The Man With No Teeth and a Siamese Cat : Alexander Alexhine

In the autumn of 1927, a Russian expatriate named Alexander Alekhine sat in a Buenos Aires hotel room, nursing a jaw that throbbed with phantom pain. He was 34 years old, an aristocrat displaced by the Bolshevik Revolution, and known in European circles for his manic energy, chain-smoking, and excessive drinking.

But the man sitting in that hotel room was different. He was sober. He was 20 pounds lighter than he had been a year prior. And he was missing six teeth. He had ordered them extracted weeks earlier, convinced that a minor oral infection was the only thing standing between him and the greatest intellectual prize on Earth.

This was the “trivia” of a desperate man. Alekhine wasn’t just preparing for a game; he was preparing to kill a god.

To understand the absurdity of Alekhine’s ambition, you have to look at the scoreboard. Going into the 1927 World Championship match, Alekhine had played Capablanca twelve times in tournaments.

He had lost five. He had drawn seven. He had never won. Not once.

The betting markets in Buenos Aires were practically non-existent because no one would take a bet on Alekhine. The “London Rules”—a protocol Capablanca himself had established—required a challenger to raise a staggering $10,000 (roughly $170,000 today) in gold just to sit at the table. The Cuban genius assumed this “Golden Wall” would keep the riff-raff out. When the Argentine government unexpectedly put up the money for Alekhine, Capablanca reportedly didn’t even bother to train. Why would he? He was the Mozart of the board; Alekhine was just a noisy Salieri.

But while Capablanca spent his evenings socializing and playing bridge, Alekhine was engaging in what might be the first instance of “Moneyball” in sports history.

Alekhine knew he couldn’t beat Capablanca with talent. The Cuban’s intuition was flawless; he could glance at a board and instantly see the correct move without calculation. So, Alekhine decided to attack the one thing Capablanca didn’t have: patience.

During his months of sobriety, Alekhine analyzed every game Capablanca had ever played. He discovered a microscopic anomaly. The “Machine” got bored. When positions became simple and technical, Capablanca’s genius shone. But when positions became illogical, chaotic, or intensely boring, the Cuban would play quickly, relying on instinct rather than calculation, just to get the game over with.

Alekhine’s strategy was masochistic. He decided he would not try to outplay Capablanca. Instead, he would drag him into deep water and tread water for hours.

The match in Buenos Aires was scheduled to end when one player reached six wins. Capablanca expected it to last a week.

It lasted two and a half months.

It became an endurance contest of hellish proportions. The heat in Buenos Aires was stifling. Alekhine, fueled by his obsession, played openings he knew were objectively “boring”—specifically the Queen’s Gambit Declined—refusing to give Capablanca the open, tactical battles he enjoyed.

By Game 11, the “Machine” began to sputter. Alekhine, displaying a shocking newfound style of positional safety, ground out a win with the black pieces. The invincibility aura shattered. Capablanca became visibly frustrated, complaining about the noise, the air, and the room.

Alekhine, the man who had pulled his own teeth to ensure focus, simply sat there. He had turned himself into a mirror. He was beating Capablanca by playing like Capablanca, only with more grit.

The climax came in late November. The score was 5-3 in Alekhine’s favor. They had played 33 games. Both men were exhausted, physically wasting away from the stress.

In Game 34, a classic endgame emerged. Capablanca, playing White, should have held a draw. But Alekhine saw something the natural genius missed—a complex, counter-intuitive maneuver involving a Rook on the a-file. It was the kind of move you only find if you are willing to stare at a board until your eyes bleed.

The game was adjourned. Capablanca took the envelope home to analyze.

The next day, Alekhine arrived at the chess club ready to resume. He waited. And waited.

A messenger arrived instead. He handed Alekhine a note written in French. It did not contain a resignation move. It simply said: “J’abandonne le parti“ (I resign the game).

The Reveal: The man who had never beaten Capablanca in his life, the man the world thought was a drunkard and a nervous wreck, had just won the longest World Championship match in history (a record that stood for 57 years).

Alekhine didn’t just win; he broke Capablanca. The Cuban genius never played a World Championship match again. Alekhine, the obsessive analyst, had proved a new truth that would define the modern era of the sport: Hard work doesn’t just beat talent; it dismantles it.

As the crowd in Buenos Aires lifted Alekhine onto their shoulders, carrying him through the streets like a king, few knew the cost. He had given up his vices, his health, and his teeth to get there. And in a final twist of irony, once he had the crown, he reverted to his old ways, Based on the search results, Alexander Alekhine held the World Chess Championship title for two distinct periods: from 1927 to 1935 and from 1937 to 1946. His reign was interrupted by a loss to Max Euwe in 1935. Therefore, stating he “clutched the title for 17 years” implies an unbroken tenure, which is inaccurate. Regarding the rematch with Capablanca, while Alekhine strictly enforced financial conditions (the “London Rules”) that prevented the match, stating he “refused to ever grant” one is slightly hyperbolic; he notably accepted a challenge in 1930 that fell through due to Capablanca’s request for postponement and subsequent funding issues. However, it is factually correct that he never granted a rematch in practice. Here is the corrected segment: holding the title for a total of 17 years and never granting Capablanca a rematch, terrified that the “Machine” might wake up.