The Sporting Life of Yasser Seirawan : He’s Slain the Image of Chess Champ as Introvert, but Can He Beat the Russians?

He is hale, hip and handsome.

He swims, skis, surfs. His forehand, they say, is as devastating in karate as it is in tennis. He is a hustler, a snorkeler and a notorious ladies’ man, surfacing a few years back as Cosmo’s “Bachelor of the Month.” He even reads, voraciously.

And on the side, Yasser Seirawan plays a little chess.

Seirawan, Syrian-born but quintessentially Yank, is the U.S. chess champion. Over the Thanksgiving weekend, he will play in Software Toolworks’ $100,000 American Open tournament at the LAX Marriott. Then he will return home to Seattle, to hibernate. To hunker down with his intellect, his imagination. To commune with an intuition that comes from . . . “I’m not sure; a bolt from the blue.”

In February, in Canada, Seirawan will plunge into the arduous, exhausting Candidates Tournament, a competition among 14 of the 15 best chess players in the world. The survivor will vie for the world championship against Gary Kasparov or Anatoly Karpov, whoever comes first. (After six years, K & K, both of them Soviets, are still at it, competing for the title. “By now,” says Seirawan, “they must really hate each other.”)

Can Seirawan beat Kasparov and/or Karpov? “I already have,” he replies, serenely, confidently.

Can he win the world championship, scheduled for 1990? “Yes.”

Lay it on the line: Will he win the world championship? “Yes. I am going to do it.”

Seirawan, at 27, is gregarious, witty, affable and outrageous enough to justify his self-characterization as “the John McEnroe of chess.” He is opinionated as well--competition chess is no metier for the mugwump--and more than willing to defend his positions:

--In spite of its elitist, vaguely wimpy image, chess is a sport: demanding, draining, hairy-chested.

--The Soviets, preeminent in chess, got where they are by cheating.

--Women, not to put too fine a point on it, are marvelous companions but terrible chess players, always will be.

Anent image, Seirawan tells of a recent plane trip en route to a tournament:

“My seatmate, a lady, asked where I was going. ‘Madrid.’

“ ‘Business or pleasure?’ she asks. ‘Business.’

“ ‘What’s your business?’ ‘Chess. I’m an international grand master.’

“She looks me up and down. Finally she says: ‘Oh no you’re not.’

“I’m young, articulate, well-traveled, well-read. I obviously didn’t fit her conception of a chess player--either a prodigy in bottle-bottom glasses or a bearded old egghead.

“The image of the reclusive introvert may have derived from Bobby Fischer’s heyday (Fischer was America’s last world champion, in 1972), but most professional chess players are like me, young and vital.

“A 45-year-old is at a disadvantage because, damn it, chess is a sport . Wake up, America! This is not a dry, scientific search for truth--although it’s that too. It’s a fight between two individuals, a battle of wills , with an unbelievable expenditure of energy. During an extended match, a player can--does--lose 25-30 pounds!”

Excited? Seirawan is just warming up.

“I’m a very athletic person,” he says. “You name it, I’ve played it. But listen, Ican play a game of full-court basketball for five hours in the blazing sun, and sure, I’m pooped, totally, but loving the fact that I’m sweating. Go shower, go out and have a wonderful time, a beautiful lady friend. I feel great.

“Now play a single game of chess, that lasts four to five hours. I am mentally and physically out. Sneak into a restaurant, sneak out, hit the hotel room and collapse, just hoping I have enough energy for the next day.

“The nervous tension! It can kill you! A fumbled pass, a missed free throw, a netted tennis shot can’t begin to compare to a bad chess move.

“I mean, suppose you make a first-class boner. Your opponent is sitting there deep-thinking. All he’s got to do is make a single move and bam! Five hours shot to hell.

“Now you’ve got to sit there as if nothing has happened. You feel your heart pounding, the blood rushing through your veins. You’re sweating cannonballs. But somehow you’ve got to act cool or he’ll sense your screw-up and destroy you. . . .

