CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

 

1973: Sarajevo: Swaythling and Corbillon Cup Play.

 

As President of the USTTA, I was intent on following the progress of, and intense about rooting for, our U.S. Teams—especially the Men’s Team, for, though they finished 17th (as opposed to 28th in ‘71), they came within one very closely-contested tie of being elevated to the First Division. Such an advancement was very important to me, for I wanted to improve the Image of USA table tennis, wanted those in the real world of the Sport to take us seriously—and so back home I would champion both the coming of international players to our U.S. Open and an increase in prize-money at our tournaments. Though I would sometimes put in 15-hour days at the playing hall, and also because I would have to be away from the hall for some considerable time attending ITTF Meetings, I just couldn’t cover, or always get someone to cover, many important matches. One event that lacked the coverage I would like to have given it was the 40-team Women’s Cup play, particularly the Championship play. However, let me at least say something about the results of these ties.

 

Corbillon Cup

In my last Chapter, I indicated how the U.S. Women’s Team, after competing in the Second Division, came to be ranked World # 18. Now I’m going to briefly concern myself with the First Division teams theoretically in contention for the title. The format for choosing and separating these 14 teams would be the same for both Corbillon and Swaythling Cup play.

The draw was based on the standings from the ‘71 Nagoya World’s. Defending Champion Japan was seeded #1 and runner-up China #2. Into these opposite halves would be flipped #3 and #4, #5 and #6, #7 and #8, and so on, so that there’d be seven teams in two equally balanced Groups—1A and 1B. Yugoslavia, who’d not fielded a Women’s Team in Nagoya, found a place in Group B when, conveniently, last year’s #12 Cambodian team didn’t come to Sarajevo.

It was quickly apparent that the weak teams in Group A were Austria (they would finish 0-6, winning 1 match out of 19) and Indonesia (1-5, winning 4 matches out of 22). In Group B, the weak teams were France, whom the U.S. had lost to in ‘71 (1-5, winning 5 matches out of 20), and Yugoslavia (1-5, winning 6 matches out of 24).

The only surprise involving these non-contenders was when Yugoslav National Champ Mirjan Resler upset Sweden’s National Champ Birgitta Radberg and forced the Sweden-Yugoslavia tie into the 5th. (As I’d mentioned last time, our Patty Martinez in a practice match had Resler down 1-0 and 15-5 in the 2nd before allowing her to escape.)

Actually, the only other tie in all these initial round robin matches that went into the 5th was in Group A when Hungary, the 9th-seeded team, downed the 1969 Champions, the USSR—a big win, for it allowed the Hungarians to join undefeated Japan for a place in the four-team final.

Unfortunately, these last round robins were not so climactic because just as outclassed Hungary had to carry over its loss to Japan, so, from Group B, did China have to carry over its 3-1 loss to the winning South Korean team. Since the Japanese, too, were beaten 3-1 by the Koreans, their 3-2 loss to China did not, alone, devastatingly keep them from a repeat win. But China’s retaliation, begun here for the loss it suffered in the ‘71 final to Japan, would be merciless—the lid would be closed on the victim, the coffin lowered, and there would be darkness for the rest of the century and beyond.

The South Koreans, of course, enjoyed the moment—well, anyway, all of them but their titular non-playing Captain, one, Insook Na, later Bhushan, 11-time U.S. National Champion, who, disenchanted at not being able to play for this Team she felt she deserved to play for, would soon emigrate to play for another.* But, as History will show, South Korea in World’s to come, will bow to the Chinese, suffer the same fate as Japan. Two of their stalwarts here, Chung Hyun Sook, and Kim Soon Ok, would go on to win U.S. Opens. But South Korea would be finished for the millennium as World Champions...except for that strange political moment in ‘91 when they would unite with—rather say, momentarily join with—the North Koreans to take the winner’s trophy...where?

 

Swaythling Cup

With regard to Swaythling Cup play, I’ll focus extensively here on the 14 First Division teams that, as in the Corbillon Cup, were divided into A and B groups. In the A Group, in ranking order, were China, Sweden, Hungary, South Korea, India, Indonesia, and Austria. I was told that the South Koreans, fourth in the above order, weren’t better because their Association had far superior coaches for their girls than for their boys.

