Endgame_ Bobby Fischer's Remarkable Rise And Fall Part 7

Mikhail Moisevich Botvinnik of Leningrad was fifty-one years old and arguably one of the best chess players who ever lived. Winner three times of the World Champions.h.i.+p, he'd defeated Alexander Alekhine, Jose Capablanca, Max Euwe, and Emanuel Lasker, among other renowned players, and was a living legend. Ironically, despite his much-deserved reputation, he was apprehensive about playing Bobby Fischer for the first time. The Russian had, of course, heard of Bobby's "Game of the Century," his near-perfect performance at Bled, and his astounding win at Stockholm. But there was another factor putting Botvinnik on edge: He considered Bobby an enemy of the Soviet state, owing to the nineteen-year-old's post-Curacao accusations.

What loomed was a mini Cold War-one played across sixty-four squares.

Fischer and Botvinnik had met once-but not to play-at the Leipzig Olympiad in 1960, and when introduced, Bobby shook hands and said succinctly, "Fischer." No other words of greeting were exchanged. Although he spoke pa.s.sable English, Botvinnik was not known for his cordiality.

Botvinnik surmised that someday Bobby might be his or someone else's challenger for the World Champions.h.i.+p-and perhaps even hold the t.i.tle-but even if that did not occur, the whole world would be studying and a.n.a.lyzing his game with Fischer at this Olympiad perhaps for hundreds of years. Thinking of the embarra.s.sment if he lost, Botvinnik suggested to the organizers that the game be played in a private room: At least then he wouldn't have to face spectators and the other players in the hour of his possible defeat. But no such room was available, and anyway the organizers wanted the game to be in public view for the publicity it would generate. Of the thousands of games to be played at this Olympiad, Fischer-Botvinnik promised to be the tournament's one marquee event, and the organizers didn't want chess fans to be robbed of the excitement.

Botvinnik, who wore steel-rimmed gla.s.ses and a gray suit, exhibited a serious, businesslike demeanor. He was b.u.t.toned up, both literally and figuratively, projecting the look of a scientist-which, in addition to being a grandmaster, was exactly what he was. He knew he was a major representative of the Soviet Union, and he chose his words as if his every conversation might end up as a part of a court transcript somewhere. His pupil, Anatoly Karpov, said of him that he had an "Olympian inaccessibility."

Bobby had already played fifteen games over four weeks in the Olympiad by the time he sat down to play Botvinnik, so long before their matchup he'd shaken off any rust. As they met at the board, they shook hands and then slightly banged heads when they went to be seated. "Sorry," said Bobby, uttering the second word he'd ever spoken to Botvinnik, again without a reply.

When the game was adjourned, it appeared that Fischer's position was clearly superior.

Fischer dined alone that night, took a cursory look at the game, was confident he had it won, and went to sleep early. Not so, the Soviets. Mikhail Tal, Boris Spa.s.sky, Paul Keres, Efim Geller, team coach Semyon Furman, and Botvinnik worked on the position until five-thirty the next morning. They also called Moscow and spoke to Yuri Averbach-an endgame authority-and asked for his opinion. It was Geller who suggested that although Fischer was ahead materially, there was a subtle way that the game might be drawn.

The next morning at breakfast, someone approached Botvinnik and asked him what he thought about the position. He answered in Russian with one word: "Nichia." "Nichia." Draw. Draw.

When play resumed, Botvinnik was in s.h.i.+rtsleeves, a look so unusual for him that the other players knew he was worried and prepared for serious work. Bobby, meanwhile, was unaware that he was about to play against the a.n.a.lysis of no less than seven Soviet grandmasters, not just the ingenuity of his opponent. Slowly, he saw what Botvinnik was up to, and his face became ashen. Botvinnik, who rarely rose from the board until the game was over, was so exuberant about having changed the game's momentum that he could not sit still. He stood, walked over to the Soviet team captain, Lev Abramov, and, once again, whispered, "Nichia." "Nichia." Bobby, still remembering the argument he'd had with Abramov in Moscow in 1958-the men hadn't spoken since-immediately complained to the arbiter. "Look," he said. "Botvinnik is getting a.s.sistance!" Bobby, still remembering the argument he'd had with Abramov in Moscow in 1958-the men hadn't spoken since-immediately complained to the arbiter. "Look," he said. "Botvinnik is getting a.s.sistance!"

Abramov, though he was far less skilled than Botvinnik, was nevertheless an international master and might have, at that moment, relayed to Botvinnik information from the other Soviet grandmasters. At least, that's what Bobby was thinking thinking. No official protest was put before the tournament committee, however, because Bobby's own teammates believed he was being extreme and wrongheaded.

Eventually, Bobby could make no headway in this game that he should have won. He looked up at Botvinnik and said the third word he'd ever spoken to him: "Draw." Botvinnik simply offered his hand. Later, he recalled that Bobby, his face pallid, shook hands and left the tournament hall in tears. The United States team wound up finis.h.i.+ng a disappointing fourth, mainly as a result of Bobby's disappointing results. Mysteriously, the nineteen-year-old wrote a letter of apology to Dr. Eliot Hearst, the United States team captain, saying he'd been under great stress that had nothing to do with the Olympiad or chess.

