Sumo cum Laude: chess and wrestling
Some years ago in collaboration with Leonardo da Vinci and the Japanese martial arts expert, Michael Gelb, I wrote Samurai Chess . In this book we sought to draw parallels between those martial arts and chess. The latest Japanese craze to sweep the metropolis has been Sumo wrestling: part sport and part Shinto religion. It is wrestling, but not as we know it, with 500lb giants facing off in rapid fire bouts which usually last just minutes. The Grand Sumo tournament took place at the Royal Albert Hall for five days in early October, resulting in packed live houses and twelve and a half hours of BBC TV coverage.
In the middle of the seventeenth century, in a Japan distant from our own in every imaginable way, a man named Miyamoto Musashi wrote a book that has haunted me ever since I first encountered it. He was a samurai, a warrior who lived and breathed the art of combat, and yet he was also a thinker. His work, Go Rin No Sho , or The Book of Five Rings , is in the first instance a manual of swordsmanship. But it is more than that. It is, at its core, a meditation on strategy, on human decision, and on the strange way in which one can transfer mastery from one field to another. For over three centuries, Musashi’s wisdom remained largely unknown outside Japan, until in 1974 it appeared in English translation.
The reception was astonishing, much as the reception for Sumo has been wildly enthusiastic. Within months, the book sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and suddenly the name of a man long dead was being cited in boardrooms and newspapers alike. Time Magazine observed, almost incredulously, that “On Wall Street, when Musashi talks, people listen.” The New York Times called his strategy “suddenly a hot issue on Wall Street.” One could almost hear the clatter of swords replaced by the rattle of trading floors.
Musashi’s message, which he stated again and again in his book, is deceptively simple: “From one thing, know ten thousand things.” By mastering one discipline, by learning it so thoroughly that the knowledge becomes second nature, one gains the ability to see patterns everywhere, to act decisively, and to anticipate consequences in fields far removed from the original practice. Though on the surface Go Rin No Sho is about samurai swordsmanship, at a deeper level it is a guide to life itself: to decision, to action, to strategy, whether on the battlefield, in the home, or in the corridors of corporate power. It is a book about clarity of thought and the courage to act. Identical qualities are seen in the battles of the Sumo dojo.
Yet Musashi’s brilliance presents difficulties for the modern reader. He writes in a language that is often obscure, heavily informed by Zen, and the central metaphor of life-and-death combat with a sword is largely inaccessible. We are not samurai; we do not face the immediate possibility of death in the ordinary course of our lives.
The lessons, though, remain, if we are willing to find a modern analogue. For me, that analogue has always been chess. Unlike the samurai duel, chess offers victory without bloodshed and defeat without injury, yet the pressures it imposes are real. It is a contest of the mind, and in that contest one is forced to think clearly, to anticipate consequences, to understand one’s opponent, and above all to take responsibility for every decision.
Chess, in its various forms, is the world’s most widely practised “mind sport”, with hundreds of millions of enthusiasts. But it is not merely a pastime. It is a discipline. The great players, from Garry Kasparov to the creators of AlphaZero at DeepMind, have demonstrated that the game is at once timeless and modern, a test of ingenuity and calculation that remains uncannily relevant even in an age of artificial intelligence. The great machines that have mastered chess have shown us that the principles Musashi expounded — of strategy, foresight, and disciplined thought — are universal.
Yet the appeal of chess is more than theoretical. It is a game in which one experiences genuine triumph and genuine failure. One must calculate, anticipate, and act under pressure. Time constraints sharpen the mind. Risk must be assessed honestly. There is no hiding behind luck or blaming others for mistakes. The lessons extend naturally to life: one learns that the world, like the chessboard, is unforgiving, but that the rewards for careful thought are real and lasting. Musashi would have understood this. In chess, as in swordsmanship, mastery depends not on chance but on vigilance, discipline, and insight.
It is perhaps this rigor, this refusal to tolerate evasion, that makes chess so valuable. As Emanuel Lasker, world champion from 1894 to 1921, observed, chess is a fight — not the gory fight of the battlefield, but a fight in which intellect and judgment reign supreme. In it, human nature is laid bare. One learns about oneself: can one follow through on a plan, resist impatience, hold under pressure, and act decisively? Can one be gracious in victory and dignified in defeat? Chess is, in this sense, a moral as well as an intellectual discipline. It teaches self-knowledge, the awareness of strengths and weaknesses, and the necessity of understanding others. To succeed, one must think as one’s opponent thinks, anticipating actions and reactions.
