Profession-- chessplayer: grandmaster at work

264 Pages·2012·16.469 MB·English

by  Ozul, Sofia;Tukmakov, Vladimir;Gurevich, Inga

Profession:
Chessplayer
Grandmaster at Work
by
Vladimir Tukmakov
Foreword by Genna Sosonko
®
2012
Russell Enterprises, Inc.
Milford, CT USA
1
Profession: Chessplayer
Profession: Chessplayer
Grandmaster at Work
by Vladimir Tukmakov
© Copyright 2012
Vladimir Tukmakov
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any manner or form
whatsoever or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written
permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-936490-28-8
Published by:
Russell Enterprises, Inc.
PO Box 3131
Milford, CT 06460 USA
http://www.russell-enterprises.com
[email protected]
Cover design by Janel Lowrance
Translated from the Russian by Inga Gurevich and Sofia Ozul
Printed in the United States of America
®
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Table of Contents
Foreword by Genna Sosonko 4
From the Author 12
Vovik, Vova, Volodya 14
Critical Games 123
The Decisive Move 158
Games with World Champions 171
Irrationally Logical Sacrifices 187
Theoretical Duels 203
The Colorful Life 227
Face Control 238
Playing for the Team 250
Career Highlights 258
Player Index 261
Opening Index 262
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Profession: Chessplayer
Foreword
Looking Inward
You are holding a very special book, special because the author, writing about his
life, takes many different perspectives, including that of a perfect stranger. Occa-
sionally he distances himself from the lead character, and at times he is that char-
acter, at first little Vovik from the fifties, who is engrossed in playing “cops and
robbers” till dusk in the courtyards of Odessa, then Vova, a serious and indepen-
dent boy, making decisions difficult even for grown-ups.
“I was guiding him, a thinker and a bit of a bore, too proper, bookish and with no
real life experience (where would it come from?), down the right path, or rather,
I was helping him avoid clearly wrong ones. We were groping our way through
life together, but he was tormented by doubts and insecurities, and I did not take
off the mask of an omniscient sage.”
Whom do you think he is talking about? Well, about himself, constantly looking
inward and dispassionately recording everything that happens in his own soul.
“Even if you don’t let me go,” he said to his parents when he moved from Odessa
to the godforsaken town in the far east of the vast country, “I would leave any-
way.”
“And he would,” maintains the author, who was fourteen at the time, “He would
have gone back along the railroad tracks”. Back to Odessa. Back to his grand-
mother. Back to chess. “Fortunately, his parents gave in. The seven-day train ride
across the country became a road into adulthood for Vova, both alluring and fright-
ening.”
A difficult childhood, no doubt about that, but who knows, maybe this mature
and independent life helped Tukmakov in his chess career. After all, the essence
of chess, as the great chess maven Botvinnik wrote, “is that a chessplayer must
find the correct solution (move) in a complicated, original position when no out-
side help could be expected. Those who know how to do it feel confident at the
chessboard.” He learned this skill early in life, and everyday obstacles only made
him stronger.
Among peers he had a reputation of an ingot, a wholesome character cut from
one piece. A man with nerves of steel, dispassionate and confident. But was it
true? At times we see a doubter, even a timid young man, and can only trust the
author, who opens his soul to the reader.
Affectionately remembering his first (and only) coach from the Odessa Pioneer
Palace, Samuil Nutovich Kotlerman, the author mentions the other students of
this modest man, who worked his whole life as a chemistry school teacher: Odessan
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Foreword
grandmasters Alburt, Beim, Lerner, Palatnik, Legky. Fate scattered them in dif-
ferent countries and continents: some live in America, others in Israel, Austria,
France...
Vladimir Borisovich Tukmakov, now in his sixties, is still walking along the streets
and alleys of the city that remembers him as a young boy who was helping his
grandmother sell newspapers at the newsstand on Sobornaya (Cathedral) Square,
or Soborka, as all Odessans used to call it (they still do). He walked down the
Grecheskaya (Greek), Uspenskaya (Assumption), Rishelyevskaya (Richelieu),
Evreyskaya (Jewish), Ekaterininskaya (Catherine’s), and Troitskaya (Trinity)
streets countless times, even if, in his youth, these streets had different names.
These are the streets he sped through to the Vorontsov Palace in anticipation of
sitting at the chessboard, not yet knowing that he would devote his life to the
thirty-two pieces and the sixty-four squares.