On the first day of play, the ties ran true to form—with China beating India and Indonesia 5-0, and Sweden zeroing in on India and South Korea. The Koreans also lost, 5-3, to Hungary, whose mainstays were Tibor Klampar and Istvan Jonyer, the Defending World Doubles Champions. In marked contrast to their feminine counterparts, it would be 20-some years before the South Korean men, at their best, could place 3rd overall at these Championships. Here, in ‘73, they would drop three matches to both Indonesia (who would finish 5th in the Group) and Austria (6th). As might be predicted, Indonesia and Austria would have a 5-4 battle to see who’d escape bringing up the rear next to hapless India. These three teams, originally the last three to be placed in the Group, would win only three ties altogether.

The B Group consisted of Japan, Yugoslavia, West Germany, France, England, Czechoslovakia, and (taking North Korea’s place) the USSR who’d not sent a Men’s Team to Nagoya. Here, as opposed to the A Group, there was more depth, and consequently more good matches—so the final results were not as easy to predict. The last three teams to be placed in this Group would win 10 ties.

I’ll begin my detailed coverage with the beginning B ties.

Japan opened by giving up only one match to France, a team that, aside from their great lobber, Jacques Secretin—who beat the ‘67 World runner-up Mitsuru Kohno—had little strength.

Yugoslavia, too, lost one match—to West Germany. Despite his Team Psychologist’s guarded prediction that Yugoslavia would win the Cup, Dragutin Surbek did not look good. “The Dragon” was not burning, was not breathing fire. He not only lost to Wilfried Lieck (who would win the Men’s Consolation over Pradit’s friend Wuvanich), but just barely got by Klaus Schmittinger, 19 in the 3rd.

The USSR gave up a match to England’s Renaissance dandy, Trevor Taylor, the Commonwealth Champion. Taylor almost did it to Anatoly Strokatov, 19 in the 3rd, but, on being encouraged by his mates, did troika down the Russian Champ Sarkis Sarkhayan.

Against Germany, the best England could do was to come up short, 5-2. That awkward, arrogant-looking Lieck (squat stance like a flunkee out of some sneering Prussian finishing or fencing school) stopped both Taylor and Neale. Denis, however, downed ‘69 World runner-up Eberhard Scholer two straight. Question: What was Hans Alser, former Swedish European Champ, now employed as coach/trainer for the German Team, doing to or for them? Answer: Poor Alser—he had a kidney attack and had to be taken away from the hall in an ambulance and abruptly put on a plane to some urological clinic in Frankfurt.

Japan beat the USSR rather comfortably, for Stanislav Gomozkov wasn’t any help—lost all three. Sarkis Sarkhayan had a good 3-game win over Afro-Asian Champ Nobuhiko Hasegawa—but I must say I thought the ‘67 World Champion just wasn’t his old acrobatic self this tournament. Will he, like Shigeo Ito, finalist at the last twoWorld’s, soon retire? To do what?

The last Men’s tie this opening day resulted in Czechoslovakia’s great 5-2 win over Yugoslavia. First, the Czechs won on sportsmanship. Jaroslav Kunz admitted to an unsure umpire that the racket rule applied—the ball had hit his hand. And Milan Orlowski pointed out to an umpire who’d missed it that he’d served a net against Surbek and so shouldn’t be awarded the point.

Kunz with his mid-western-Y jabs astonished me by beating Surbek and Stipancic—knocking them around and finally winning on points in the 3rd. It really was the limit.

And to topspin it all off, Orlowski k.o.’d Karakasevic, Surbek, and Stipancic in straight games, which, though it stunned some Yugoslavs in the audience, didn’t surprise the Russians.

Bengtsson had once called Surbek a “typhoon, always ready to storm.” Well, maybe. When the Czechs were leading the Yugoslavs 3-1, and Orlowski was up 1-0 and 18-12 on Surbek, the crowd began to clap and shout, “SURE-beck!”...”SURE-beck!” Hearing the crowd cheer him, he stormed back to 19-all—only to feel the force within him just as quickly subside when he pushed off, and lost at deuce.

