Every world title match is a duel of nerves. Karpov vs. Korchnoi in 1978 was that, plus a parapsychologist, two yoga masters, and a cup of coded yogurt. It is still remembered as the most bizarre match ever played for the crown.
The setup was pure Cold War casting. Anatoly Karpov had become champion in 1975, when Bobby Fischer refused to defend his title, and arrived in the Philippines as the Soviet Union's golden boy. Viktor Korchnoi had defected in 1976, then beaten Petrosian, Polugaevsky, and Spassky to earn the right to challenge. The match was first to six wins, draws not counting: 32 games in Baguio, a mountain resort picked partly for its cooler air, from 18 July to 18 October 1978.
The sideshows started early. Karpov's delegation included Dr. Vladimir Zukhar, a Soviet psychologist and hypnotherapist, who settled into the front row and riveted his gaze on Korchnoi during the games. Korchnoi was sure the doctor was trying to hypnotize him. Organizers moved Zukhar to the seventh row; Korchnoi replied that a Cambridge academic had assured him he could be hypnotized even from a distance. So he brought in two yoga specialists from the Ananda Marga movement to sit near the board, while the camps squabbled over X-rayed chairs, the flags on the table, and Korchnoi's request to play in mirrored glasses.
Then came the yogurt. During game 2, on 20 July, a blueberry yogurt arrived at Karpov's board, though he had asked for nothing. Korchnoi's camp protested in writing that "a cunningly arranged distribution of edible items" could carry a coded message — a yogurt after move 20 might mean "offer a draw," a dish of marinated quails' eggs, "play Ng4 at once." The protest was meant as a parody, but it was taken seriously, and the organizers ruled: from then on, only violet yogurt, delivered by a designated waiter at a designated time.
Beneath the circus, real chess was played. After seven straight draws, Karpov struck in game 8, and despite losing game 11, he led 4–1 by game 17. The turning point was game 17 itself: Korchnoi outplayed him, over-thought his way into time trouble, and lost to what Karpov called "a unique mating finale." "My opponent was broken for at least the next ten games," Karpov wrote. (Game 5 had already made history of another kind: 124 moves ending in stalemate, the first stalemate ever in a world championship final. "Since I could not beat Karpov, I would simply stalemate him," Korchnoi said — "and it gave me great pleasure.")
But Korchnoi was not broken for good. Trailing 5–2 after game 27, he won games 28, 29, and 31, drew game 30, and leveled the match at 5–5. One more win would make him world champion. In game 32, Karpov, playing White, converted a small advantage in a rook and pawns ending, and the marathon was over: 6–5, with 21 draws. Karpov kept the crown by the narrowest possible margin.
Years later, files from the Mitrokhin Archive alleged that the KGB had assembled a team of eighteen officers to help make sure of Korchnoi's defeat. After the match, Korchnoi joked that next time he would bring the CIA. He did get one rematch, at Merano in 1981, and lost again. Baguio 1978 remains the proof that top-level chess was never just moves: the crown was settled by a defector's nerve, a psychologist's stare, and an officially sanctioned violet yogurt.