Aboard the New Amsterdam New Amsterdam once again, heading back to New York, Bobby wrote a note to his friend Bernard Zuckerman explaining how he felt about his draw against Botvinnik. The message was cabled to Brooklyn. Bobby felt that he had fallen into a "cheapo"-that he'd been tricked by one of his opponent's ruses and had made an unsound move-and that, prior to Bobby's committing this error, Botvinnik, because of Bobby's superior position, seemed so upset that he looked like he was going to collapse. once again, heading back to New York, Bobby wrote a note to his friend Bernard Zuckerman explaining how he felt about his draw against Botvinnik. The message was cabled to Brooklyn. Bobby felt that he had fallen into a "cheapo"-that he'd been tricked by one of his opponent's ruses and had made an unsound move-and that, prior to Bobby's committing this error, Botvinnik, because of Bobby's superior position, seemed so upset that he looked like he was going to collapse.

In an estimation filled with sour grapes, Bobby also wrote that Botvinnik, the well-respected former World Champion, was never really a great player, never "first among equals" as Botvinnik had once described himself. Instead, Bobby claimed that Botvinnik's superiority lay in the field of politics. He suggested that Botvinnik might have been able to become Premier of the Soviet Union because of his [political] ability "off the chessboard."

Curacao was a watershed for Bobby in his vow to never again play in the World Champions.h.i.+p cycle. The Varna match, with the a.s.sistance of Botvinnik's teammates to eke out a draw, was also a turning point. It would be two years before Bobby accepted an invitation to play in another international tournament. The Russians claimed that his retreat from the world stage was because of his "pathological" fear of the "hand of Moscow." But back in Brooklyn, Bobby said he just no longer wanted to be involved with those "commie cheaters," as he called them.

Then-a little more than a year later, in December 1963-came the 196364 United States Champions.h.i.+p, held in the unpretentious Henry Hudson Hotel in New York. Bobby's opponents fell as if they were tenpins, Bobby scoring a strike-game after game they toppled-with not a hint of a draw. The audience sensed that something unusual was about to happen. It did.

Bobby defeated the powerful champion Arthur Bisguier and the aging Samuel Reshevsky, and speculation surged through the hotel ballroom: Was it possible Bobby could make a clean sweep-pull off a win against every foe, with not even a single draw? The audience increased every round as word of Fischer's incredible run spread throughout the chess community.

Tension, always high in a major tournament, was escalating. Bobby's immaculate timing and apparently infallible play was creating a psychological handicap for players who hadn't yet faced him. He vanquished every player he met. It was December 30, 1963, and Bobby had played all but one game of the champions.h.i.+p without losing or drawing a game. There was only one more to go.

The combatants rested on New Year's Day and returned to the contest on January 2. Bobby's score made him the winner already, but how the tournament would end was not inevitable. His final game was against Anthony Saidy, a friend. In his mid-twenties, six years older than Fischer, Saidy was then a medical doctor with the Peace Corps and had been given a leave to play in the champions.h.i.+p. He'd been playing very well, and this round gave him a chance at second place. He could also be the "spoiler," the person to ruin Fischer's chance for a perfect score in the champions.h.i.+p. If that happened, it would go into the chess history books. And Saidy might, in fact, win win, especially since he had the advantage of the white pieces.

By now there were hundreds of spectators at the hotel, tensely watching the big demonstration board. Most of them were clearly, but very quietly, rooting for Bobby, in part because his win that day would give him a clean sweep. But as the game grew longer, a win seemed very unlikely. Saidy's position was powerful, and Bobby's was precarious. The two-and-a-half-hour time limit ended, and there was no winner as yet. It was Saidy's turn to move. The young doctor thought for about forty minutes, wrote down his intended move on his score sheet, sealed it in an envelope according to the rules, and handed it to the tournament director. The game was then adjourned until the next day. Everyone left the hotel ballroom a.s.suming that when the game resumed it would be a draw, at best. It was not. It took Saidy about thirty minutes to realize that he'd sealed a blunder. The next day when the envelope was opened by the director, and the move made on the board, Bobby realized immediately that Saidy hadn't chosen wisely. He looked up at Saidy and a slight smile appeared on his face. Saidy's blunder gave Fischer an opportunity to develop a winning endgame, and half an hour after the adjourned game was resumed, Saidy was forced to resign.

The incredible final score was picked up by the wire services and sent by radio, newspapers, and television throughout the world: eleven champions.h.i.+p games, eleven wins. At this level of compet.i.tion, such a streak wasn't suppose to happen, no matter how adept a given player might be. Fischer's first prize for his two weeks of intensity and brilliance was just $2,000.

The non-chess media gave the tournament far more attention than usual, though they'd never been sure whether chess was a sport or an art. Life Life and the and the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post Sat.u.r.day Evening Post arranged to interview Bobby. arranged to interview Bobby. Sports Ill.u.s.trated Sports Ill.u.s.trated headlined its story headlined its story THE AMAZING VICTORY STREAK OF BOBBY FISCHER THE AMAZING VICTORY STREAK OF BOBBY FISCHER. Chess publications around the world wrote of the unparalleled achievement. Only Bent La.r.s.en, always a Fischer detractor, was unimpressed: "Fischer was playing against children," he said.

Reshevsky a child? Robert Byrne? Larry Evans? Pal Benko?

On March 9, 1964, Bobby Fischer was twenty-one. His birthday gave him something in common with many young American males during that time of military escalation: partic.i.p.ation in the military draft. President John F. Kennedy had been a.s.sa.s.sinated the previous November, and his successor, Lyndon Baines Johnson, had escalated the war in Vietnam. To be drafted at that time meant a strong likelihood of serving in Southeast Asia.