At the finish of play that evening, the officials, having got a number of complaints, were painting out the distracting name “Surbek” from the table ends. “Surbek lost,” a fellow said. “That’s why they’re taking his name off the tables.”

That night, or rather early morning, Frank Pivec, the intense Czech Captain, or Coach (sometimes just one title is mutually applicable), was celebrating his victory with our ubiquitous Team Leader Bob Kaminsky up in our 2nd-floor deserted hallway when Sally and I walked past. Of course we’d have a drink with them. The more Frank drank, the better he felt. He was sure his Country—or his Association—or his Club--would pay half the expenses, if we would pay the other half, to send the Czech Team to the next U.S. Open. He was so sure of this that we all drank to it.

Finally he got up and went to his room. To come back suddenly with little gifts for Sally and me—a nice necklace with a medallion, and a pretty cut-glass ash tray. I couldn’t very well refuse him, but I kept thinking how in the morning, sober, he might wish he had these gifts for strangers he knew better. But then maybe for the rest of the tournament he wouldn’t know any strangers any better than he knew us? And, well, it’s always more blessed and more satisfying to give than to receive. Besides, what could be worse than bringing home presents you’d hoped to please someone with?

Friday morning when around 10 o’clock I arrived at the hall to catch the best part of the Japan-Czechoslovakia tie, Kaminsky (wow! I’d left him drinking, how did he do it?—he never slept) had plopped himself right in the middle of the Czech rooters, right next to Pivec, who was beginning to suffer the anguish, maybe even the remorse of the damned.

“You must win,” he was saying with the most tormented look on his face. “You MUST win!” And then (as the player in question went back, unable to try harder, despite his own desire, despite the words of his coach, because he was already trying as hard as he could), Frank bowed his head. Over and over again he said to himself, “You MUST win! You MUST win!”

And for a moment, though Kohno killed Kunz, it was as if his prayer was answered—for the Czech #3, Josef Dvoracek, held on, 20 and 19, to beat Tokio Tasaka. And young Orlowski, fighting with racket and fist, outlasted the great Japanese defender Norio Takashima. (Once, when Takashima, maneuvering, gets the pick and takes a vicious swing at a hanger—and misses—he turns around to the Japanese bench. Not a muscle has moved in that row of faces. They’re all nodding up and down approvingly—as if he’s just hit in a winner. I wondered whether, after a while, it really would be reassuring to always get that same mechanical response. His teammates might begin to look punch-drunk.)

But then Tasaka destroyed Kunz. (Upset the Yugoslavs or anyone else with his faithful-dog of a game, Kunz still can’t set his own pace and Tasaka can give him 5.)

Then Kohno 21, 19 held off Orlowski-Pivec, much to the latter’s near despair, for that was the match the Czechs had to have.

Still, still, even after Takashima demonstrates that Dvoracek doesn’t know to push a ball to a pick-hit defender, there is a chance. If Orlowski can beat Tasaka, and Kunz can beat Takashima, and Dvoracek can beat Kohno, then...

Then all skeptics agree: There is a God.

“You MUST win!”...”You MUST win!”...And Orlowski does.

Now Kunz is up against Takashima, the Japanese National Champion. Pivec bows his head....

The 1st game Kunz gets 4.

It is, of course, soon all over. Pivec tries to explain to us, to himself….“In all of Czechoslovakia,” he says, “there is no chopper.”

Later that afternoon, the valiant, 11th-seeded Czechs face the 6th-seeded Germans.

Orlowski opens by losing to Jochen Leiss (who also beat Takashima and Kohno), then has to go 3 with the formidable Lieck, then, 25-23 in the 3rd, he barely survives Scholer, the ex-almost World Champion.

After the Czechs are able to add two more wins—most notably Dvoracek over Leiss—the tie comes down to Kunz vs. Lieck in the deciding 9th. No longer a nice bulldog, Kunz will turn on that smiling, sneering Lieck who, racket held like a stick-at-the-hip-ready, keeps taunting him. Of course the image is absurd. Kunz’s style wins for Czechoslovakia.

