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Wallace and Gromit is a festive TV staple in many a household – but it wasn’t their wrong trousers that scooped the post-Christmas headlines. That honour belonged to Magnus Carlsen, disqualified from a chess tournament in New York for wearing jeans.
The world No 1 – who also happens to be the only current chess player most people can name – had balked when he was told to change his attire ahead of his third-round match at the World Rapid and Blitz Chess Championships. Walking out of the event, Carlsen shrugged that he would “probably head off to somewhere where the weather is a bit nicer”. Instead, he returned three days later after governing body Fide had agreed a more “flexible approach” to its dress code.
The fact that chess even has a dress code will have been news to many. Some of us assumed elite players show up at tournaments looking like accountants because, you know, they’re good at calculations. But apparently, left to themselves, they’re a bunch as prone to scruffiness as the rest of us: the stipulation for business attire was born of a growing concern among officials that standards were slipping to dangerous levels. There can’t be many sports that explicitly state competitors must be “free of body odour”.
Ironically, chess is so worried about its image problem that it has actually created an image problem. Carlsen is chess’s biggest – let’s be honest, only – superstar. The 34-year-old Norwegian is knowing enough to have responded to disqualification by posting a selfie captioned “OOTD”. (And you, dear reader, are, of course, knowing enough to appreciate that stands for “Outfit Of The Day”). The outfit in question was utterly unremarkable: a blue shirt and pin-striped blazer paired with smart, dark denim. It fell to menswear expert Derek Guy to point out that Fide’s hastily updated dress code – permitting jeans with an orphaned suit jacket – now wilfully endorses a fashion crime.
Chess isn’t the only sport struggling to adapt to modern style. Snooker’s trademark formal wear is a look you rarely see these days outside American weddings and Oxbridge student binges. At this month’s Masters tournament, the shirts will be black rather than white, and the bow tie has been dropped. Still, John Higgins said of last year’s tournament it was “just the same old, same old”, and argued that “implementing a different attire can help attract a different clientele to the game”.
There’s more at stake here than fan engagement and riz levels: few sports expect their proponents to compete in anything so restrictive. World Snooker’s dress code is precise and unforgiving. Collared shirts must have “full buttoning down the front” with “single or double cuffs”. Both men and women must wear a tailored waistcoat; only the bottom button may be undone. “Socks must be in-keeping with the style of suit being worn” and “shoes must be clean” – is this a kit list or a military inspection?
Over a decade since the concept of marginal gains took hold, top-end snooker players can honestly argue their kit is hindering their performance. “We’re just stifled in what we can do,” the world No 4, Mark Allen, has said. “I would be pretty confident in saying no one enjoys playing in a bow tie and a waistcoat.” Luca Brecel – the Belgian Bullet – has complained he never feels comfortable: “There’s always something in the way.”
No player has been quite as vocal as the world No 1 and Masters favourite, Judd Trump. “I don’t enjoy the way it looks but it also hampers the way I’m able to play. I don’t feel relaxed enough, I feel a bit uptight. I think my standard goes up when I’m not wearing it in other events.” Trump’s message may be getting through: last year World Snooker partnered with Castore to trial the shiny, high-performance gear seen on Ronnie Sullivan, Mark Selby, Reanne Evans and Rebecca Kenna at the Riyadh Masters and the World Mixed Doubles.
An obsession with looking smart (or “dignified” in Fide’s words) is baked into plenty of sports. Andre Agassi refused to play at Wimbledon for three years because of its insistence on all-white clothing, and players continue to be upbraided for infringements, from Nick Kyrgios in his red trainers to Ons Jabeur in her black training tee.
The All England Club adopted their famous clothing rule in the 1880s, ostensibly because white fabrics hide sweat stains – and any evidence of bodily function was pure anathema to the Victorians. That origin story makes it even more noteworthy that it took nearly a century and a half for tennis administrators to notice that white shorts and skirts might not be ideal for menstruating athletes.
Intransigence around dress codes is one the many lingering legacies of sport’s history of classism, from tailored trousers at the golf course to top hats at Ascot. The only reason today’s snooker players must wear the tuxedo look is because the game was originally played by aristocratic young men after they had dressed for dinner.
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As anyone who loves to see cricket played in whites knows, there’s nothing wrong with fans, commentators, or players wanting to celebrate and maintain tradition. But dress shapes identity, and it’s odd that snooker, one of the truly egalitarian sports, wants to put vestigial and notional class aspiration ahead of the athletes themselves. Equally baffling is the chess authorities’ determination to make their best athletes look dully interchangeable.
Perhaps they might take a look at darts, which has managed the process of “smartening up” for the professional era well, allowing plenty of licence for personality and elan. The PDC dress code is party up top, business below: smart trousers and shoes offsetting the blaze of gloriously colourful and merchandisable shirts, their breathable fabrics well suited to competing in sweaty arenas. But then, darts has never been a sport to take itself too seriously.
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