As a "1-A" candidate, Bobby was scheduled to take his physical examination at the U.S. Army Recruiting Station on Whitehall Street in New York City. If selected, he'd spend the next two years in the army. Fischer was patriotic at that time, but his focus was chess, and the chess community was counting on him to play in the Interzonal at Amsterdam. True, he'd said that he would never play in the FIDE cycle again because it was stacked in favor of the Soviets. But might he somehow get back on the road to the champions.h.i.+p? The world wanted it, and in his heart Bobby wanted it-but he said he wouldn't change his mind. Nevertheless, several people began researching whether there might be a way to get Fischer a deferment until after the Interzonal was completed...just in case he played in it.

On Bobby's behalf, an official of the United States Chess Federation contacted General George B. Hershey, head of the Selective Service bureau. Hershey explained that "a temporary temporary deferment, on almost any grounds, is usually an easy matter to secure from a local board, but eventually Fischer will probably be drafted." deferment, on almost any grounds, is usually an easy matter to secure from a local board, but eventually Fischer will probably be drafted."

A somewhat longer deferment was available, and totally legal, for college students. Bobby had dropped out of high school, but the New School for Social Research, a progressive college in New York City, was willing to accept his extraordinary chess accomplishments in lieu of traditional schoolwork. Alfred Landa, then a.s.sistant to the president, said that Fischer would not only be allowed to matriculate into the college, but be given a full scholars.h.i.+p. Bobby thought long and hard about the offer. One afternoon he started to walk to the New School to put in his application-and then stopped. His experience with schools had been distasteful, and perhaps that caused forebodings. Without giving an explanation, he refused to enter the school building, and he refused to apply for a student deferment.

He was rescheduled to take his physical examination and went to the recruiting station by himself. Afterward, it was announced that Bobby had been rejected-for reasons that have never been made public. Bobby Fischer was cla.s.sified 4F-the military rating that meant you had one or more medical conditions that totally disqualified you from serving in uniform. He seemed seemed and appeared fine, physically. and appeared fine, physically.

Whatever the reason, Bobby Fischer never served in the military.

Bobby sat confined in a small wood-paneled room at the Marshall Chess Club, with only the chessboard and a referee. There was no player facing him. After deciding on his move, he wrote it down on his score sheet, which was then carried by the referee to a "runner," who brought it quickly to a nearby room where a Teletype machine had been set up. Bobby then waited, still alone, as the move was transmitted to Havana, Cuba, where his opponent sat facing his own chessboard. When the opponent made his answering move, it was transmitted by wire from Havana back to the Marshall, the Teletype operator turned the reply over to the runner, and the move was carried back to the silent room where Bobby tensely awaited it.

It was 1965 and Bobby had accepted an invitation to play in the Capablanca Memorial Tournament in Havana. It was exactly the type of tournament he'd been seeking for his return to international compet.i.tion. There would be thirteen grandmasters and eight international masters, not quite as strong a field as at Bobby's last international tournament, but incredibly powerful. The $3,000 appearance fee sealed it for him. Bobby was back.

But not quite. Diplomatic relations between the United States and Cuba were still severely strained. The State Department had begun to permit journalists access to Cuba, although it denied entry to ordinary citizens. Fischer had applied for a visa, since he was a regular contributor to Chess Life Chess Life and had made special arrangements to do an article on this tournament for the and had made special arrangements to do an article on this tournament for the Sat.u.r.day Review Sat.u.r.day Review, which sent a letter to the United States Department of State-as did the U.S. Chess Federation-confirming the legitimacy of his trip and pet.i.tioning permission for him to go to Cuba. There's no question that his primary motivation in wanting to go was to play in the tournament, but he also intended to write about it. Nonetheless, the State Department flatly refused to recognize him as a legitimate columnist, and therefore denied him the opportunity to travel to Havana.

What no one knew was that the FBI was investigating Bobby, and had been for years. Their interest in him may have been triggered by their belief that his mother was a Communist, in part because she'd spent six years in Moscow attending medical school; they'd been investigating Regina since Bobby was a child. When Bobby went to Moscow in 1958, when he was fifteen, the FBI presumed that Regina had sent him there to be indoctrinated.

The Bureau obviously had trouble believing that someone would travel so much simply for the purpose of playing chess, especially to countries that were restricted for political reasons. A notice in Bobby's FBI file states that his pa.s.sport was "not valid for travel to Albania, Cuba, and those portions of China, Korea and Vietnam under communist control," and it contains a 1965 memorandum from the Office of the Coordinator of Cuban Affairs which advises that "Cuban travel criteria make no provision for validation for the purpose of partic.i.p.ating in chess compet.i.tions."

FBI target or not, Bobby was primed to play in the tournament, and he wouldn't be denied. Helping him out were officials in the United States Chess Federation who came up with a highly unorthodox idea: Bobby would stay in New York and play the tournament from a room in the Marshall Chess Club. There were no cell phones in 1965, and there was certainly no Internet. But Fischer could play the tournament by Teletype. Cuban chess officials were delighted, offering to pay some $10,000 in expenses for the open telephone line and Teletype machine that were required. As for the other partic.i.p.ants in the tournament, they agreed, some reluctantly, to the novel arrangement. Che Guevara, a strong chess player, was the princ.i.p.al force behind organizing the tournament.

