by Cho Hunhyun
Changho may have been disappointed about being the only live-in student as well as not getting any one-on-one structured lessons from me. He must have had high expectations when he decided to learn Go from someone deemed to be one of the best in the world. But I was very pleased to see how Changho turned out the way I hoped he would. He was diligent and devoted to learning Go. He grew into a man of few words who was never swayed by anything like the stone Buddha. Today, Changho lives a peaceful life, carries out his duties with a strong sense of responsibility, and is never involved in any scandalous event. Therefore, I feel it is fair to say that I have done everything I could for him.
In the final game of the 29th Choegowi Title Match, which is one of the prestigious and the second-oldest title matches in Korea where I had won 15 times, Changho sat opposite me after fearlessly beating every great master of the time. Changho and I had actually played against each other- ‘mentor vs mentee’- twice, in 1988 and 1989. But this time something was different. Changho was the sun, rising with great energy, and I felt the heat taking over me. I fought hard to make a two-to-two draw, but I lost in the final round by half a point.
That night, Changho and I came home in the same car. We put my family in an awkward position. They could not congratulate Changho nor say something nice to me. Whatever our innermost feelings were, we acted as usual. I went straight to bed and Changho spent an hour or two practicing Go before he went to bed. But it was a day to remember for both of us; to Changho, it must have been the best day of his life. To me, it was both a cruel and happy day. And yet, we went about our business as usual.
Stepping Down from the Throne
Changho winning the championship of the Choegowi Title Match was a sensation. The fact that a 15-year-old boy rose to the thrown by beating his own mentor who was still looking after him made headlines. It was an unprecedented event in the history of Go in Korea.
Usually, the age difference between a teacher and the students in Go community is huge. The reason is because most professional players accept student later in their career, and the incubation time for students is long. Seeing a teacher and a student playing against each other is very rare. Even I expected to play against Changho in my mid-forties, at the earliest. But Changho grew at a fast pace beyond my expectation. I was at my best when I lost my Choegowi championship title to Changho in 1990. I was 37. I was more surprised than pleased at the sudden success of my own student.
And it did not stop there. Changho and I played against each other again at the Guksu Title Match in September 1990. This time, he beat me three to nothing. Changho went from strength to strength, winning the Daewang Title Match, the Wangwi Title Match, and the Myeongin Title Match. He took away all three titles from me, one by one. By the end of 1991, Changho had won seven different championship titles while I was left with only 4. Changho moved out around this time to live on his own. Even for us poker-faces, it was awkward to be in the same space, especially after we had played against each other. Besides, Changho had outgrown me. He had learned everything and I had nothing more to teach.
Changho and I let the events of our lives take their own course. The day he moved out, he bowed without any expression, just like the day he came to live with us. Mihwa tried very hard to hold back her tears and I, I gazed after him without saying a word. After he became independent, Changho’s attack gathered even more force, and I was freefalling straight down. Playing against Changho left me exhausted. Back then, each player was given five hours so the games continued past 10 p.m. I became aware of the limit of my physical strength. I felt as if my body was breaking into pieces when I was using up all energy to calculate every possible effective move. At one point, I had to almost lie down during a game with him even when the cameras were there. The media described it as, “the Master reclined elegantly to play some Go,” which was a nice way to put it. But nothing could have been more humiliating for a middle-aged emperor of Go to be pulled down from his throne by some 16-year-old boy.
I had lost almost all of my titles to Changho. But Changho went on to target the only title I had been left with. In February of 1995, Changho took away the remaining last title from me. For the first time in my 20-year career, I was empty handed. I had no crowns left.
But strange enough, I felt a sense of tranquility when I returned home. I had lost everything, but I felt free and relieved. For the next few days, I caught up on my sleep and got a good rest. I felt better, physically and mentally. It felt like a new beginning. I started to have positive thoughts. Being without a title meant I had nothing to lose. I had put every ounce of my energy to defend the championship titles I had held, but once I’ve lost everything, I was surprised to find myself feel a great sense of freedom. Now that I had fallen to the bottom, it could not get any worse. Up was the only way to go. All I needed was to make one small step forward to call it a progress.
In retrospect, I was desperate to keep my head above water. Otherwise, the agony and excruciating pain would have consumed me. And then there was my love for Go. I could never quit Go. I had to play Go to live. For all of these reasons, I had to think positive and it got me through the cruelest time of my life.
Despair is difficult to overcome. Sometimes the feeling of loss is so deep that it completely demotivates us, forcing us to live in seclusion, or take our own lives. Fortunately, I realized I had the strength to laugh off at a crisis- a strength possibly inherited from my parents or a legacy of Master Segoe. Or, the strength could have stemmed from the unwavering support and confidence my family has always given me. Without them, I would not have lived through the tough time, or be called ‘Cho, the Go Emperor.’ Positive thinking also renewed my gratitude to everyone who took care of me and loved me.