He became a master at sixteen – a considerable age by today’s standards, but
there were only three players who had become masters at that age before him –
Botvinnik, Bronstein and Spassky. It seemed that the choice was clear: his life
should be in chess. Not so. After finishing high school with a gold medal,
Tukmakov entered the Technological Institute, publicly renounced chess and
pledged allegiance to thermal physics. “Overcome by vanity and pride,” as the
author would say in his usual ironic manner decades later.
But he could not resist the temptation of playing in the World Youth Qualifier,
and his victory in the tournament, which featured numerous famous players, again
revived doubts in his mind. For the next several years he tried to reconcile some-
thing that used to be reconcilable, but became mutually exclusive in modern chess.
Tukmakov was playing in the tournaments of the highest level and studying,
graduating from the institute with a diploma.
He made his final choice only in 1971 at age 25: chess, professional chess. What
could have happened if he had stayed in science? This is a hypothetical question,
of course. I think that even though physics would have gotten another professor,
chess would have lost a strong, very strong grandmaster.
Qualifying for the USSR Championship First League was at the time an achieve-
ment in itself, and Vladimir Tukmakov played in these tournaments which had
the reputation of being the strongest in the world, on a consistent basis. It suffices
to list the names of the grandmasters who participated in the tournaments in dif-
ferent years to appreciate this level: Tal, Kortschnoi, Stein, Geller, Polugaevsky,
Averbakh, Kholmov, Taimanov, then Karpov, Kasparov… Three times he was
the runner-up in the Soviet Championship. Three times.
Three corner kicks are equal to a penalty kick. If we apply this rule from his
childhood, when boys were tirelessly playing soccer in the Odessa courtyards,
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Profession: Chessplayer
three silver medals are comparable to a gold one. And yet, now, when his career
as an active player is over, you can ask a question: what was he lacking, what
prevented him from achieving more than three silver medals in national champi-
onships, excellent performances in numerous international tournaments, from
conquering if not the main summit, at least its spurs? Tukmakov never managed
to play in the candidates matches; all attempts to get there ended in the interzonal
tournaments. Why?
It is certainly possible to give an easy explanation: not enough talent. But was it
about talent? “There are many talented people, but strong characters are scarce,”
said the father of psychoanalysis, and it is hard to argue with him. Tukmakov had
character. He also had determination, drive, self-control, and will, and under-
standing of what was happening on the board. What was the matter?
According to Tukmakov, the magic formula for success includes talent, memory,
will (character) and hard work. And though the author occasionally complains
about his memory, at the time his chess memory rarely let him down. We have
already mentioned hard work and character. Talent, then?
One day in the conversation with Donner I dropped the phrase “A big talent.” The
Dutch grandmaster frowned: “What is that? Talent, talent… What do you mean?
Talent is a commitment, a tremendous desire to achieve something, something to
which you devote your soul, your heart, everything. This is what talent is.” With-
out getting into the definition of talent given by the Dutch grandmaster, could we
say that Tukmakov poured his soul into chess?
He recalls how his art teacher at school, handling out grades, used to say: “You
are a genius, you got an A.” Generous in his praise, he would repeat this to an-
other student. What he told Volodya was: “You got an A, but you are not a ge-
nius.”
Maybe as a teenager he really took these words to heart? Maybe, all the time
comparing himself to the chess greats, he was thinking that he could not measure
up? His best years coincided with a time when Petrosian, Spassky, Geller,
Kortschnoi, Tal, Stein, Polugaevsky, just to mention the very best, were still shin-
ing. Then came Karpov and Kasparov.
To compensate for his “lack of genius,” ignoring his achievements and successes, he
would tirelessly search for the root of his failures, painstakingly analyze his short-
comings, both as a chessplayer and a human being, not showing any leniency.
“Immediately after a tournament we would conduct a debriefing. We analyzed
not just the chess variations, but also what was behind them: the ideas, emotions,
and character traits.” Such phrases are liberally sprinkled throughout the book by
its uncompromising author.
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Foreword
It was not easy then, and it is even more difficult now, to find a chess profes-
sional, who, in his spare time between tournaments, is not searching for new
ideas in the Marshall Attack or an improvement in the Catalan, but is scrupu-
lously analyzing his mistakes.
“And what is wrong with that?” a reader may ask. After all, “analyzing failures,
both in life and in sports, is much more productive for growth than basking in
success,” we might repeat after the author. It is true, all true. But maybe he was
overdoing it?