Then Fidel Castro intervened, calling the situation a "great propaganda victory for Cuba." It made headlines. Furious, Bobby cabled Castro, threatening to withdraw from the tournament unless the premier promised to stop using him as a political ploy. Bobby continued: I WOULD ONLY BE ABLE TO TAKE PART IN THE TOURNAMENT IN THE EVENT THAT YOU IMMEDIATELY SENT ME A TELEGRAM DECLARING THAT NEITHER YOU, NOR YOUR GOVERNMENT WILL ATTEMPT TO MAKE POLITICAL CAPITAL OUT OF MY PARTIc.i.p.aTION IN THE TOURNEY, AND THAT IN THE FUTURE NO POLITICAL COMMENTARIES ON THIS SCORE WILL BE MADE.BOBBY FISCHER.

Castro cabled back, denying making the statement and questioning Bobby's courage: OUR LAND NEEDS NO SUCH "PROPAGANDA VICTORIES." IT IS YOUR PERSONAL AFFAIR WHETHER YOU WILL TAKE PART IN THE TOURNAMENT OR NOT. HENCE YOUR WORDS ARE UNJUST. IF YOU ARE FRIGHTENED AND REPENT YOUR PREVIOUS DECISION, THEN IT WOULD BE BETTER TO FIND ANOTHER EXCUSE OR TO HAVE THE COURAGE TO REMAIN HONEST.FIDEL CASTRO Upon receiving word from Castro, Bobby confirmed his partic.i.p.ation in the tournament without any further sparring. He wanted to play the game of chess, not be a party to sensationalism.

The arrangement was certainly awkward for Bobby, however. To avoid any hint of cheating, he had to be isolated from everyone except the referee. It was a sterile, feedback-barren experience with no chance to read his opponent's body language. As Bobby sat with the referee, not a word was spoken; the afternoons crept slowly into summer twilight. Occasionally, while waiting for his opponent's move to come back from Havana, Bobby would gaze out into the club's garden. A bust of Philidor, the eighteenth-century French chess player and composer who was considered the best player of his day, was perched atop an etagere of chess sets, almost as if he were at the game. The tick of the chess clock was the only sound heard.

A typical four-hour game was transformed by the Teletype process into an eight- or nine-hour affair. Some games stretched to twelve hours. The tournament became a test of endurance and stamina. Bobby grew exhausted. His opponents had the same problem, but each only had to submit to the process once-when playing Fischer. Bobby had to play this strange, isolated form of chess every single game. In the midst of the tournament, someone asked how well he thought he'd do and he answered, "It's a question of when I'll crack up."

Bobby won his first two games but as the tournament wore on he lost to some players and drew with several others well below his caliber. While he exhibited flashes of brilliance, this wasn't the same Bobby Fischer who'd swept through the United States Champions.h.i.+p eighteen months earlier. Still, he tied for second, a half point behind Russia's Vasily Smyslov, the former World Champion.

Had Fischer not done as well as he did, his story might have ended right there, surrealistically, in the quiet back room of a chess club. Havana was his comeback in the world spotlight, and a poor showing would only have deepened Bobby's disillusionment with himself, probably permanently. Two setbacks in international tournaments would have been intolerable to him. True, for Bobby there was only one place in a tournament and that was first. But after the long international layoff, and playing every game under grueling conditions, he likely considered his second-place showing somewhat acceptable.

Openly, Bobby disparaged how he'd performed, but the Soviet chess establishment was dazzled by how he managed to place so high under such arduous conditions. They were convinced that he was continuing to grow as a player, and that unless something were done quickly, he'd smash the Soviets' hegemony.

Worry about Fischer led the All-Union Scientific Research Inst.i.tute of Sports, which studied the psychology of sports, to appoint a Soviet grandmaster and theoretician, Vladimir Alatortsev, to create a secret laboratory (located near the Moscow Central Chess Club). Its mission was to a.n.a.lyze Fischer's games. Alatortsev and a small group of other masters and psychologists worked tirelessly for ten years attempting to "solve" the mystery of Fischer's prowess, in addition to a.n.a.lyzing his personality and behavior. They rigorously studied his opening, middle game, and endings-and filtered cla.s.sified a.n.a.lyses of their findings to the top Soviet players.

Though he didn't realize it, if Fischer hadn't accepted the invitation to the 1966 Piatigorsky Cup in Santa Monica, California, there wouldn't have been such a tournament at all. "We must must get Bobby Fischer," Gregor Piatigorsky told his wife. A few years prior, Mrs. Piatigorsky had been criticized in some quarters for not acceding to Fischer's demands for the 1963 tournament, which had led to his not playing. Her solution this time was to pay everyone the same amount-$2,000-therefore saving face and securing the greatest American player. get Bobby Fischer," Gregor Piatigorsky told his wife. A few years prior, Mrs. Piatigorsky had been criticized in some quarters for not acceding to Fischer's demands for the 1963 tournament, which had led to his not playing. Her solution this time was to pay everyone the same amount-$2,000-therefore saving face and securing the greatest American player.

The story of how Fischer went into a swoon in the tournament's first half, tying for last, yet ended up in the penultimate round tying for first with Spa.s.sky, has been told many times. At the beginning of the compet.i.tion, Fischer looked Abraham Lincolnthin; his cheeks were hollow, and he had deep, dark circles under his eyes, all indicating that he might be ill.

