Boston Go

Just before I left home, my partner turns to me and says, with the dawning knowledge of revelation, "You're going to miss a go night."

Go players, she should know, are more pathological than that. No holiday-slash-business trip gets between one of the devout and his sometimes bloody alter of self-sacrifice.

Giving in to all addiction, I abandoned family last night with a cheerful wave, and jauntily wandered into Cambridge, Boston, where I hunted, like a Frenchmen during truffle season, for the Massachusetts Go Association.

I played six games. One against a 4-dan (lost), and a five game series against a Chinese 1-dan. He spoke no English and looked as if he learnt how to play before the Cultural Revolution. I offered him black at the beginning of each game, and he accepted the offer each time. The first game went my way with a large moyo that held up, then he took the next two with genocidal tesuji, and I took the fourth on the back of a blitzkrieg counterattack.

At 10:15pm, the last game began. Muttered curses fell like acid onto the goban. Spectators chewed fingers and often left the room to refind their balance and faith in humanity after witnessing a series of brutal, often reckless cuts.

I won, shook the man's hand, returned a toothless smile with a soon-to-be toothless smile, thanked the Boston club, and then disappeared into the night.

God, that was fun.