Lögberg-Heimskringla - 01.08.1978, Side 4

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LÖGBERG-HEIMSKRINGLA, HATIÐARBLAÐ AGUST 1978

World Chess
Headquarters
in Ieeland ?
Grandmaster FridrikOlafsson
Runs for FIDE Presidency
By Freysteinn Jóhannsson
'How did Fridrik do today?' If
grandmaster Fridrik O/afsson
is playing in chess tourna-
ments outside lceland, this
question is likely to be heard
over the telephone—by such
as myself while on night-shift
duty in the newsroom of
Morgunbladid, the country's
/argest daily. Telling the cal-
/ers to read about it in the
morning is useless; they want
to find out now.
His fan following takes a back seat
to none drawn by the national hand-
ball and soccer teams. And in fact
Ólafsson was for many years nothing
much less than a one-man national
chess team. Until very recently, he
often seemed to be the sole focus of
chess enthusiasm in lceland. Which
is no small matter when thought of in
the context of what Harry Golombek,
British player and chess commenta-
tor, told me once: 'There are many
good chessplayers'in lceland; most
people know how to play, and all
appear to be interested." He said this
when he came here to watch the 1 972
world-championship match between
Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky.
More than anything else, that "duel of
the century" gave lceland a secure
reputation as a place where great
chess events might take place. True,
we had been known as a nation yvith
good chessplayers, a locale visited
now and then by outstanding players
—and we had been ably represented
by Fridrik Ólafsson in many a contest
away from these shores. But the
clincher was the suspenseful Fischer-
Spassky encounter. The off-again-
on-again advance negotiations,
Fischer's unpredictability, match de-
layed only to resume when all were
ready to write it off, the final sigh of
relief as a new champion was formally
proclaimed in the Laugardalur Exhibi-
tion Hall—all of this combined meant
more chess publicity for lceland than
any money could have bought.
The lcelandic Modern - a
Recent Brainchild of
Ólafsson
One subsequent—and not unrelated
—development was that the biennial
Reykjavík Chess Tournament, which
is open to international participation,
enhanced its stature; with each year,
it is attracting more formidable con-
testants from all over. Then, in early
1977, came the Spassky-Hort duel,
one of the elimination rounds that
would determine who got to challenge
Karpov for the world title. Progress
was uneven for various equivalent
matches in other countries, but in
Reykjavík things went smoothly; the
affair was applauded,for both good
management and chivalrous conduct
on the part of the two players. Winner
Spassky was, of course, familiar with
the setting—and even after losing,
Hort was impressed enough with the
"land of chess" to play against a
crowd in the lcelandic capital (he
broke a number of world records).
While it goes without saying that
many must put their shoulders to the
wheel to organize major chess events,
none will feel offended if Fridrik
Ólafsson is singled out for a special
mention. During preparations for the
1972 world-title duel, he was among
the chief consultants—and he has
never been stingy with help or advice
in any circumstances of relevance to
chess. A recent brainchild of his was
the novel arrangement adopted for
the 1978 Reykjavík Chess Tourna-
ment, whereby moves are speeded
up—something offering a livelier
spectacle. This new system, lcelandic
Modern, was introduced to such
ranking players as Hort, Korchnoi and
Larsen—all of whom spoke of it
approvingly; the lastly cited promptly
announced his participation.
Carrying a Letter on a
String Around His Neck
Not only good advertisement for his
country, Ólafsson's oft-displayed skills
at the chess table engendered new
enthusiasm for the intellectual board
game at home. Iceland became the on-
ly Nordic country with two chess
grandmasters; the second was Gud-
mundur Sigurjónsson. And in 1977 a
young man of great promise arrived
on the scene. He is Jón L. Árnason—
who, at 16, was holding the All-lce-
land title, the Nordic junior title and
the world title for 17 and under.
That he should leave for the world
match in France on board a commer-
cial jetliner, and with an assistant,
counted as no news. Yet Árnason was
travelling in a style that would have
seemed fancy to Fridrik Ólafsson
when he was 15 and bent on proving
himself away from home. Reminiscing
about this, Fridrik said: 'Things were
