The Russians Have Fixed World Chess

Keres and Petrosian drew in 17 moves the first time they played each other, 21 moves the second, 22 moves the third and 14 moves the last time they met. In this last game they overdid it, and while they drew, Petrosian clearly would have won if they had gone on.

As shown on page 19, white's king is permanently trapped in the center of the board. White's queen wing is hopelessly weakened. As a matter of fact, black wins in a few moves. But when black had certainly won, and another move or so would make it obvious, they drew.

Or take Geller and Keres. They drew their first game in 27 moves, their next in 17, the third in 22 and the last game in 15 moves.

The record of Victor Korchnoi, the fourth member of the Soviet team, is more complex. In the first half of the tournament he, too, drew every game he played with the other Russians. At the midpoint of the tournament there was a five-day rest period; we all went to the island of St. Martin. The four Russians were almost tied in points for first place, and the talk was that when they came back to start the second half, one of the four was certain to begin losing to the others. Whatever happened in the Russians' consultations at St. Martin, Korchnoi's game certainly collapsed abruptly afterwards. He lost three games in quick succession, first to Geller, then to Petrosian and then to Keres. Then, in the last time around, he drew quickly with Geller, drew with Keres and lost again to Petrosian. Anyone could draw his own conclusions from this sequence of events but, in any event, it revealed the advantage the Russian team had over Western individual players.

The noisy kibitzers

Sometimes, after their quick draws with each other, the Russians wouldn't go back to the swimming pool. They would openly analyze my game while I was still playing it. It is strictly against the rules for a player to discuss a game in progress, or even to speak with another player during a game—or, for that matter, with anyone. I studied Russian enough to be able to read their chess books, and I could easily understand what they were saying. They would say this move is good, or that move is good—in Russian, of course. My Russian isn't the greatest but, believe me, they weren't talking about the weather. If I was playing against a Russian, and one of these debates was going on right in front of us, my opponent might get up and join the discussion after he had made his move. Even if the advice they gave each other was bad—and too many chess cooks can spoil a game—it was annoying. It made me mad that they thought they could get away with it. I protested to the officials. I learned that they could get away with it. I complained a few more times, but their lead had increased to the point where they were unworried, and they then gradually stopped doing it.

Somebody asked me, "What did you learn at the tournament?" I said, "I learned not to play in any more of them." It is a waste of time for any Western player. The present arrangement for selecting a challenger for the championship is bad for chess, bad for the players taking part in it and bad for any real standard of the world championship. The general public long ago lost interest in any title gained in this fashion. Maybe chess players are losing interest in it also. I have, permanently.