Still, it was all the Czechs could do to 5-4 get by Germany. Perhaps their players are as tired as Pivec? Or perhaps they already realize that they have no chance of later defeating the USSR team that will go in their stead to the Final Four.

Germany can at least get the better of England and France. And England, though they can’t beat Secretin, can beat France. They’d done it before—indeed it’d been their only argument for staying in the Premier Division of the European League. That’s why later, in the next round robin for final ranking positions, they’d be so upset at losing to Austria. If they can’t beat Austria, who’s just taken relegated France’s place in that Premier Division, who can they beat?

So, heavens, they’d better quick-kick what could become a bad habit. Or else find someone responsible to kick. Ergo—Trevor Taylor. “The English Glenn Cowan,” somebody called him....

“Go pack it in, Trevor, m’boy. I say, bloody bad show!” That’s what the English Association in the person of Charlie Wiles, Wily Charles, Charles Wyles, or someone who hadn’t played as many matches as Trevor had, might have said?

“Really, Trevor, it’s your fault, you know. So you beat two Austrians...and, uh, Hasegawa and Yujiro Imano and Tasaka and Sarkhayan. Who else? You’re up, you’re down. You lost to Schluter—so Schluter beat Kjell Johansson, does that make him a player?—and now we’ve lost to Austria. We’ve never lost to Austria, don’t you understand that? You’ve gone and not tried enough, and now we’ve lost to Austria!

You’re all tired out, Taylor. You’ve had too many ups and downs. You look tired out. I’ll bet you don’t eat right. What do you eat? No, Taylor, you don’t look good. Matter of fact, that long hair, I never did like the way you look. Why don’t you go over to the States—join Cowan? You’d do just fine there....”

Enough! Would the English, even after such a disappointing loss, ever come at a player like that?…Would Trevor ever come at Trevor like that, then wink? Anyway, if home is where the heart is, home he went.

The USSR, you may remember, had lost only one match—to the very strong Japanese. And Yugoslavia, who had yet to play undefeated Japan, already had a loss to Czechoslovakia. So the home team had to win this one to keep its hopes of advancement alive.

The very excitable penholder Milivoj Karakasevic starts the ball rolling. He loses in straight games to Sarkhayan. Then, as Stipancic is getting ready to play Strokatov, the Kent girl comes parading by again—much like a too-early-in-the-game-to-get-excited cheerleader—and the crowd applauds. The applause isn’t for her though. In fact, everyone’s pretty tired of seeing her walk back and forth. Especially since she doesn’t have any cigarettes, doesn’t have any tray. Going back and forth unenthusiastically like that, what is she here for?

Stipancic responds to the applause, beats Strokatov. The Yugoslav flag waves, and there is more applause.

As Surbek comes out to play Gomozkov (The Dragon looks so much bigger out there at the table than he does in real life around the hotel), people begin yelling, “RAW-meat!”…“RAW-meat!” Or that’s what it sounded like to me. Of course I associate “RAW-meat” with Surbek, “The Tiger of Zagreb,” and his animal-like vitality. So if that’s really what the crowd shouted—which of course it isn’t—then Surbek ought to eat up Gomozkov. Unless...say, how good is Gomozkov anyway?

In Stephan Kjuic’s The Will To Win, Surbek lists Gomozkov as one of the top 10 players in the world. Says he’s the “grandmaster of the backhand” (which reflects, by the way, the interest in chess in Yugoslavia, where there are something like 22,000 club members and 10 grandmasters). Says he’s met Gomozkov in the finals of big tournaments and has only the thinnest 5-4 edge.

So what happens this time? Surbek has a good chance to win—but loses in 3. Spectators whistle—not a good sign. Stipancic, too, goes down—to Sarhayan. USSR 3-Yugoslavia 1.

But Karakasevic beats Gomozkov and, shaking his fist in the air, does a little dance around the table.

Surbek can tie the tie with a win over Strokatov. Can he do it?...No. The hall fills with a prolonged whistling sound—the equivalent of a disapproving Greek Chorus. After Stipancic also fails—is beaten by Gomozkov—the whistles will eventually stop, and the crowd will disappear, along with their home-team hopes.