Sharp, relentless self-criticism, even with its obvious positive aspects, is good
only to a certain point. Objective comparison to those, who, in your opinion,
possess great talent, may have a negative impact, especially when you reach a
very high level. Something else is called for: detachment, even subjectivity. Maybe
not forgetting about your own shortcomings and weaknesses, but at least pushing
them somewhere deep and far away in your mind. What does it mean when my
opponent blunders? What does it mean when I get lucky? I am playing better,
that’s why he blundered, could not help but blunder, that’s the way it should be.
Got lucky? Who else should Fortune smile upon?
Sometimes self-analysis, constant self-criticism, driving splinters into your ego,
can become an obstacle on the way to the highest achievements.
Recalling one of his most successful tournaments, in Madrid in 1973, Tukmakov
wrote that in the beginning he was not feeling well and sort of sleepwalked through
the first round. But after he got better, a strange state of detachment from the
outside world remained, and it felt like the games were won by themselves. “Later
I tried to reach this state of mind artificially, but could never completely recreate
the Madrid trance,” writes Tukmakov.
Could it be that this constant, merciless looking inward prevented him from ever
again reaching the condition he had experienced in Madrid? Maybe if in his games
he would have followed a simple ancient formula – glide through life, but do not
push – the result could have been better.
There is an old Chinese tale about the Lord of the World, who lost his precious
pearl. He sent Knowledge to search for it, but it could not find it. Then he sent
Thinking, but it did not find the pearl either. He sent Perception, with the same
result. So he sent Communion, and it found his pearl.
Sometimes the magic pearl is revealed only in the state of communion, and some-
times it is better not to have control or knowledge. Not knowing can mean just
about anything, but it is not the same as knowing nothing. On the contrary, it
means that someone with a lot of knowledge and experience can rely on educated
intuition. Experienced tennis coaches teach their students to achieve this state
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Profession: Chessplayer
that is indeed similar to a trance: knowing everything and controlling everything
without any brainwork and self-criticism. Maybe in Madrid Tukmakov just did
not have the energy to engage in self-analysis, and was forced to surrender to the
64 squares of the chessboard, which paid him back a hundredfold.
One of the most frequently used words in this book is “goal.” There is also “an
immediate goal” and “a minimum objective.” Only once he mentions “the great
goal.” Always firmly grounded, Tukmakov never set his sights too high, limiting
his great goal to the candidates tournaments. It happened in 1979, when he was
33-years old, and he realized that everything he was going to do in chess would
be only a repetition: one more trip to an international tournament, yet another
second place in the national championship, making the Olympic team once more.
Consistently climbing one step after another, the USSR semi-finals, the First
League, the Top League – only those who played in these tournaments can fully
appreciate the meaning of these words – he qualified for the interzonal tourna-
ment. Tukmakov had a dazzling start, winning the first four games, including his
games against Smyslov and Petrosian, and after seven rounds he was a full point
ahead.
I remember that I decided to use a break between tournaments to go to Las Palmas
to relax and witness Tukmakov’s triumph. But something inexplicable happened:
he blundered and lost several games, and then one more, to an underdog. He did
not achieve the great goal, and life did not give him another chance.
Maybe he should have chosen this great goal at a younger age, eliminating all
other goals, especially the minimum objectives. And if the five years dedicated to
the studies at the institute had been devoted to chess, perhaps the great goal would
have been achieved? I do not know.
It is clear though that something else would have been set aside for such a great
goal, but was it worth a short obituary line in Wikipedia: “…in 19xx he played in
the Candidates Tournament for the World Chess Championship?” I do not know.
But I do know that if he, trying to set this great goal, had put aside his wife and
daughters, theater, books, friends, and who knows what else that makes up every-
day life, he would be a different Vovik, Volodya, Vladimir Borisovich, not the
one I have known for over forty years. And I am not sure that this book would
have ever been written.
It has many portraits and sketches of people whom the younger generation only
knows through hearsay, while those who are over sixty will plunge once again
into this, the long-gone world of Odessa chess of that time. The author introduces
us to Yefim Yefimovich Kogan, Samuil Nutovich Kotlerman, and Yakov
Yukhtman, called Yankel by everyone. We see Lev Alburt, Misha Podgaets, and
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Foreword
Lyonya Balmazi, and more. Tukmakov met without exception all the young
chessplayers who later became famous grandmasters. They became veterans long
ago, some of them are no longer with us, and some have stopped playing, but for
the author they are still Vanyukha, Vitka, Dzin, Rafa, Belyava, Shiz, Michel, Gulka,
Balash, and Tsesh. He not only played numerous games with them, but he also
spent long months at tournaments and training camps, at Olympiads and nation-
als, with them. The readers will see them, the recognized titans of the game, great
champions of the past, through the eyes of the author, who, without much senti-
ment, looks back at that amazing time that seems almost prehistoric now.