As Fischer's losses and draws mounted, it became clear that he was having the most disastrous tournament of his adult career, perhaps even worse than his Buenos Aires debacle. Bobby was at an existential precipice. He somehow had to find a better method of play, a better understanding of what he was doing wrong; he had to find lessons in his failures, or else his chess career would be, if not over, forever tarnished. Skirting or briefly inhabiting the bottom of the scoreboard does not make one a failure, but remaining there, refusing to fight, does.

Fortunately, drawing deep from his inner reserves, Bobby did did climb. His ability and character enabled him to emerge from the depths. He came back in the second half of the tournament and ended just a half point below Spa.s.sky. His reaction was a study in ambivalence. He was overjoyed that he'd pulled himself out of the abyss in which he'd found himself in the tournament's first half, but devastated that he hadn't won first prize. climb. His ability and character enabled him to emerge from the depths. He came back in the second half of the tournament and ended just a half point below Spa.s.sky. His reaction was a study in ambivalence. He was overjoyed that he'd pulled himself out of the abyss in which he'd found himself in the tournament's first half, but devastated that he hadn't won first prize.

At the closing ceremony, Mr. and Mrs. Piatigorsky posed for a photograph with Spa.s.sky on one side and Fischer on the other. Fischer, with a weak smile, looked somewhat embarra.s.sed, as if to say, "I really should have won this tournament, and I can't blame the Russians this time. It was me...all alone."

As the players left the Miramar Hotel to go home to their respective countries or states, Bobby simply refused to check out. Other players have been known to do the same thing. It's like an actor remaining in character and refusing to leave his dressing room, or a writer refusing to leave his garret after finis.h.i.+ng a book. The challenge is tearing oneself away from a venue that has been one's creative home for so many hours, days, weeks, or months.

Three weeks after everyone else had left, Bobby was still at the Miramar, just steps from the ocean, surrounded by gardens and palm trees, breathing in the pungent smell of eucalyptus. He swam and walked, and then often spent the rest of the day-and a good portion of the night-playing over all the games of the tournament, torturing himself over the mistakes he'd made. Someone finally pointed out to him that the Piatigorskys would no longer continue to pick up his hotel costs, so, reluctantly, he flew back home to Brooklyn.

9.

The Candidate

DURING THE 1960 1960S, Bobby Fischer continued his often brilliant and sometimes self-sabotaging career: He won the Monte Carlo International and ungallantly refused to pose for a photograph with His Royal Highness Prince Rainier, the tournament's sponsor, and at a public ceremony when Princess Grace awarded him his cash prize, he rudely tore open the envelope and counted the money first before he thanked her; he led the American Olympiad team to Cuba, where he won the silver medal for his play on top board, and was more cordial to Fidel Castro, whom he presented with an autographed copy of his book Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess; and he summarily dropped out of the 1967 Interzonal in Tunisia-even though he was leading and was almost a.s.sured of first place-because of the refusal of the organizers to agree to his scheduling demands. When tracked down by a journalist at his hotel in Tunisia, he wouldn't open the door: "Leave me in peace!" he yelled, "I have nothing to say." He realized that by not partic.i.p.ating in the tournament he was allowing yet another chance for the World Champions.h.i.+p to slip from his grasp, but he was resolved no matter what the consequences: He He, not the organizers, would decide when he'd play and when he wouldn't.

Fischer's most significant accomplishment of 1969 was actually publis.h.i.+ng-related. His long-promised games collection, My 60 Memorable Games My 60 Memorable Games, was published by Simon & Schuster, and it made an immediate and indelible impression on the chess public. Ten years previously, Bobby's slender volume Bobby Fischer's Games of Chess Bobby Fischer's Games of Chess was seen as a revealing glimpse into the teenager's mind, but it was criticized for its spa.r.s.e annotations. In this new book, his first-and, ultimately, only-serious work as an adult, Fischer was anything but spa.r.s.e. In fact, what he produced was one of the most painstakingly precise and delightful chess books ever written, rivaling the works of Tarrasch, Alekhine, and Reti. Fischer, like his predecessor Morphy, the nineteenth-century American prodigy, wasn't especially prolific when it came to writing about chess, so the public greedily awaited each word he produced. In the 1969 book, he omitted his 1956 "Game of the Century" with Donald Byrne, instead including nine of his draws and three of his losses-a humble gesture unheard of in the annals of grandmaster literature. Fischer actually devoted fourteen pages of exhaustive a.n.a.lysis to his draw against Botvinnik at Varna. was seen as a revealing glimpse into the teenager's mind, but it was criticized for its spa.r.s.e annotations. In this new book, his first-and, ultimately, only-serious work as an adult, Fischer was anything but spa.r.s.e. In fact, what he produced was one of the most painstakingly precise and delightful chess books ever written, rivaling the works of Tarrasch, Alekhine, and Reti. Fischer, like his predecessor Morphy, the nineteenth-century American prodigy, wasn't especially prolific when it came to writing about chess, so the public greedily awaited each word he produced. In the 1969 book, he omitted his 1956 "Game of the Century" with Donald Byrne, instead including nine of his draws and three of his losses-a humble gesture unheard of in the annals of grandmaster literature. Fischer actually devoted fourteen pages of exhaustive a.n.a.lysis to his draw against Botvinnik at Varna.