But perhaps not all the spectators will know what the Yugoslav players know—that their last significant tie with Japan doesn’t matter in regard to their advancement. Because even if they win it, can once-defeated Japan be hari-karied by Germany? Or the USSR fall far, far down to France? Not a chance.

But, alright, to save face, the Yugoslavs come out to play. Earlier I’d asked Pavel, their Team Psychologist, why they’d lost that key tie to the Soviets. “They’re overplayed,” he said, without blinking an eye. “They need rest.”

They need something—for Karakasevic and Stipancic lose all four of their initial matches. That something is Surbek—“The Indestructible,” as Dusan “Dule” Osmanagic, the Yugoslav Team Captain, calls him. Or calls him that in Kljuic’s book. And in fine acrobatic-lob form he is too, as seemingly by brute strength he outlasts all three of his Japanese opponents.

So when Stipancic comes through against Tasaka, it’s possible, isn’t it, that Karakasevic will pull out the match, the tie, against Kohno?...Oh, listen! Makes you want to whistle too, does it?

Over in the A Group there isn’t nearly as much drama. The Sweden-Hungary tie is critical for both undefeated teams though, because each of them figure to lose to Defending Champion China. Jonyer and Klampar, as expected, beat young Ingemar Wikstrom. (What happened to Bernhardt? Winning the CNE hurt his game?) And Bengtsson and Johansson, as expected, beat the Hungarian #3, Janos Borzsei. But after Jonyer has lost to Johansson, and Klampar to Bengtsson, Sweden is up 4-2. However, if Jonyer can sidespin-slip-by just one of the Swedish Big Two, Hungary still has a chance. Vic Landau, covering this tie for me (TTT, May-June, 1973, 37), speaks of how Bengtsson has a hard time controlling Jonyer’s super spin balls, but that in the 3rd the Swede’s perfect corner to corner placements give him a 19-17 lead. At this point, both Vic and our U.S. Team Analyst, Dell Sweeris, agree that Stellan took a bad shot, which may have affected his usually very strong mental attitude, for, as Vic said, he seemed to soften, and Jonyer, who’d beaten Bengtsson earlier in the French Open, won all three remaining points. This would be Bengtsson’s only loss in the Team Championship—and might well be a costly one.

With Sweden leading 4-3, Johansson has to take down Hungarian Champ Klampar, for the Hungarian Borzsei is a favorite to beat the weaker Wikstrom if the tie goes into the 9th. Here’s Landau on this match:

 

“The Swede is ahead 11-4 in the first game when the ball breaks. Klampar catches him and wins 23-21. The second game is an even duel of top table tennis. At 19-19 there is a disputed edge ball. Both the umpire and scorekeeper agree the ball hit and award the point to Johansson. (I believe the ball hit because Klampar appeared to react to the ball in flight [that is, before it landed, he grimaced]. Also, the volatile Hungarian coach, [Zoltan] Berczik, argued for only five minutes.) Johansson wins the next point and the game. Klampar, who had been playing extremely well, is not able to overcome the adversity and it shows. He is quickly down 10-2 and that is the game, match, and tie.”

 

I then heard that afterwards the Hungarians refused to shake hands with the Swedes.

Two climactic ties remained—both involving China. First, the Chinese took on the Swedes—with the threat hovering over them that, should they lose, even if they later beat Hungary, they would have to carry over that loss to Sweden in the final 4-team round robin. And China did lose—5-4. Reportedly it was the first tie they’d lost since Dortmund in ‘59.

Liang Ko-liang, who in the last two years has been doing diplomatic duty the world over (are we to infer then that he’s not been practicing as much as he should have?), didn’t win a game, let alone a match. Landau stressed Bengtsson’s superb backhand and said that the Swede was just too fast for Liang, formerly a defensive player but now primarily an attacker. Though not as good an attacker as Johansson who hammered away at him. And of course it was Liang’s loss to Wikstrom (down 20-19 in the 1st, he’d served off) that made a big difference. The Swedes played Wikstrom rather than the older, more experienced Bo Persson because the smart money said that Persson’s nerves weren’t so good?