The benefits of chess extend beyond strategy and psychology. Memory, for instance, is strengthened by the repeated practice of openings and patterns. I recall a demonstration I once gave at Oxford, playing 107 opponents in a giant square around me. In three hours, I lost only once, drew five games, and won the remainder. Afterwards, I could recall every move of every game. Such feats are not the result of innate talent alone; they are the product of intense focus and disciplined practice. Memory, as I have learned, is the foundation of intelligence and creativity. Without it, one cannot recombine ideas to innovate or respond to new situations.
Nor is chess merely mental exercise. It slows the mind’s decay with age, keeping it alert and flexible. Leonardo da Vinci compared the human mind to iron or water: without use, it rusts or stagnates. Chess ensures that the mind flows.
And it is beautiful. Marcel Duchamp observed that the game offers a mixture of abstract and concrete aesthetic pleasures: the image, the idea, and its execution on the board. Every piece has character, every movement a poetry of logic. The bishop’s diagonal, the knight’s leap, the rook’s thrust — these are not only strategic but sensually satisfying. To play chess is to enter a world of ordered beauty, where intellect and sense converge.
Chess teaches decision-making in the strictest sense: to decide is to eliminate alternatives. On the board, indecision is fatal; every choice has consequences, every hesitation invites disaster. Lasker was right: on the chessboard, lies and hypocrisy do not survive long. The game also sharpens analytical and strategic thinking. Leibniz, the philosopher, called it a practice in reason and resourcefulness, qualities that are more essential today than ever. A plan must be made, variations considered, outcomes anticipated — a microcosm of life itself.
History confirms the value of chess beyond the game. In the Second World War, Britain’s code-breaking centre at Bletchley Park recruited the strongest chess players in the country. C.H.O’D. Alexander, twice British Champion, became a central figure in the effort to break Nazi codes. Decades later, in the world of finance, chess players have demonstrated superior strategic acumen. Norman Weinstein, an international master, became a top trader at Bankers Trust and later at Odyssey Partners, crediting his success to the skills cultivated at the board. The ability to plan, anticipate, and implement a strategy under pressure is precisely what chess cultivates, and it translates directly to life’s practical battles.
Even across cultures, parallels are evident. The Japanese shogi champion Yoshio Kimura, a lifetime Meijin, faced Alexander Alekhine, world chess champion, in a symbolic meeting of minds and strategy, a contest between two masters of different games. The lesson is universal: mastery in one domain sharpens insight in another. Musashi would have recognized this immediately.
I have come to see chess, in its demands on patience, foresight, and discipline, as a kind of civilised warfare — a training in ethics as well as intellect. It does not appeal to mere chance or brute strength. Instead, it demands responsibility, the courage to act, and the humility to learn from defeat. These are precisely the qualities Musashi sought to instil in the samurai: awareness of consequences, clarity of vision, and adaptability. To study chess is to study life.
I have argued here, perhaps at some length, that the lessons of Musashi can be realized in a modern, non-lethal form. Chess, as a mental discipline, embodies the same principles: mastery, clarity, foresight, and the courage to act decisively. It teaches us about ourselves and about others, about risk and reward, strategy and ethics. In a world increasingly dominated by abstraction, technology, and uncertainty, it is perhaps the most reliable way to cultivate the qualities that Musashi revered: skill, judgment, and the ability to perceive the world in its entirety, from one thing to ten thousand.
To pick up a chess piece is to engage in something larger than the immediate move. It is to train the mind, to confront one’s limits, to wrestle with consequences, and, if one is fortunate, to glimpse the order beneath apparent chaos. Musashi wrote that mastery of strategy allows one to see it in everything. Chess allows us to do precisely that: to see patterns, anticipate danger, plan our responses, and act with clarity. It is, I believe, the modern samurai’s discipline.
One last attraction of Sumo for me is that instead of having to watched emancipated waifs competing for athletic honours, the Sumo warriors on display far more closely resemble my own body shape. That said, but at 280 lb I can still only claim half Sumo status.
