Kasparov's 'Crisis in Seville'

(page 3 of 3)

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Computers Have Changed the Game

Seeing a chance to play for an attack, I moved my knight to the central e5 square, offering a pawn. Karpov took the bait and grabbed the pawn, a temptation that could have led to disaster. And he had to play quickly now, as it was still a long way to move 40, when, by the rules then in force, the game would be adjourned and more time added before continuation the next day. (Today, mostly due to the players using computers to help them analyze, such adjournments are obsolete.)

I exchanged rooks, leaving me with queen, knight, and bishop against his queen and two knights. He had an extra pawn, but I had seen a tactical possibility that would give me a powerful attack. His pieces were dangerously uncoordinated, and his king was vulnerable. If I could penetrate into his position with my queen, I could exploit both of these factors at the same time. The question was where to move my queen on move 33. Karpov could only wait, knowing he would have to reply almost immediately or he wouldn't have enough time to make the next eight moves without losing on time.

Lost in thought, I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. The Dutch arbiter leaned over and said, "Mr. Kasparov, you have to write the moves." I had become so wrapped up in the game that I had forgotten to make note of the last two moves on my score sheet as required by the rules. The arbiter was of course correct to remind me of the regulations, but what a moment to be strict!

Title Still Up In the Air

Distracted, I played my queen to the wrong square. I missed a subtlety and failed to see why a different move with the same idea would have been stronger. My move gave Karpov a clever defense, and suddenly he was one move from reclaiming his title. But under pressure from the clock, he missed the best move (though our exchange of errors would not be discovered until well after the game), and the momentum was still with me.

Karpov's best opportunity to defend had passed, and my forces surrounded the black king. I regained my sacrificed pawn with interest, and by the time we reached move 40, ending the time scramble, my position was clearly superior. The game was adjourned until the next day with the title still up in the air. It was going to be a long night.

Getting a good night's sleep before the game had been wise, but now there was work to do. Thirteen pieces were still on the board, including queens, too much material for definitive endgame analysis. I had an extra pawn, but with such limited material, Karpov had definite chances of a draw. A lot of chess was still ahead. We spent the night investigating possible defensives and how to break them down. Before the game I gave my chances as 50-50: 50% chance of a win, 50% chance of a draw.

Wearing Down the Opponent

The best news was that I could play this position forever, maneuvering around to provoke a mistake by my opponent. Black would be tied down on defense the entire time, and Karpov knew it. The prospect of such prolonged torture took its toll; I could see it in his eyes when he walked on the stage a few minutes after I did. His fatalistic expression told me that he had already lost the game psychologically, which boosted my confidence.

The maneuvering began. I remember being surprised when early on Karpov made a pawn push that my team and I had established as bad for black's defensive chances. Apparently Karpov and his team disagreed with our analysis, or perhaps it was a psychological error. Sometimes the hardest thing to do in a pressure situation is to allow the tension to persist. The temptation is to make a decision, any decision, even if it is an inferior choice. And Karpov's move made the position more concrete, reducing the level of uncertainty. But in my favor, his structure was now fixed, presenting me with clearer targets. Convinced of the quality of our analysis, I took Karpov's significant deviation from it as a mistake, not a potential improvement, further increasing my confidence.

After another ten moves of steady squeezing, I began to feel the win was in the bag. Karpov's pieces were pinned up against the wall, and a little more maneuvering would lead to decisive material gain. Later I heard that FIDE President Florencio Campomanes was busy calling a special meeting in another room to decide how to handle the closing ceremony, which was scheduled to be held on the same day. But it still looked as if this game could last forever; what was to be done? Two crises were averted at once when someone ran into the meeting room to announce, "Karpov resigned!"

It was without question the loudest and longest standing ovation I had ever received outside my native country. The theater thundered as Spanish television cut from fútbol to broadcast the conclusion of the match. I had done what Karpov had failed to do in 1985: won the final game and drawn the match to retain my title. This time I would have a good, long time to enjoy it.