“Then, when the game is over, try to sleep. Mentally, your brain is a Ferrari and you’ve had your foot on the floor. Vroom! Fifth gear, 180 m.p.h. And now you’ve got to downshift, put it out of your mind, and you can’t take a sleeping pill--no chess player can possibly use drugs. You’ve got to be entirely clear-headed, and in better physical condition than any sport I know.”

Some, of course, can’t make it through the night without a little help from their friends. Sex, Seirawan confesses, “would be a tremendous help. We joke about it on the circuit, but in many cases, mental relaxation comes only from drink or women.

“(International grand master) Alexander Alekhine was so destroyed, so emotionally shattered after losing a game, that the only thing he could do was drink. I mean, your whole ego’s shaking; you must regain emotional equilibrium.”

Seirawan does not drink, or at least not within 30 days of a match. Given the two choices, one is tempted to draw the obvious inference. Seirawan does not demur.

“It’s nice to have a friendly . . . person to wind down with,” he says, “a pleasant female voice over dinner or a movie.

“You’re not thinking chess. You’re not thinking ‘Sicilian Najdorf opening’ or the ‘Tartokover Bondarevsky system’ or ‘queen’s gambit declined.’ You’re thinking ‘female, romance.’ It puts things into perspective.” With Seirawan, one suspects, queen’s gambit is rarely declined.

Just how good is Seirawan? Good enough to don the mantle of the legendary Bobby Fischer, who stunned the world with his title victory in 1972, then virtually vanished?

Seirawan has his own opinion, as well he might: He is, quite simply, “the best.” Others demur, but some concur, which is surprising in a world in which ego is as important as an end game.

Lev Alburt, international grand master and a recent Soviet emigre, aligns himself on the side of Lochinvar. “He’s a great natural talent,” says Alburt, on the phone from New York, “very resourceful, original, well-rounded, which is all the more surprising since he learned chess by himself, not from books.

“Even more surprising, Yaz is improving. When you’re on such a high level--certainly among the 10 best in the world, maybe in the top five--it’s difficult to improve. On such a level, unlike the stock market, there’s almost never a correction. His character is ideal for chess; unlike most players, he can laugh at himself.

“And no cheap shots for Yaz. He’s very gentlemanly, much like the great (Cuban world champion) Capablanca. When you play for cheap shots--like Karpov and Kasparov, to psyche out your opponents--it can win you a single game, but it’s wrong for the long haul.

“Yasser against the Soviets? I would be optimistic.”

Larry Evans, the wry and eloquent eminence grise of American chess, is charmed by Seirawan as a man, less sanguine over his chess. The former U.S. champion (and an international grandmaster himself) spoke by phone from Reno:

“For his age, Yasser has an astonishingly mature style. No quick knockouts, but rather extended positional battles. I think, though, that he lacks that killer instinct that Fischer had, or (former world champion Boris) Spassky. Spassky says that when he sits down with Yaz, he feels like offering him a draw and going out to play tennis.

“You have to really want to draw blood. Yaz is very well-rounded, but Fischer, straight off the sidewalks of Brooklyn, could concentrate, focus, shut out the whole world. Bobby said: ‘Chess is life.’ For Yaz, that’s not the case. Yasser likes girls, maybe you’ve heard. . . .

“It takes a killer instinct in chess, and it really depends on how good life is to Yasser.”

By his own exuberant admission, Seirawan loves life, lives it to the hilt; has done, in fact, since his family fled Syria when Yaz was 2. The Seirawans (English mother, Syrian father--”a computer genius,” says Yasser) settled in England, then moved to Seattle. Seirawan Sr. left his wife, who “hooked up,” according to Sports Illustrated, “with a 6-foot-5 self-described Tibetan monk who hailed from planet Earth by way of Detroit.”

The clan (including a brother and sister) roamed America and Mexico in a station wagon, during which young Yasser became an accomplished “pinball hustler, pool hustler, 4.0 student--a tremendous life!”

