Vladimir-Tukmakov-Inga-Gurevich-Sofia-Ozul-Profession-Chessplayer-Grandmaster-At-Work
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Profession: Chessplayer Grandmaster at Work by Vladimir Tukmakov Foreword by Germa Sosonko 2012 Russell Enterprises, Inc. Milford, CTUSA 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 Box3131 Milford, CT 06460 USA http :/Avww .russell-enterDrises.com [email protected] Cover design by Janel Lowrance Translated from the Russian by Ingi Gurevich and Sofia Ozul Printed in the United States of America Table of Contents Foreword by Geima Sosonko From the Author Vovik. Vova. Volodya Critical Games The Decisive Move Games with World Champions Irrationally Logical Sacrifices Theoretical Duels The Colorful Life Face Control Playing for the Team Career Highlights Player Index Opening Index 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. Occasionally he distances himself from the lead character, and at times he is that character, 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 independent 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 anyway.” “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 grandmother. 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 frightening.” 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 Botvirmik wrote, “is that a chessplayer must find the correct solution (move) in a complicated, original position when no outside 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 grandmasters Alburt, Beim, Lemer, Palatnik, Legky. Fate scattered them in different 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 Sobomaya (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 - Botvirmik, 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 something that used to be reconcilable, but became mutually exclusive in modem 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 achievement in itselfj 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 different years to appreciate this level: Tal, Kortschnoi, Stein, Geller, Pohigaevsky, Averbakh, Kholmov, Taimanov, then Karpov, Kasparov... Three times he was the runner-15 ) in the Soviet Championship. Three times. Three comer 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, 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 championships, 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 certainty 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 wiD, and understanding 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 rarefy let him down. We have akeady mentioned hard work and character. Talent, then? One day in the conversation with Dormer 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.” Without 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 another student. What he told Volodya was: “You got an A, but you are not a genius.” 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 shining. 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 shortcomings, 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. It was not easy then, and it is even more difficult now, to find a chess professional, 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 scrupulously 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.