Kasparov's 'Crisis in Seville'

An excerpt from the former chess champion's new book, which applies lessons from his playing career to business and politics

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Former chess champion Garry Kasparov released his latest book this month, at the same time he formally entered the race to become President of Russia. The book, How Life Imitates Chess, is Kasparov's effort to examine how the lessons he learned in his chess career can be applied to the worlds of business and politics. As such, it's something of a primer on his political strategy in Russia, where his outspoken criticism of Vladimir Putin and Kasparov's presidential aspirations are considered far-fetched at best and dangerous at worst. What follows is the first of two excerpts from the book that will run at BusinessWeek.com. This one describes Kasparov's first defense of his chess championship, which he calls the "Crisis in Seville."

I can look back at my chess career and pick out more than a few crisis points, but only one Mount Everest. I would like to share the tale to investigate the means I used in winning the most important game of my life. After winning the world championship in 1985, I had little time to savor the taste of victory. The traditional cycle called for a title defense every three years. During that time the challenger would be produced by rigorous qualification through regional tournaments, giant "interzonal" tournaments, and finally a series of candidate matches. This was so grueling that a challenger in the final was undoubtedly a worthy contender.

This process was interrupted in my case, however, thanks to the rematch clause, a defunct rule that FIDE (The World Chess Federation, or Federation Internationale des Echecs) resurrected in the Seventies under Soviet pressure to favor Karpov. If the champion lost, he had the right to an automatic rematch a year later with no qualification process. This rule had been abolished after Botvinnik, who had poor scores in world championship matches but was devastating in the rematches, used it to reclaim the title he lost to Smyslov in 1957 and then Tal in 1960.

A Turbulent Start

To avoid the same fate I would have to beat Karpov again in 1986. Bear in mind that we had already played the longest championship match in history in 1984–85, then played another grueling match in 1985, in which I took the title. I narrowly won the rematch in 1986, but the ordeal was still not over. The qualification cycle had started on schedule in 1985 despite our canceled marathon match, the rescheduled match, and the rematch. This meant that I was due to face the scheduled challenger in 1987, exactly a year after beating Karpov. And who would my opponent be this time? Karpov.

Evading the main qualification process, my nemesis had been dropped into a "superfinal" and had duly demolished the leading contender, Andrei Sokolov. In October 1987 we sat down in Seville, Spain, to begin our fourth world championship match in three years. If I had thought I was tired of looking at Karpov back in 1984, I was really sick of him by now. At least this time there were no more tricks. If I won this match, I wouldn't have to see him or any other title challenger for another three years. Apart from the freedom from the exhausting battle of the match itself, this also meant not having to endure the months of intense preparation that always precede such a match.

Perhaps my eagerness to avoid playing another match with Karpov for another three years is what led to such a turbulent start to our match in Seville. Four of the first eight games were decisive, two wins each and four draws. I was disappointed with my uneven play and my inability to put any distance between us. After a terrible Karpov blunder, I won the eleventh game from a dubious position to take the lead for the first time in the match, scheduled for twenty-four games. After four draws Karpov won the sixteenth game to draw even. At this point I began to think only of my title. A 12-12 score—a drawn match—would allow me to retain the championship. Hardly the convincing victory I had hoped for to end our marathon, but beggars cannot be choosers, and, more important, a draw would give me three years of peace. I went into defensive mode and stopped pressing him. A stretch of six quite uneventful draws followed, setting up a showdown in the final two games.

A Must-Win Game 24

I didn't want to push, and Karpov didn't have the energy to do so. Two more draws seemed the most logical result. Members of my analysis team thought so too. They didn't tell me about their side wagers until after the match had ended, but Grandmaster Zurab Azmaiparashvili made a bet against Grandmaster Josef Dorfman on the last two games, giving away phenomenal odds for any outcome other than two more draws. It would have done my heart a great deal of good had Dorfman lost his bet, but unfortunately the string of draws would end at six. After a tough, prolonged defense I suffered one of the worst hallucinations of my career and blundered to a loss in game 23. Suddenly, Karpov was up by a point and was only a draw away from taking back the crown he had lost to me two years earlier. The very next day after this catastrophe, I had to take the white pieces into a must-win game 24.

Caissa, the goddess of chess, had punished me for my conservative play, for betraying my nature. I would not be allowed to hold on to my title without winning a game in the second half of the match. Only once before in chess history had the champion won a final game to retain his title. With his back against the wall, Emanuel Lasker beat Carl Schlechter in the last game of their match in 1910. The win allowed Lasker to draw the match and keep his title for a further eleven years. The Austrian Schlechter had, like Karpov, a reputation as a defensive wizard. In fact, his uncharacteristically aggressive play in the final game against Lasker has led some historians to believe that the rules of that particular match required him to win by two points.