Bobby was at first going to t.i.tle his book My Life in Chess My Life in Chess, but he changed his mind, possibly deciding to reserve that t.i.tle for his future autobiography. His original plan for the volume was to include only fifty-two games, but as he continued to make corrections and also to play in more events, he eventually added eight more games. It took more than three years to complete.

Simon & Schuster was in a constant state of anxiety over the book since the changes over the years seemed almost endless, and at one point Fischer deleted all all of the annotations, returning the book to the publisher and requesting a release from his contract. He may not have wanted to reveal all of his ideas to his compet.i.tors. The company reached a financial accommodation with him and publis.h.i.+ng plans were dropped. Two years later, however, he changed his mind. Larry Evans, who wrote the introductions to the games, suggested that Bobby's decision to go ahead was a pragmatic one: "He was feeling depressed about the world and thought there was an excellent chance that there would be a nuclear holocaust soon. He felt he should enjoy whatever money he could get before it was too late." of the annotations, returning the book to the publisher and requesting a release from his contract. He may not have wanted to reveal all of his ideas to his compet.i.tors. The company reached a financial accommodation with him and publis.h.i.+ng plans were dropped. Two years later, however, he changed his mind. Larry Evans, who wrote the introductions to the games, suggested that Bobby's decision to go ahead was a pragmatic one: "He was feeling depressed about the world and thought there was an excellent chance that there would be a nuclear holocaust soon. He felt he should enjoy whatever money he could get before it was too late."

My 60 Memorable Games was an immediate success. If Fischer had never played another game of chess, his reputation, certainly as an a.n.a.lyst, would have been preserved through its publication. was an immediate success. If Fischer had never played another game of chess, his reputation, certainly as an a.n.a.lyst, would have been preserved through its publication.

Bobby withdrew from playing compet.i.tive chess in late 1968, and with the exception of one widely praised game played as part of the New York Metropolitan League in 1969, he took an eighteen-month hiatus, to the consternation and curiosity of the chess world. He wouldn't explain his reasons, later telling one interviewer that he'd refused to play because of undefined "hang-ups." To another, he was quoted as saying that he avoided compet.i.tion "to plot my revenge. I wanted to come back and put all those people in their place," but the venue, prize fund, and roster of compet.i.tors all had to be right. And so he refused offer after offer, opportunity after opportunity.

Then, unpredictably, he made an exception: He'd play in the "USSR vs. the Rest of the World" match. On March 26, 1970, Bobby flew to Belgrade and lunched at the Hotel Metropol with chess columnist George Koltanowski and Larry Evans, who was reporting on the match instead of playing in it and would act as Fischer's second. Optimistic and uncharacteristically friendly, Bobby autographed cards for most of the hotel waiters. When a female chess columnist asked him for an interview after lunch, he agreed; she shrieked joyfully, hugged Bobby, and kissed him on the cheek. Bobby accepted it fairly calmly, then Evans remarked: "This is not surprising, but if you see Bobby kiss the girl, then then you have a news item!" Even Bobby laughed. Afterward, Bobby went to inspect the lighting and playing conditions at the theater inside the Dom Sindikata, on Marx-Engels Square. Often used for trade union meetings, the huge domed theater had been modified for the match. It met with Bobby's approval. you have a news item!" Even Bobby laughed. Afterward, Bobby went to inspect the lighting and playing conditions at the theater inside the Dom Sindikata, on Marx-Engels Square. Often used for trade union meetings, the huge domed theater had been modified for the match. It met with Bobby's approval.

Bobby walked into the enormous theater, ready to play his first game, and looked up. Hanging on the wall was his photograph, three stories high. Looking around, he saw equally huge pictures of the twenty competing grandmasters. There was the brooding Mikhail Tal, he of the disconcerting stare; Bent La.r.s.en, his blond hair brushed straight back; Mikhail Botvinnik, who looked like a conservative businessman; the Czechoslovakian Vlastimil Hort, just a few months younger than Fischer; Bobby's friend Svetozar Gligoric, the handsome, mustached Serbian whose personality made him one of the most popular players; and the swarthy Tigran Petrosian, whom Bobby was about to play.

Bobby initiated an unexpected variation in response to Petrosian's opening. He revealed later that he'd manipulated the Russian into a variation that Fischer had studied years before, and for which he had originated a favorable response. The two dueled for the first half of the game, but Bobby clearly had the advantage after that and he won on the thirty-ninth move. After all the first-round games were over, a jury chose Fischer to receive the best-game award. The audience applauded for three minutes, despite attempts by the ushers to keep them quiet. Bobby had triggered similar reactions at other tournaments and matches; fans often wrote him admiring letters. He'd even received some marriage proposals. Commenting on his win afterward, Bobby said: "I could have played better."

For the third round, excitement in Belgrade was so great that fans filled the large hall to capacity in less than half an hour. Black market vendors left their normal posts in front of theaters and cinemas, and stationed themselves in front of the Dom Sindikata to peddle entrance tickets to the match, which were in great demand. President Ribicic of Yugoslavia, who'd attended the first two rounds, came back to see the third.

Fischer drew the game, then relaxed and looked at the rest of the games. Samuel Reshevsky's game vs. Vasily Smyslov had been adjourned. Back at the Metropol Hotel, Bobby sat down with Reshevsky to a.n.a.lyze the position and consider possible strategies the older grandmaster might play when the game resumed. After ten years of bitterness and compet.i.tion, this was the first time Fischer had had a friendly interchange with his American rival. (The next day, Reshevsky won his game.) In Bobby's fourth and final game he managed to hold on to a draw.