Alexander Alekhine vs. Yoshio Kimura
Blindfold simul (blindfold), 14b, 1933, Tokyo
1. e4 e5 2. Nf3 Nc6 3. Bb5 a6 4. Bxc6 bxc6
Towards the middle… but exceptionally, 4… dxc6 is more progressive, releasing the bishop.
5. d4 exd4 6. Qxd4 d6 7.O-O Be6
There is value in challenging the centralised queen immediately, with 7… c5, with a view to developing with …Ng8-e7-c6.
8. Nc3 Nf6 9. Bg5 Be7 10. Qa4 Bd7 11. Rad1 O-O
A natural move, but precipitative without preparation. Worth considering was, 11… h6 12. Bxf6 (stronger then 12. Bh4) 12… Bxf6 13. e5 Be7 14. Nd4 Kf8! and after …h6-h5 and …Rh6, Black will castle by hand.
12. e5 Ne8?!
A better way of confronting the g5-bishop is with 12… Nd5, and after 13. Bxe7 Qxe7 14. Nxd5 cxd5 15. Qa5, White is slightly better but there are chances for both sides.
13. Bxe7 Qxe7 14. exd6!?
Not bad, but Alekhine can build up more pressure with 14. Rfe1! Qd8 and then, 15. Qf4!
14… cxd6 15. Rfe1 Qd8 16. Nd4
It seems dubious to entomb the queen, but the trap is if after 16… c5? 17. Nc6! Objectively, 16. Re3 was more coherent.
16… Qc7 17. Re7 Nf6 18. Nf5 Qd8?
Up until here, Black has done well to keep the game on an even keel. But the move played is a serious error in stranding the a8-rook when it is needed to contest the e-file. After 18… Rae8, White has the choice between:
a) 19. Qxa6 Rxe7 20. Nxe7+ Kh8 21. Qd3 Qb8 22. b3 Qb4 23. Nxc6 Bxc6 24. Qxd6 Qxd6 25. Rxd6; with compensation, or,
b) 19. Qf4 Rxe7 20. Nxe7+ Kh8 21. Nf5 Bxf5 22. Qxf5 d5 23. Qd3 Rb8 24. b3; and in lines, Black has equal chances.
19. Rxd6 Re8 20. Ne4 Rxe7 21. Nxf6+ Kh8 22. Nxe7 Qxe7 23. Qe4 Qxe4 24. Nxe4 Be6 25. b3 g6 26. Nc5
Alekhine is by now, in total control of the position. Prosaically, he could be more clinical here with either:
a) 26. Ng5 Bf5 27. Rd8+ Rxd8 28. Nxf7+ Kg7 29. Nxd8 Bxc2 30. Nxc6; which is winning, or,
b) 26. f3 Bd5 27. Nc5 f5 28. c4 Bf7 29. Rxc6 Rd8 30. h4 a5 31. Ra6 Kg7 32. Rxa5; and wins.
26… Bf5 27. Rxc6 Re8 28. f3 Re2 29. Rxa6 Rxc2 30. Ne4 Be6 31. h4 Kg7 32. Kh2 Kh6 33. Kg3 Bd7 34. a4 f5 35. Ng5 Rc3 36. Ra7 Rd3 37. a5 Kh5 38. Nxh7 Black resigns 1-0
Yoshio Kimura (February 21, 1905 – November 17, 1986)was a Japanese professional shogi player who achieved the rank of 8-dan (which was the highest dan level during his time). He was a lifetime Meijin. Hence, the game between Alekhine and Kimura was a clash between two world champions, in chess and in Shogi.
Ray’s 206th book, “ Chess in the Year of the King ”, written in collaboration with Adam Black, and his 207th, “ Napoleon and Goethe: The Touchstone of Genius ” (which discusses their relationship with chess) can be ordered from both Amazon and Blackwells. His 208th, the world record for chess books, written jointly with chess playing artist Barry Martin, Chess through the Looking Glass, is now also available from Amazon.
A Message from TheArticle
We are the only publication that’s committed to covering every angle. We have an important contribution to make, one that’s needed now more than ever, and we need your help to continue publishing throughout these hard economic times. So please, make a donation.
