depth of their reading was on an entirely different level.
Their face was the picture of earnestness. I couldn’t help but feel out of place. Yet, that seriousness struck me as something beautiful.
It was as if they saw through everything. With a faint smile on that elegant face, they dropped a Silver on 5-1. It was the moment my attack withered and theirs struck the decisive blow.
“I resigned,” I declared, looking down. Then, the youth spoke quietly.
“Thank you for the game.”
They couldn’t quite hide an air of triumph. Leaving only those words, they rose from their seat.
I was taken aback. In Shogi, it is customary to have a kanso-sen—a post-game review to reflect on the match. As I sat there dazed, preparing to clear the pieces alone, the youth returned.
“Shall we do a review?” they murmured, beginning to move the pieces. As a beginner, I wasn’t good at reconstructing the game record. When I told them so, they moved the pieces for me, pointing out where my moves had gone wrong.
“Thank you very much,” I said again. With a slight bow, they headed off to their next match.
Startled by the abruptness and lack of sentiment, I started to pack away the pieces. Just then, a person who appeared to be a professional player making rounds approached me.
“She was strong, wasn’t she?”
Once again, I was stunned. But in that instant, everything clicked.
“She… she was a girl,” I whispered feebly. As I spoke, I looked over at her, sitting in her chair waiting for the next match. Her seriousness was still full of spirit, and perhaps because she had already secured a win, she seemed to shine even brighter. In my eyes, that radiance looked different than it had before.
“You lost today, but there will be other tournaments. Keep at it,” the teacher said, trying to console me.
I finished clearing the pieces in silence and left the venue.
Many years have passed since then. Today, I was receiving a teaching game from her. She said:
“No, that’s not the move.” As she spoke, she removed the pawn I had just played from the board.
“Try again. There’s a better move than that.”
Even after all these years, there are times I still cannot win. Yet, I continue to play. That is what life is.