really spartan. I was going to Bir-
mingham, England, to an elimination
match coming before the junior world
tournament.
"Funds were scarce, so I was sent
with a trawler that would sell its
catch in England. A trip l'll never
forget. I was so seasick that I knew
l'd never reach my destination alivé.
Nothing that I tried worked. I was up
against a new enemy and at a loss for
countermoves.
'That was not the end óf my problems.
I finally set foot on British soil, but I
knew practically no English and had
ahead of me a long train ride. Worse
yet, I had to change trains several
times. When I left home, I had been
given a letter to carry on a string
around my neck. It was a letter in
English and asked any reader to see
to it that the bearer would head for
Birmingham and no place else. I
managed to get there—and ended up
number 3 to 4, half a point behind the
winners. I was more than happy with
this outcome; some of the others
were almost 20 years old."
The daring and determination that he
showed at this early point in his chess
career were traits associated with
Fridrik's name from then on.
Getting Serous About
Chess Once More
Did he want to dedicate his life to
chess alone? No. After triumphing in
a challenge match of 8, he began
thinking of his future, and of chess.
"It seemed to me that I wasn't ready
to give up everything else," he said—
continuing: 'The one going for the
world chess title needs all his energy
for just that; it's a full-time job, quite
literally. Giving up everything except
chess and more chess."
The upshot was that he studied law
at the University of lceland; aftei
graduation, he secured a post in the
Ministry of Justice. Did he in retro-
spect see his pivotal decision as the
right one? 'The decision wasn't a hard
one for me, once l'd thought matters
over. The sensible thing to do was to
get some education. I wanted to
broaden my horizon. It was important
to have something besides ability to
play chess. Actually, I was most
interested in medicine, but knew it
wouldn't go well with chess as a side-
line. So I selected the legal profession.
And I haven't regretted this—for my
work in the Ministry of Justice brought
experiences of many kinds I wouldn't
have liked to miss."
If the Ministry job absorbed most of
his energy, Fridrik remained an active
chess player; all along, he participated
in one tournament a year. By 1974,
a new decision had taken shape in his
mind, however: he would become a
professional chess player. The way he
put it: "I felt it was necessary to get
serious about chess once again—so I
wouldn't have to sit around in my old
age and cry over lost possibilities,
challenges I never properly responded
to, you might say."
Was I correct in suggesting that his
philosophy of life called for a balance:
chess ambition at one with general
humanity? The best reply would come
from his wife, Audur Júlíusdóttir—
and I put the question to her. "I've so
often been asked what it is like to be
married to a chess player," she said.
'The only answer I could ever come
up with was that the person himself
mattered more to me than his job or
hobbies. Besides, l've never known
Fridrik to move around like a knight in
a game of chess."
A Call From Dr. Euwe
The symbolic die has been cast once
more after Fridrik Ólafsson's decision
to make a second career of chess—
and the outcome might profoundly
change his life. He came forward as
willing to accept a nomination to run
for the presidency of the World Chess
Federation (FIDE); his candidacy is
endorsed by the national lcelandic
chess organization. I asked what
prompted him to take this step.
His answer: "As a professional in
chess the last few years, l've come
across lots of problems having to do
with tournaments and with chess
affairs in general—problems that cry
out for solutions. For example, there
are no rules on the execution of chess
meets, nor on conditions for those
taking part—let alone on players'
finances.
'When Dr. Euwe, the president of
FIDE, called me in the early part of
1977 to ask if I would be available
as his possible successor, many no-
tions crossed my mind. Whichever
way I looked at things, ~it was a big
decision—so I said I needed time for
careful deliberation of the proposition.
I finally concluded that I should be
willing to accept a leadership role
in the chess world, that is, if it was
really felt that I could accomplish
something worthwhile."
H|fUTt rryr“—y — -y-

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