The Soviet Union won by one point over the Rest of the World: 2019, and the Russians were shaken by their near defeat. "It's a catastrophe," said one team member. "At home they don't understand. They think it means there's something wrong with our culture." On the top four boards, the Soviets managed to win only one game out of a possible sixteen. Bobby Fischer was the high scorer for his team, with a 31 score against Petrosian (two wins and two draws). As the winner of the second board he also won a Russian car, the Moskvich.

He wanted to win win the car, not to the car, not to keep keep the car. Once he had it, he chose to sell it immediately. He said: "Last year in the United States, we had 56,000 deaths as a result of car accidents, and I decided I'd rather use buses." the car. Once he had it, he chose to sell it immediately. He said: "Last year in the United States, we had 56,000 deaths as a result of car accidents, and I decided I'd rather use buses."

All of the players gathered together after the match to pose for the official photographs. As was typical, Bobby was not there. Argentina's Miguel Najdorf, who knew Bobby fairly well, said: "He prefers to enter chess history alone."

If Bobby Fischer was ever going to become the World Chess Champion, he would first need to finish near the top at an Interzonal, and he did this quite easily at Palma de Majorca in 1970. After eleven rounds, nearing the tournament's midpoint, Fischer was in second place, one-half point behind the leader, Efim Geller of the USSR. Fischer and Geller were to meet in the twelfth round in a pivotal matchup.

Geller had not yet lost a game in the tournament. Perhaps more important, he'd beaten Fischer in their last three meetings and had more wins against Fischer than any living player. Here was a definite challenge for Bobby, and he attempted to stay focused and confident by carefully studying Geller's other games in the tournament. Geller, who talked like a sailor and who had the look and build of a wrestler, arrived with his tie loosened, and wearing rumpled clothing.

Within the first few minutes of the game, Geller insulted Bobby by offering him a draw after his seventh move. Fischer sat back and initially laughed, and Geller chimed in. Bobby then responded with a statement that no one but Geller heard clearly. A bystander reported that Fischer had said, "Too early," but Geller's face turned red, suggesting that Fischer's reply had been more caustic. Speculation was that Fischer's response had been along the lines that early draws were solely the property of the Soviet state. When the official book of the tournament was published, the editors wrote of Geller's seventh-move affront: "But why would Geller expect Fischer to take a quick draw? Fischer's entire record as a player shows his abhorrence of quick draws and his wish at every reasonable (and sometimes unreasonable) occasion to play until there is absolutely no chance of winning. No draws in under 40 moves is an essential part of his philosophy."

In subsequent moves Geller blundered badly, and Fischer won the game, beating a man who'd become a personal nemesis.

Bobby seemed to have come of age at Palma. Despite besting twenty-three of the world's most eminent chess players, though, he remained relatively unimpressed with his performance: "I am satisfied with the result, but not with my play." When reminded of his disastrous performance at the 1962 Candidates, he said: "Maybe this was a good thing. I didn't have the maturity to handle it then." He certainly had it at Palma.

Bobby's success at Palma had brought him to the next level in his quest for the world t.i.tle. After he'd failed to win the Candidates tournaments in Yugoslavia in 1959 and in Curacao in 1962, he'd protested that he was gang raped by the Soviets who, with their short premeditated draws stole the champions.h.i.+p from him. Now FIDE had finally acceded to Fischer's repeated urgings and changed its system of choosing an opponent to vie for the World Champions.h.i.+p. The federation eliminated the Candidates tournament tournament, an event that had multiple players competing against one another, which Fischer charged led to the opportunity for collusion among the Soviets. In its stead, FIDE inst.i.tuted Candidates matches matches. Fischer would now play games against each of the three contenders: two Soviets-Mark Taimanov and Tigran Petrosian-and the Dane Bent La.r.s.en.

a.n.a.lysts and players alike predicted that Fischer would win the Candidates, but not without a struggle. Even the Soviets were concerned. Tal predicted that Fischer would win 54 against Taimanov. Fischer himself seemed uncharacteristically self-doubting. Although he'd played seventy-four tournament games in the past nine months, with straight wins in his last seven games at Palma, he felt he was not in the best shape, and that he needed to play in more tournaments. Candidates matches require thorough preparations. Taking nothing for granted was one of the keys to Fischer's success. As usual, he prepared arduously for his encounter with each opponent in the series of tension-filled matches that would eventually spread over six tiring months.

Mark Taimanov was his first opponent, a powerful compet.i.tor who, at forty-five, was playing some of the best chess of his life, and who'd played exceedingly well at Palma. Fischer was twenty-eight and in excellent physical shape. Their match was to begin in May 1971 in Vancouver, Canada, on the beautiful campus of the University of British Columbia.

Taimanov arrived with a full Russian entourage: a second, an a.s.sistant, and a match manager, but even with all the help, he was, nevertheless, helpless. Bobby defeated him in six straight games, the first shutout of a grandmaster in chess history.

The crus.h.i.+ng loss virtually ended Taimanov's chess career. The Soviet government considered it a national embarra.s.sment and punished him for not drawing at least one game. Officials canceled his salary and forbade him to travel overseas. At the conclusion of the match, Taimanov had sadly told Fischer: "Well, I still have my music."