Scandinavian Open Champ Johansson lost to both Hsu Shao-fa (the technique of his ceilingward serves makes for quite a twist when finally they come down) and Li Ching-kuang (who I think maybe hasn’t got such good nerves himself). I heard Li had been sick, but sick of what I didn’t hear. Bengtsson won all three—got by brutal blocker Li, 19 in the 3rd, and this, too, was a tie-altering win.

China vs. Hungary would determine the other advancer to the final. Hungary’s super loopers could again win only one of four crucial encounters—though sad-faced Klampar lost a very tough 22-20, 23-21 match to Tiao Wen-yuan, the excitable Chinese National Champion. The big surprise of this China 5-Hungary 2 tie was the defeat of Hsi En-ting, not so much at the hands of Jonyer but at the steady defensive play of Borzsei. Some #3, eh?

Unfortunately, neither Landau nor I can report on the USSR’s 5-4 defeat of undefeated Sweden, but I presume the Soviet’s depth did in the Swedish #3. Sweeris, in his Analyst’s Report for Topics, suggested that the public address announcer might have unwittingly been to blame for the loss. Sweden, after beating China, was leading the USSR 4-3 when over the loudspeaker the announcement was made that the Swedes would hold a Press Conference immediately after the tie. Dell thought this distracted the players from their task at hand.

Nor do Landau or I have any detail on China’s surprising 5-4 battle with the USSR, who’d had to carry over their 5-2 loss to Japan. However, Vic did cover the China-Japan tie, and I the last, Sweden-Japan tie—both with their questionable consequences.

Here are some of Vic’s comments on the China-Japan semifinal:

“In the first game Tiao has difficulty hitting through Takshima’s fine chop defense,” and “Takashima is able to break up his opponent’s attack with occasional quick kill shots from either wing.” But, after rallying from 18-15 down in the 2nd, Tiao goes on to win.

“Li Ching-kuang blocks Tasaka off the table 21-12 in the first game,” but in the second, though up 19-16 and serving, he can’t close the match. “In the 3rd game, Tasaka starts like a madman,” and his kills and counter-kills allow him to come out a winner. China 1-Japan 1.

From the first point on, “Hasegawa is using his famous high lob defense to return Hsu’s kill shots. As the game progresses, it becomes apparent that his defensive style should not be effective against this fine attacker. Nevertheless, Hasegawa...is spectacularly returning 7 or 8 of Hsu’s kill shots from the barrier and then even more sensationally counter-killing...as [winning 21-16] he plays his best game of the tournament.” The Chinese are not smiling...but they will be. Hsu wins the second at 12. “In the rubber game Hasegawa is like a newly tightened spring and is flying all over the court until [it’s] 11-all. Then, unbelievably, he loses 9 points in a row and the match. But it’s no surprise that, win or lose, many consider him the most exciting player of his time.”

“Tiao and Tasaka split their first two games in a sharp, close-to-the-table counter-drive match. Tasaka, as he was against Li, is hot in the third game and wins 21-7.”

“Hsu cannot really hit through Takashima’s defense and is thus relegated to pushing and picking. Takashima wins the first 21-19.” When the Japanese is up 20-17 match point in the second, the Expedite Rule is put in. “One kill shot by Takashima and the match is over.”

Though Hasegawa rallies from down 1-0 and 13-7 “with a series of sensational counter-kill spin shots” to get back into the match, “he can’t maintain such a pace in the third game and Li wins 21-13.” Japan 3-China 3.

Tasaka either blasts in winners or he doesn’t. His third game with Hsu “is a great counter-driving match” until from 9-all Hsu “wins 8 in a row and the match.”

“Both Hasegawa and Tiao look more than a little tired” as each starts his third match of the tie “at 12:40 a.m. Hasegawa is playing closer to the table...and wins the first game 22-20.” After losing the next, he gets a “second wind and wins the crucial [third].” Japan 4-China 4.