Enough, though, was enough: Mother shucked the wild-eyed monk, remarried and settled in Seattle where Yaz excelled in sports. Chess, however, became his entree.

“Sure, I got the requisite acceptance, approval, feedback from my high school peers for my swimming, running, tennis, even spelling,” he says, “but with chess, I got accolades from the adult world. It was no longer ‘Gee, Yaz, great race.’ It was, ‘Let me introduce you, Mr. Banker, Lawyer, CEO, to a young friend.’ Pretty soon, it was ‘The Great Yaz.’ I mean, wow! That’s acceptance!”

After high school, the young master drifted to New York City, earned a decent living as a chess hustler (“What else?”). The rest is history-in-the-making.

With so much flat-out living under his belt, Seirawan scoffs at Larry Evans’ assessment of his allegedly non-lethal style.

“Do I have a killer instinct? Yes. Absolutely yes. It’s possible that my persona masks it. Everybody tends to think of me as a nice guy, and it’s kind of hard for them to visualize my brutalizing an opponent.

“ ‘You wouldn’t hurt a thing,’ they say, and in a sense they’re right. But any hostilities I may feel toward the physical world, I take them out in the chess world.”

Seirawan spells it out, slowly: “I-want-to- win ! And I’ll kill if I have to. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Killing comes hard, though, when it’s one against a multitude.

An American’s chances to beat the Russians at “their” game is roughly the equivalent of a Soviet citizen’s shot at starting shortstop for the Minnesota Twins.

Increasingly, chess’ ever-shifting and labyrinthine structure has, in the opinion of many, been rigged by the Soviets. Not on the chess board, of course, where the rules remain constant, but in the weighting, timing, siting and judging of international tournaments, up to and including the world championship.

“It started a long time ago,” says Hal Bogner of Alhambra, president of the Southern California Chess Federation. “They had a fellow named Josef Stalin who decided: ‘The Soviets shall have culture.’ He decreed that every town of 10,000 people or more should have an Institute of Ballet, and Institute of Chess . . . result: a stranglehold on both endeavors, which they will not yield without a struggle, no holds barred.”

“This is where I get really upset,” says Seirawan. “Quite frankly, the Soviets cheat. Period. The rules are heavily weighted against any American--especially myself.

“Oh yes, they know who I am. I’ve beaten both K and K and they say: ‘Jeez, he’s beaten our champ !’ So they get a whole battery of experts out to study me, dissect me, stop me. No kid gloves.

“Six of the players in the candidates’ tournament are Russians. And guess who joins our select little group? Another Russian! (Loser of the Kasparov-Karpov title match automatically qualifies.) I’m looking around and I say, ‘Yo! That’s crazy!’

“Supposing I beat one Russian. He goes to the next one and collaborates with him. And if I beat him , both of them gang up with the next guy. A team against one man is not a fair fight.

“It’s like--suppose you’re a hotshot lawyer, but there are five hotshot lawyers on the other side. Even though only one can argue the case, he’s getting fed all sorts of fine legal points and strategy from his colleagues, stuff you don’t have time to pick up on.”

Back to chess: “In my case, there’s no one supporting me. Sure, I have friends who’d gladly volunteer their time, their love, their inspiration. But if I were to drive 20 miles cross-town in L.A. to the No. 2 player in the U.S., Larry Christiansen, and say: ‘Larry, I’m going up against the Russians and I want you to give me all your secrets,’ he’s going to say: ‘Are you kidding ? Get outta here. You’re my rival, and after the Russians beat you, you’re still going to be my rival.’ ”

(Christiansen was uncatchable for comment, off in Europe sharpening his own shiv for a showdown with Seirawan in the L.A. tournament.)

And the Russians? “Say Karpov beats Kasparov and I face Karpov for the title. The Soviet government says: ‘Gary (Kasparov), you know that villa you have? The dacha ? The stable of models you have on call? The food coupons, the sable hat, the cowboy boots made in Texas? You know where they came from, don’t you?

