Tigran Petrosian's style
Raymond Keene
rrigran Petrosian, world chess champion
from 1963-69, died in Moscow last week, at the age of 55. He had been seriously-ill for the past year and quite inactive in tournaments, so this news, though sad, was hardly a great surprise to the chess fraternity. Petrosian is the first Soviet world champion to die. Up to now, world champions had always died in strict order of their accession to the title and Botvinnik used to joke that his successors were quite safe while he was alive. Ironi- cally, Petrosian had earlier achieved a record for durability at the highest level by his involvement in every Candidates' tournament or world championship match from 1953-80, and his career outside the title cycle was also imposing: four times Soviet champion and ten times member of the Soviet Olympic team, where he lost only one game of the 130 he played from 1958-78.
In spite of these obvious successes a strange paradox surrounds Petrosian's playing style. He was widely accused of practising negative chess, of manifesting greater concern with the accumulation of points than with playing beautiful games. Indeed, his main contribution to the theory of chess consisted in the elaboration of eel-like defensive techniques which en- abled him again and again to escape from critical positions.
At his best, Petrosian was almost im- possible to defeat and during the 1961-63 world championship cycle, which raised him from the stature of a leading Grandmaster to world champion, he lost a mere three games from the total of 90 he played. Two of those were against Botvinnik himself in their 22-game title match. Nevertheless, littering his path to the title were numerous drawn games where peace had been con- cluded before battle had really com- menced, colourless non-events which did nothing to inspire lovers of the game. Yet, on occasion, and in spite of the stigma of pragmatism so widely cast in his direction, Petrosian could create subtle works of art on the chessboard which made the other champions look like neolithic cave-artists in competition with Michelangelo.
How can this contradiction be ex- plained? Perhaps the roots can be traced to Petrosian's materially deprived adolesc- ence and later to a shocking blunder in a vital game against Bronstein. Petrosian's parents both died when he was a child and
he was forced to work as a caretaker in an officers' club in Tbilisi to survive. At this time his great chess talent had begun to flower, but at the back of his mind there must always have been fear of poverty and lack of recognition — no other world- champion-to-be started his career with such evident disadvantages. Petrosian, therefore, was always more eager to hold on to what he had, to consolidate his gains, rather than strike out boldly for more.
His progress at chess, however, was swift, though hardly meteoric. In 1946 he won the Armenian championship, in 1951 the Moscow championship, and by 1953 he had already qualified for the Zurich Candi- dates' tournament, one step away from the world championship itself. In this he was placed fifth. Three years later he once again found himself competing at Candi- dates level, this time in Amsterdam. In the second round he had built up an over- whelming position against David Bron- stein, who was generally reckoned the second or third best player in the world. Petrosian's conduct of their game had been delicate, yet forceful. Then, on move 36 diasater struck. In executing an apparently mortal coup with a knight, Petrosian left his queen undefended and Bronstein snap- ped it up. This is the kind of blow to one's ego that could cause a nervous breakdown in a lesser player, or at least withdrawal from the tournament. But Petrosian fought on, and finally attained an honourable share of third place. But the damage to his self-confidence must have been enormous. In events after this, if he could avoid loss, he would usually go on to win the tourna- ment, but once he lost a game he would clam up and steer for anodyne draws to preserve his inner equilibrium. Petrosian's formula for success on a world scale was, therefore, simple, though devastatingly difficult to execute: lose no games at all. By general application of his safety-first tactics, blended with the occasional flash of otherworldly brilliance, Petrosian finally became world champion in 1963, over- throwing Botvinnik who had clung to the title since 1948. Then in 1966, Petrosian beat off Spassky's challenge, and thereby attained distinction as the first incumbent since 1934 to win a world championship match outright. (Botvinnik, as champion, had either drawn his matches, or lost to the challenger and won on the rematch.) Three years later, Petrosian finally succumbed to Spassky and his subsequent years were played out in the shadow of Spassky himself, Fischer and Karpov, and dogged by an acrimonious running dispute with the defector Korchnoi which led to three se- rious match defeats in 1974, 1977 and 1980, where Petrosian's play was unrecognisable. But in spite of the various unattractive aspects of Petrosian's playing reputation, such as the short draws and his inability to dominate major tournaments while he was champion, to the true connoisseur Petro- sian's best games represent the very pinna- cle of positional strategy on the chess- board.
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