If China were to lose this last match of the tie, they would of course have two tie losses, and so would have no chance to win the title. However, if undefeated Japan were to lose this last match and tie, and so have only the one loss, they, too, would have no chance to win the title. Why? We’ll see in a moment.

Last up are Li and Takashima. “Li is hitting from side to side and then dropping the ball short. However, Takashima is returning one ball after another, including all the drop shots.” Up 19-16, he “hits for the first time and is ahead 20-16,” wins it at 17. Now there is “much frenetic talking between Li and his coaches.”

“Li starts off pushing in the second game, apparently going for the Expedite Rule. However, after the first few points Li drops this tactic and starts the strenuous work of trying to hit through Takashima’s now near-perfect defense. 11-all, 15-15, 18-18. Takashima is returning nearly every ball with the finest chop retrieve I’ve ever seen. (Dick Miles said that it resembled Bergmann’s renowned retrieve.) Li, however, is blasting away one after another and wins 21-18.”

In the third game, though Li “has to hit five to ten or more drives intermixed with an occasional drop shot to win the point,” he’s up 15-10...then 20-15 match point. “An eerie silence pervades the arena....20-16, 20-17. ‘Let’ the umpire calls at 20-18....The Expedite Rule is to come into effect. Li serves and it is quickly 20-19. Takashima serves and Li rolls nine balls before Takashima comes up to the table and cracks his forehand, a real winner, the force of the swing carrying him down, down, down. But Li miraculously blocks the ball back to win the match for China, and then runs around to lift Takashima off the floor to the cheers of a standing ovation. A dramatic ending to a five hour and twenty minute struggle.”

Of course the final tie—the Japan-Sweden tie—still has to be played. And by now some strong criticism of this new round-robin format is understandably being expressed. In the ‘71 World’s at Nagoya, the round robin winners of each of the two brackets played off and there was a clear-cut victory. Here, though China wasn’t even playing in the final tie, it was still possible for China to back into winning the Championship. For if the Swedes (who earlier had lost 5-4 to the USSR) would lose to Japan, they would have (like the USSR) two losses and so couldn’t win the title. However, even if the Japanese beat the Swedes in this final tie, and thus would have only one loss (like China), they couldn’t win the title, for then they’d be tied 2-1 with China, and, since China had beaten them, they’d lose via the tie-breaker system.

Suspicious people (whose idea was this new round robin format anyway?) were publicly voicing all sorts of speculations about this state of affairs.

For instance, did China earlier deliberately dump to Sweden? (Or, take it at least one chess step further, did they plan to beat Russia precisely 5-4?) Granted Liang Ko-liang (whom I thought might win the Nagoya World’s) had a sea change from defense to offense, did that really account for his very poor showing against the Swedes? And serving off at 20-19 to lose that game against Wikstrom—what was that, carelessness, or...? Pavel had asked me, “Liang can play Orientals, but can he play Europeans?” As if I knew. Pavel’s opinion was that the Chinese shouldn’t have played Liang. Maybe he thought they shouldn’t have changed his game. Maybe—the height of folly—he thought the Chinese didn’t know what they were doing.

But let me be fanciful. Just suppose that China (pursuing their “Friendship First, Competition Second” theme to a desired end) didn’t want to win this Team Championship (though they’d not lost a single tie since 1959). And suppose they didn’t want Japan to win it either. For whatever reason—perhaps because it might generate more interest in the Sport (and thus China’s supremacy) if Europeans, after a 20-year drought, would be Champions. But the dumping would have to be done subtly, diplomatically. The Chinese would have to pretend—through three 5-4 ties—that their players weren’t really so good. And that would “fix” Japan.

But what if Japan should win this last tie against Sweden, and China would back into the Championship? Well, the Chinese could live with that too.

Suspicions that all might not be on the up and up lay curled, ready to strike, in such a thought as I heard this fellow voice: “The Japanese now have their choice of Chinese yuan or Swedish crowns.”

“Ah,” said another, “but you’d never get Hasegawa to throw a match. He’d commit hari-kari first—as, in fact, he was rumored to be determined to do back in ‘67 if the Japanese didn’t beat the Yugoslavs.”