“ ‘You’re a wonderful player and we love you, but the most important thing is that we keep the title. Not you, we. Now you decide whether or not you’re going to do everything in your power to help Karpov beat this Seirawan. . . .’ ”

Despite the challenge of an entire nation--given the nature of the beast, very possibly because of it--Seirawan remains almost mystically convinced that the Forces of Light will prevail.

“Chess is fathomless,” he says, “and once you’re out of charted waters, no matter how many experts and masseuses and dietitians on your side, it comes down to you.

“Now, some players are extremely aggressive, nothing but explosions, all-out war. Others are defensive, noncommittal, they don’t burn their bridges. Then there are the strategists, who use the whole spatial plane. . . . There are many different styles.

“What makes Yasser Seirawan unique--and very, very dangerous--is that he is a universal player. He can attack, but the crafty S.O.B. can defend, counterpunch, switch to a right lead, retreat, dance, rope-a-dope, uppercut. As a whole, that constitutes a fearsome weapon. How do you prepare for him?”

And then there are the leaps of imagination, “the intuition that seems to come at the point where you say: ‘This is ridiculous; I can’t calculate any further.’ I once made a move of such mind-boggling consequence that to this day I can’t possibly understand it with my conscious mind.”

Intuition, then, is chess’ ultimate saber. In Seirawan’s case, though, the sword is double-edged.

“It’s a subject that sometimes gets me into trouble,” he admits, immediately segueing, nevertheless, in trouble’s direction. “The question, of course, is that if intuition plays such a large part in chess, why aren’t women among the top players?

“The fact is that chess, like no other field of physical or intellectual exercise, is one of the last bastions of male chauvinism. It’s so dominated by men as to be spooky.

“Women have a different energy field, an ability to bring men back down to earth, to reality,” Seirawan said. “Can’t you just see Einstein up in the clouds figuring out E equals MC squared and Mrs. Einstein saying: ‘Al, you’re wearing mismatched socks’?

“I remember Jan Donner (Dutch grandmaster) saying on a radio show: ‘What do you mean , women have intuition? They’re dumb!’

“A thousand calls later, he was still trying to qualify it, but I think what Donner was saying was that there is a male mentality, a male physiology, a male intuition that leaves chess to be dominated by men.”

At which point, Seirawan--intuiting, perhaps, that his major pieces are in mortal danger--attempts to improve his position and succeeds only in that rarest of chess maneuvers: checkmating himself: “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “Thank God for women. They can create children, or nobody would play chess. . . .”

Larry Evans, Seirawan’s friendly rival, differs again, and again wryly.

“There are a lot of theories on women and chess,” he says, “all of them wrong. The Freudians, for example, would say that the king represents the father, and women, unlike men, have no subconscious urge to kill their fathers.

“The theory I like, though, is Margaret Mead’s: ‘Chess? Women have many more important things to do.’ ”

Inevitably, a conversation with Yasser Seirawan ranges far into the night, far beyond chess but ultimately returning to his passion:

--On plans of attack: “Normally, you think five to eight moves ahead. My all-time record is 29. Yes, 29 moves in advance. It was a fantasy variation that simply fed on itself. . . .”

--On computer chess: “Sure, a computer will be world champion one day. Absolutely. But not in my lifetime, thank God.”

--On genius: “I have a skill, a formidable skill, but I wouldn’t call it genius. I think, though, that people are afraid of the word; fear of ridicule or something. We all have some genius in something. You just have to have the chutzpah to believe in it.”

--Finally, inevitably, on beating the Soviets:

“The world title would be worth millions of dollars. Millions! But--and I know it sounds like a cliche--the money pales. The sheer beauty is the thought that you’ve beaten the Soviets at their own game, their national sport. Man!

“Never mind the money. Never mind bread and never mind water. You could live on that thought forever!”