Cheating Allegations, 1980s Edition

Did Lev Polugaevsky take a dive against Anatoly Karpov?

Unless you were born yesterday, or at least born to chess yesterday, you’re aware that chess has (at least) two related problems: the problem of computer cheating and the problem of accusations of computer cheating. They’re both serious issues, and while the first is the bigger problem the second is bad enough that I fervently wish that Mr. “Just Asking Questions (*wink*)” starts issuing some world-class apologies - preferably putting his money where his mouth is - or is forced to do so by a court of law.

Human nature being what it is, you won’t be surprised to learn that people cheated even before Stockfish on our phones became capable of beating Magnus Carlsen 100-0 (or close enough to it). The nature of the cheating was generally different, though. For example, one comparatively common problem saw players paid or coerced into taking a dive. The bribery bit is understandable, but coerced? Yes, especially in the bad old days of the Soviet Union. I’ve read many stories over the years of players being told or at least pressured to lose to players like Mikhail Botvinnik, Anatoly Karpov, and even Garry Kasparov. Sometimes the pressure only went “halfway” - players were told not to win against the favored player, or - again, allegedly - some Soviets were told not that they had better not be the reason Vasily Smyslov failed to win the 1953 Candidates in Zurich (more specifically, to not have the U.S. grandmaster Samuel Reshevsky take first place there).

Let me reiterate that these stories are all allegations, and in at least one of the famous cases - that of Paul Keres supposedly taking a dive against Botvinnik in the World Championship match-tournament in 1948, I’m inclined to disbelieve the accusation, though he may well have felt the general disapproval of the Soviet chess authorities because he, an Estonian, played in tournaments in Nazi-occupied territories during World War II. And there is no question that Botvinnik, Karpov, and Kasparov were for years in their respective eras the greatest players in the world. Finally, even if their opponents were pressured in certain circumstances, it doesn’t mean that the pressure came from the presumed beneficiaries or that they would have approved of it.

With all that throat-clearing behind me, I came across an accusation in a recent issue of New in Chess Magazine (2025 #3) I hadn’t seen before. In Jan Timman’s article, “The Unstoppable Russian”, memorializing Boris Spassky, he notes that Karpov was a very difficult opponent for Spassky, with Karpov having a score of 13 wins, 20 draws, and just one loss to Spassky (presumably referring only to official FIDE games played with a classical time control). He goes on, however:

As fate would have it, Spassky found himself in trouble for actually not losing to Karpov at one point. In Bugojno 1984, Spassky told me with a heavy heart that he had made a far-reaching decision: he would no longer represent the Soviet Union. By that time, he had been living in Meudon, a suburb of Paris, with his third wife Marina Shcherbachova for nine years. There was a positive side to this arrangement, however; his ties with the Soviet authorities had remained intact. The problems arose after he had won the traditional top tournament in Linares 1983, half a point ahead of Karpov. There were unwritten rules that made such things unacceptable. Spassky ‘ought’ to have lost to Karpov in the 10th round. Having failed to do so, he was visited by all kinds of harassment from an invisible foe, which eventually led him to decide to represent France.

Later that year, the Linares story got another twist. In the annual Interpolis tournament in Tilburg, Karpov got off to a hesitant start: in the first round he had to settle for a draw, while in Round 2, his game against Polugaevsky was adjourned in a drawn position. That game was scheduled to be resumed on the free day after the third round. In that third round, Karpov was forced to settle for a draw again, although a win would have been most welcome. And Polugaevsky, the man with the striking bird skull, offered it to him on a silver platter. For no discernible reason, he liquidated to an elementary lost pawn endgame. It made absolutely no sense; any mediocre club player would have easily cemented the draw.

A few days after this, there was a social gathering in Hotel De Bosrand in Oisterwijk, where we were staying. In the presence of a large number of players, Spassky said: ‘Leuva, will you finally tell us the truth about your game against Karpov?’ But the man with the striking bird skull stood his ground. He didn’t divulge anything.

First of all: what is Timman doing with this “striking bird skull” garbage? Unless Polugaevsky had a literal beak and would pound it against trees before and after his rounds what relevance does this have to do with Polugaevsky as a chess player or the ethics of the situation? And - God forbid - are we now going to start describing the appearance of chess players, emphasizing their least flattering features? (I’m assuming Timman doesn’t find the shape of Polugaevsky’s head an especially fetching characteristic.) Not everyone is young and handsome (or pretty), so I don’t think that’s going to go very well for most of us. It’s generally bad manners or a sign of immaturity to engage in that sort of thing in most private conversations; to do it publicly in arguably the premier chess magazine is contemptible. (But maybe I’m just grumpy because I didn’t wake up early enough to catch a worm this morning.)

Second, Karpov “had to” “settle for a draw” in rounds 1 & 3? Sounds like Karpov really pounded away but was thwarted by his opponent’s resourceful play; likewise in round 3. This, my friends, is what is known as bovine excrement. In round 1 he and Ulf Andersson, two players capable of making a trip to the DMV seem interesting, drew after 21 boring moves in one of the most boring lines of the boring Queen’s Indian Defense. (I don’t mean that they couldn’t play interesting chess, only that they often didn’t.) Round 3 was another barnburner, a 26-move draw with Black against Gennadi Sosonko in an Open Catalan, a variation in which Black is playing for a very level equality and taking no strategic risks at all. So the idea that the resumption of Karpov’s round 2 game saw a desperately frustrated World Champion in anguish over his failures to win any games is at least somewhat implausible. (And since that round 2 adjournment was clearly drawn, you’d think that if Karpov was getting anxious in the way Timman seems to be suggesting he would have tried harder against Sosonko rather than waiting for Polugaevsky to give him a gift.)

Hopefully the foregoing didn’t ruffle any feathers and Timman won’t be egged on to respond. Anyway, I’ve hatched a scheme. Go here to see the position where Polugaevsky was faced with the decision that cost him the game, set it up against your engine, and see how you do. (No cheating by looking at the computer’s evalution, using Heumas to guide you, etc.!) “Mediocre club players”, to use another of Timman’s flattering phrases, are especially welcome to give it a try. Please report back, and once you’ve done the exercise you can go here to see what Polugaevsky actually did.

To be honest, while I am a Polugaevsky fan (his book about his “love affair” with the eponymous Polugaevsky Variation of the Najdorf is in my opinion one of the greatest chess books of the 20th century), the ending is pretty suspicious. It would be helpful to know more about the game - was he in time trouble? Black is only losing by a tempo in the game, so it’s *possible* that he was short of time and miscalculated; or, perhaps, he confused the losing line in the game with a similar and successful line found in adjournment analysis. It’s possible…but I find the cynical and suspicious hypothesis more plausible than I’d like it to be.