Slowly but steadily, I climbed my way up from the dark abyss to the surface. I participated in almost every competition, playing games more than anyone else. I played 110 games in 1996 alone, which means I had a game every three days. I was no longer defending my championship title, but had to win all the way up to get to the finals. Losing one round meant falling straight down, which ironically made the game more thrilling. It was also refreshing to compete with young rookies after a long time.
I had always thought I was used to winning and losing all those years. But I was completely wrong about myself; I was used to winning but not losing. It was around this time that I began to care less about winning. I have come to accept that I was not always meant to win. As I felt more comfortable with myself, I began to smile more and joke with younger players. I even made a big fuss about being attacked, asking them to go easy on me.
Changho had become the winner who took it all, while I kept climbing up to make as many opportunities as I could to challenge him. We met again at the Guksu Title Match in 1998. Changho, as the defending champion, and I as the contender. I did my best to push him to surrender at the 159th move. But it was not about beating him. What was important to me was that I was able to work my way up to the top again. I also understood that even if I succeed in arriving at the summit, there were new rising stars other than Changho, who could push me off the top. But I wanted to prove myself and others that I was not easy.
I happened to read Changho’s interview when he had lost all of his titles in 2011. When asked how he felt, Changho said, “Once I was defeated, I found myself at ease. I am not too hung up on the fact that I do not have any titles left. As long as I can play good games, I believe I can always get good results.”
I smiled at his reply. I believe Changho finally understood how I felt. To empty the mind and to enjoy playing Go.
Chapter 3
Win, if You Can
Never give up too early. I held on until I reached the next round of the game and the next… not because I was craving to win, but because there was light at the end of tunnel.
The Waiting Game
In 1997, in the final first round of the 8th Tongyang Securities Cup, an international professional Go championship, I faced my opponent, Satoru Ko
bayashi 9P who had defeated Lee Changho at the semi-final. Kobayashi was a placid tempered player who dominated the Japanese Go in the 1980s. The game was not going in my favor; my stone group had collapsed too early into the game because of a single careless misreading of a move. Ever since then, Kobayashi was coming after me. It was obvious that Kobayashi was very close to winning the game and all there was left for me to do seemed to accept my defeat.
But the tide started to change. I launched last-ditch attacks to win back control of the game. I knew I was stretching backward but noticed that Kobayashi was losing his pace. Kobayashi was agitated and began to overreact to my equally irrational moves. He could have just easily blocked my stones by simply removing them out of his way as he did before. But he did not. Did his obsession with winning blind him from thinking clearly? It occurred to me then that there might be a silver lining after all.
The game was not over yet. There were many minutes left before the empty spaces could be filled with stones. I was not going to let him have his way; I provoked him incessantly. Those who were watching the game live on the T.V. must have thought I was pathetic, trying to grasp on to the slightest chance to survive.
Finally, the chance that I had been waiting for while I doggedly held out had come. Kobayashi put his stone at the wrong place. I think he was confused. That move completely turned around the game like a flash. Kobayashi began to lose control at my vehement attack. The game ended at the 230th move. When the scores were counted, I beat him by six and half points.
“Cho Hunhyun went too far.”
Observers clicked their tongue after the game. The atmosphere in the room was disapproving of my victory as they thought I had clung on to Kobayashi like a leech to deliberately trip him up. Kobayashi was in disbelief, sitting there with a blank expression. He was stunned in silence after losing the game he had almost won.
A few days later, Kobayashi and I sat across each other for the second round. And once again, I was cornered by Kobayashi’s impeccable strategy. The stone group that I had laid out in the middle of the board was facing a virtual wipeout. It was obvious that I was trailing badly and almost losing the second round by half-time. But then, another unexpected development took place. While we were engaged in a Ko fight, where the white and the black stone takes turn to capture and recapture each other, Kobayashi made a Ko threat that was not really a threat.
When I realized what Kobayashi had done, I knew how I wanted to respond. I removed Kobayashi’s black stone which stood in the way of my group. My group, which had been cut in half, was now perfectly connected, and the game turned into my favor in the blink of an eye. Once again, I won by one point.
The third round played out in the similar way. Halfway through the game, I had barely built my own territory except for some at the lower right corner while Kobayashi was trailblazing through the stones and expanding his territory. Everyone was expecting Kobayashi to win this time because he had lost by a neck after almost winning the previous two rounds. But, once again, a golden opportunity arose. A move that I had experimented with towards the end of the game turned out to work out beautifully and became the game-deciding one-side Ko. A one-side Ko, also known as a picnic Ko, is not a fatal blow to the one who is defeated; but the other player must win at all costs to avoid catastrophic damage. Kobayashi placed his stones on the board to resign at the 285th move.
It was a much-needed triumph, my first trophy at an international competition since I last won anything, locally or internationally. For the past two years and eight months, I was unable to pull myself out of a slump, especially, in local competitions.
This particular game is still the talk of the town. Kobayashi was prevailing in all three rounds until I bit him like a German Shepherd and did not let go until he kneeled down. I earned the reputation of being worse than death.
But that is just how it goes in the world of competition, as well as in the real world. The end result is as important as the process. We must win, if we can. And in order to win, one must hang on long enough for the right timing to launch a counter-attack.