The majority of today’s players have never met Robert Fischer over the board;
they have never even seen the American genius. No wonder: Fischer played his
last tournament game over forty years ago. Now, when one of the greatest cham-
pions in the history of chess has passed away, any memoirs about him are even
more valuable. Vladimir Tukmakov not only played with Fischer, but observed
him up close during the long tournament in Buenos Aires in 1970, and wrote
about it in great detail.
Describing the practices and customs of the now non-existent state, the author
operates with expressions that can be understood only by people who lived at the
time: “clearance by KGB,” “eligible or not eligible to travel abroad,” “to report to
the Sports Committee,” “the head of the delegation,” “to do the paperwork,” “char-
acter assessment,” “a quota for persons per trip,” “allocation of international tour-
naments,” “shopping, for which there was barely enough time,” etc. It is easy to
see that almost all of these terms are associated with travel abroad, one of the
most highly valued things in the Soviet Union. Young chessplayers, for whom
yet another open in Spain, rapid in the Netherlands, or playing in the German
Bundesliga means simply moving in space, will be able to see their own lives
from a different perspective, and those who are older can once again relive all the
wonders of those “glorious” times.
The grandmaster states that his book is intended primarily for chessplayers. Of
course, it is. But would it not be interesting for those who don’t know how the
chess pieces move? Not just because chess is a small model for life, but also
because the mosaic of Soviet chess, described by Tukmakov, presents an irides-
cent rainbow of characters, remarkable personalities, all the more surprising in a
society where everyone is supposed to think alike.
Who knows, maybe when the spotlight of the future will highlight this outlandish
regime, unlike any other, historians might find that the fact that chess had reached
unprecedented highs and popularity at the time is an interesting phenomenon.
Tukmakov’s book will add a few touches to the picture of the way of life and
customs of that unique state.
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Profession: Chessplayer
The second part of the book is devoted to chess itself. Analyzing his games with
a computer, Tukmakov found a lot of mistakes that he had not even seen when the
games were played. As always, he ruthlessly and candidly highlights these mis-
takes. He never even tries to “embellish his own, very imperfect creations.”
I cannot agree with him. Would Morphy or Tal’s games look so flawless if they
were analyzed by the unforgiving machine? And who can guarantee that the in-
fallible games of the best modern grandmasters will withstand the scrutiny of
more powerful processors and more sophisticated software two decades from
now?
No, I cannot agree with the author’s pessimistic view of his games. A chess fan
will not regret replaying his games; he will find beautiful ideas, surprising ma-
neuvers, will learn to think logically and to carry out a plan consistently, the traits
that always characterized the author’s game. A young chessplayer, looking to
improve his game, will not find soulless characters indicating a slight advantage
for White or a decisive advantage for Black in this book. He will read a short
story about the opponent, and sometimes even a character assessment. Following
the author, he will understand exactly why White has an advantage, what Black’s
counterplay is based on, why the author made this choice and if maybe there was
something better. The rich language of the commentary makes the reading not
just useful, but also enjoyable.
In the foreword to his reflections about life titled “Of Experience,” Michel de
Montaigne wrote that he described himself from his very own personal point of
view, and that his shortcomings would appear in the book the way they were in
real life. He states that he does not think about glory and the purpose of the book,
and simply wants to please family and friends. Tukmakov also wrote that “the
author’s goal is not to teach or guide anyone” and that his memoirs were inspired
by a “desire to re-examine his own life, to analyze the nearly-finished game.”
The philosopher prefaces his work with the phrase “this is an honest book, dear
reader,” and the chessplayer echoes: “I tried to be honest with myself and the
readers to the fullest possible extent.”
It is absurd, of course, to compare a classic essay written by a French writer more
than four centuries ago and a story of a man who chose professional chess and
devoted his life to it. Especially since Montaigne did not especially like the game,
which he considered “pointless and childish.” (Or maybe the brilliant Frenchman
was able to foresee, during the second half of the 16th century, the beginning of
the 21st century?) But throughout this book the grandmaster expresses an idea
that the French philosopher, I think, would have liked. Here it is, a definite im-
perative that has been chosen by the author as his life philosophy, which he
unswervingly follows, no matter what he does: it is not so important what you do
in life, as long as you do it well. Ideally, better than anyone else. Of course only
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