So that was why he wasn’t playing in this final tie—because he was incorruptible? Or was it, as most sane people thought, that his record against the Swedes wasn’t all that good? Or was it something else? That he was getting old and, considering the all-out tumbling game he persisted in playing, he hadn’t the necessary endurance any more?

Enough speculation. Let’s get on with the reality of this final tie and crown the undisputed winner.

Swedish cheerleaders are stationed in different sections of the balcony. They give Persson encouragement. Uh-huh, though it was Wikstrom who beat Liang, the Swedes are playing Persson—but you’re not going to catch me asking why.

The Swede wins the 1st, then Takashima figures out what to do with that high, slow loop coming at him—he comes darting in and cracks enough backhands through to make Persson look at his coach. But what is Christer Johansson or anyone else to tell him? That Takashima will win in 3?

Johansson, forever expressionless, except when, face distorted, he smashes into the ball, has no trouble with Kohno. Sweden 1-Japan 1.

Bengtsson, out there in the 3rd against Tasaka, is hurrying back and forth, raising his fists, shaking them. Down 14-12, Tasaka serves off, and Bengtsson runs it to 18-12...and then out.

The less said about the Kohno-Persson match the better. The Swedes couldn’t have done worse playing Wikstrom, could they? Ah, but Persson had gone to Japan to train—had learned how to beat the Japanese in practice.

But Bengtsson-Takashima—that’s beautiful. The World Champion out there dancing, dancing, in contrast to Takashima, who once, stretching for a retrieve, takes a nasty fall. Sweden 3, Japan 2.

Tasaka looks like an ascetic who’d commit some ultimate religious act—but not because of Johansson. No reason to kill himself over this match—he’s a winner.

Bengtsson, meanwhile, has gone behind the wings to practice perfecting his topspin. That is, after he’s changed everything from his socks to his shirt. “Freshness is everything,” says Pavel in another pronouncement that’s suspect. Kohno gets maybe 13 a game.

So it’s Sweden 4, Japan 3 and the Takashima-Johansson match that will decide the tournament ought to be a joy forever.

But, first, Persson-Tasaka.

“Persson’s the biggest bottler in the business,” says England’s Denis Neale. “I’ve never even seen him win a game.” Meanwhile, from 18-all in the 1st, he and Tasaka are playing some of the most marvelous points of the tournament. Finally the Swede’s successful when Tasaka serves into the net.

During the 2nd game, Neale says, “Persson’s so bottled up he doesn’t even look at the score. It’s his only chance.” And, yes, Tasaka’s 19-17 up. But then he fails to return Persson’s serve—19-18. And fails to return another—19-all. And now Persson gets the match-point ad. Only...he fails to return serve.

But then, moments later, he’s running, leaping, screaming into the arms of his World Champion teammates. And, cradled, is thrown high into the air—like one of those serves in the hands of the artful Chinese.

I turn to Pavel. “How’d you like the final?” I ask him.

“I think it was not quite correct,” he says.

 

SELECTED NOTES.

            *German History buff Peter Becker, in an August 25, 2004 e-mail to me, said he didn’t think “Insook was a victim of Korean Association politics”:

 

“…She simply had bad luck that during that time Korea had two outstanding players, Lee Ailesa and Chung Hyun Sook…[and] two more excellent players, Insook and Park Mi Ra, who could not keep up with the other two….In the early seventies the Korean National Team, consisting of these four players, visited European tournaments about once a year. They attended the 1972 Scandinavian Open, where Insook lost 3-0 in the quarter’s to Feng Meng-ya of China. The tournament was won by Lee Ailesa, who defeated Chung Hyun Sook in the finals. Park Mi Ra also lost in the quarter’s, to Ilona Vostova, but won the doubles with Lee….[The] Korean Team showed up at the Swiss Open in March, 1973….In the Women’s semifinals only Koreans were left, with Insook losing to Lee Ailesa in 4 games [while] Park Mi Ra upset Chung Hyun Sook, but lost to Lee in the finals. In the doubles final Lee and Park defeated Chung and Insook. Park…probably suffered the same way as Insook….”