When I was playing against Kobayashi in the Tongyang Securities Cup, I held out in the final three rounds because I believed I stood a chance to win the game. There was hope for me. It is different from being driven by acquisitiveness. I believe that a true fighter has the audacity to bet even on the slimmest chance to win when the game is not over. If I had chosen to admit defeat looming at the end of the game and thrown my stones to resign, would I have lasted long enough to have that opportunity to see the game turn for the better?
In a marathon, hundreds of runners start at the same time, but only one gets to cut the finishing tape. The rest of the marathoners know that there can be only one winner, and that they are not the one. Nevertheless, they keep running to cross that finishing line. Not a single runner stops running in the middle of the race or stops caring about the race just because the winner was already decided. Why? It is because there are other runners to outrun. But more importantly, it is for personal-best time that they keep running.
I believe that was exactly what a Go champion and a true fighter like Kobayashi was doing playing against me. Kobayashi fully admitted his defeat at the awards ceremony. “Whoever wins in the end is the stronger of the two, regardless of whether it was a good game throughout or not. The loser has nothing to say.”
Professional Go is a game of mind-control. The moment one chooses to give up, the game is really over. On the other hand, if one believes that there is still hope to turn the tables around and looks for the right timing to make the move, the opportunity will present itself. Win the game, if at all possible. Never give up so easily. Put up a fight to the end. There is always a next time to reverse the tide.
Marking Territories
The game of Go, simply put, is all about expanding into more territories than the opponent. The aim is to put as many black or white stones as possible, to capture the opponent’s stones, ‘build’ houses and surround more territory. As such, defending one’s own territory and conquering the opponent’s territory becomes the life goal of a professional Go player. From the moment I grasped the stone for the first time in my life I have always given my best to expand my turf.
Expanding territory is a common goal in many different types of sports. American football, for example, is a game of advancing into the opponent’s territory by throwing the ball to the other side. The offense is to run as hard as possible to advance the ball down the field. A successful catch that makes it to the touchdown, or kicked through the air for a field goal, means the offense has succeeded in penetrating into the defense side of the field. It is the same for handball and basketball. The ball is dribbled or passed down to the opponent’s side of the court to be thrown at the goal. In soccer, the only difference would be the ball has to be controlled by feet. As such, in order to invade into the opponent’s territory to score a goal, players end up struggling together on the field. The play can get very tense and tight with players giving it their all.
The goal of expanding territory and the fierce nature of this objective are very much part of the real everyday life. Everyone aims to win. They are willing to take great pains to have a better life, to get to a higher position, to live in a bigger house, and to drive a bigger car. We are all driven by our own ambitions which is perfectly natural. It can work as a healthy motivational mechanism as long as the reward is not acquired by illegal or inappropriate means, or comes at someone else’s expense.
When I was young, I was brimming with the fighting spirit. I was obsessed with winning. I was possessed with the desire to win, so much so that every day and night was spent reading through books about game records. I was thinking about Go all the time. I endured years of harsh training in a foreign land because I wanted to win so badly.
Every Go player I knew in Japan was a genius. There were so many of them. Yoshio Ishida and Masao Kato, the two comets of the Japanese Go community of the 1970s; Koichi Kobayashi; and Cho Ch
ikun. I played against many of them who had gone down the history of international Go as best of the best. In first few years, I got clobbered, barely surviving when I played against them. I had been acclaimed as a child prodigy when I became the youngest professional player in Korea by passing the Professional Qualification Tournament. But, in Japan, I was no match for them. It was the time of losing streak and I ended up in a blood match every time I played against any one of them.
When I was just starting out and lost the first game, and the second game, I was furious and I felt I did not deserve to lose. But the sense of defeat became more manageable as I lost many more games over and over again. I developed the mental strength to take blows well. And with every game, I played progressively better. Over time, I was not only catching up but playing at par with Kobayashi and Cho Chikun. I even started to win a game or two, which was a great feeling. As a 2P, I almost made it to the main tournament of the Meijin Championship and the Japanese Honinbo Title Match, which were the two most prestigious Go championships in Japan then. In the year I turned 17, Nihon Ki-in made me the rookie of the year. I was awarded with the Go-do award for holding 33 wins, one tie, and five losses.
I went from strength-to-strength when I returned to Korea. I conquered every championship, one by one, starting with the Choegowi Title Match. In 1980, I became the first in the history of international Go to win the grand slam. I was able to revive the glory of the grand slam in the years 1982 and 1986. I was also taking all the momentum I could to every international championship; the Ing Cup, the Fujistu Cup World Go Championship, the Tongyang Securities Cup, and the Chunlan Cup World Professional Weiqi Championship. In 2002, I became the oldest winner in the history of the Samsung Fire & Marine Insurance World Masters Baduk and at the inaugural KT Cup. From the 1980s to 2000s, I was on a winning streak for two decades and with it came the title of the ‘Korean master of Go.’ Those two decades were my time, until young Go players, including my student, Lee Changho began to take the titles away from me.