SUICIDE NOTE
A man took great care attaching a piece of writing to the very end of a scrapbook.
Copies of it had already been sent to the association and his parents.
Not a hint of anger came through in its words… not toward the director or the sponsors who threw him to the wolves without any support, not for the Shogi professionals who criticized him for simply not understanding how strong Shogi software was before he lost, and not even for the fans who knew nothing yet and called him a disgrace to humanity.
The message was much more businesslike–––an apology for forfeiting a league match held in his hometown, a desire to help spread the popularity of Shogi, and how he didn’t want the association to host the funeral. The man had made sure that note was securely fastened to the back of his scrapbook.
Meticulous, he had saved every article he had ever penned since becoming a professional player.
There weren’t many at all. The writer had turned down all jobs outside of playing matches for he believed that research and becoming stronger were a Shogi player’s true calling. Thus he committed more time to researching his craft than anyone without sharing the fruits of that research with a soul. He was willing to play against anyone, should they only ask. Amateurs, professionals, Women’s League players, even nonhuman opponents.
The man flips over his scrapbook and goes back to the beginning.
There on the first page was the first article he wrote as a professional. His eyes skimmed through the few short paragraphs–––his “4-dan promotion.”
Born Again
Yo Okito
“I’ll never play Shogi again.”
I would think those words whenever I lost a match.
These six-and-a-half years in the Sub League have been stressful, to say the least. Hokkaido is a long way away. All the hours spent on a plane go without saying, but thinking of the time that my parents spent driving me to and from the airport made me question whether it was all worth it with each loss.
The ones who gave me the strength to sit down in front of a Shogi board each time were my fellow Sub League members from outside of Tokyo. The nights we stayed at the association before matches were precious, as they were my only opportunity to play with other people. The kindness behind the words There’s no one else to play with, so come on is what saved me.
I’ve been a burden to my parents and so many others: my Master who has constantly watched over me, the Shogi fans in Hokkaido who have supported me, and my fellow Sub League members who have fought with and against me. I know of several who left the league after a loss at my hands. Each of them has reached out to me after one loss or another when I would swear that I’ll never play Shogi again, and told me this: You will be a pro one day, Yo. I guarantee it. ……
Now that I have, I know in my heart…
Even if I were to be born again, I would want to be a professional Shogi player.
After reading that line, the man took his own life.
Then, only after awakening in a hospital bed …… and realizing that he was still himself, did the man shed a tear.
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