Bobby's match against Bent La.r.s.en began in Denver on July 6 at four p.m., in the midst of an uncomfortable one-hundred-degree heat wave. Fischer was as dominant against La.r.s.en as he'd been against Taimanov: He annihilated the Dane, shutting him out and winning every game.

It was nine p.m. on July 20, 1971, and Bobby Fischer had achieved what no one else had ever accomplished in chess: winning two grandmaster matches without drawing or losing a single game. He'd now won an unprecedented nineteen straight games against the strongest players in the world.

Fischer-doubters, especially the Soviets, had suggested that his total destruction of Taimanov was an aberration. His equally absolute defeat of the younger, highly respected La.r.s.en proved that Fischer was in a cla.s.s by himself. Robert Byrne, watching the match in astonishment, said he couldn't explain how Bobby, how anyone, could win six games in a row from such a genius of the game as Bent La.r.s.en.

The Soviets were relieved at first, since La.r.s.en's loss lessened Taimanov's stigma. Television and radio networks throughout the Soviet Union interrupted regular broadcasts to announce the result. Millions of Soviets were avidly following the progress of the match, fascinated by Fischer's mastery. Sovietsky Sport Sovietsky Sport declared, "A miracle has occurred." declared, "A miracle has occurred."

Fischer arrived in Buenos Aires a few days before the start of the first round against Petrosian. This time he was not alone. Larry Evans came along as Bobby's second, and the ever-present Edmund B. Edmondson of the U.S. Chess Federation was there as Bobby's manager-representative. Petrosian had an entourage too: his manager, two seconds, his wife Rona, and two two bodyguards. bodyguards.

Argentina treated the match as though it were an event of global significance. The president, Lieutenant General Alejandro La.n.u.sse, received the two players, official photographs were taken, and La.n.u.sse presented each with a beautiful marble board and a set of onyx chessmen. A single chess table was placed in the center of the vast stage in the Teatro General San Martin. Behind it hung a blue-and-gold circle, some fifteen feet in diameter, bearing the emblem of FIDE, its motto Gens Una Sumus Gens Una Sumus ("We Are One People"), and the name of the Argentine chess federation. Slightly off center stood a demonstration board, about five feet by five feet, on which a man duplicated each move as the contestants manevered their pieces on the central chessboard, so that the audience of twelve hundred attentive people could follow the game. If they made a sound, red signs flashed ("We Are One People"), and the name of the Argentine chess federation. Slightly off center stood a demonstration board, about five feet by five feet, on which a man duplicated each move as the contestants manevered their pieces on the central chessboard, so that the audience of twelve hundred attentive people could follow the game. If they made a sound, red signs flashed SILENCIO SILENCIO.

Reporters asked Petrosian whether the match would last the full twelve games, the maximum that would be required if every game were drawn, with no wins or losses. "It might be possible that I win it earlier," Petrosian replied, and confidently went on to explain that he wasn't impressed with Fischer.

Bobby's prediction was calm and direct, and reveals his belief in himself and his abilities. "I am the best player in the world, and I am here to prove it. I have waited ten years for this moment, but I was hindered by Russian maneuvers. I shall depart from Buenos Aires before the twelfth game is scheduled."

Both players surprised everyone, and probably each other, by virtually reversing their normal playing behavior during the first game. Petrosian's style was closed and defensive, like a motionless but watchful snake, ready to strike the moment his opponent made the slightest mistake. Bobby's style was one of relentless aggression-usually. Experts expected that Petrosian would follow his conservative style and try to achieve a draw, to break Fischer's winning streak. Instead, he was startlingly aggressive, forcing Bobby into the defensive position he hated. Petrosian introduced an innovative move not normally used, and probably provided by Soviet theorists working behind the scenes. He was clearly forcing a draw when the lights went out. Literally. The theater was plunged into darkness. Alarmed, Fischer asked, "What happened? What happened?" The players were told that a fuse had blown and would take a few minutes to replace. Petrosian left the board; Fischer and the audience of twelve hundred continued to sit in darkened silence. Eventually, Petrosian complained that Fischer was still studying the board-in total darkness-and that therefore his clock should be started. Fischer agreed, and Lothar Schmid, the German referee, who was himself a grandmaster, started the clock. For eleven minutes, Fischer continued to visualize the position in his head, evaluating it without seeing it. Then the lights came back on.

The interruption seemed to have hurt Petrosian's concentration, because he made some mistakes and resigned on the fortieth move. It was Bobby Fischer's twentieth straight win. The army of a.s.sembled reporters and photographers flocked around both players as they left the stage, but both hurried out of the theater, declining to give any statements.

Bobby was obviously sick with a bad head cold during the second round. Once again, the players seemed to switch personalities as they played, with Petrosian as the aggressor. Not able to focus clearly on the game, Bobby realized that he wouldn't be able to play well enough: He offered a handshake and his resignation. The crowd went wild. Petrosian's wife rushed to her husband to embrace him. Some members of the audience began to chant "Tigran un tigre! Tigran un tigre!" "Tigran un tigre! Tigran un tigre!" and the victory cheer spread to the outer lobby and street. Some players rushed onto the stage and tried to lift the joyful Petrosian to their shoulders, but they were stopped by officials. He didn't care: He'd just accomplished what the finest players in the world had been unable to do on twenty occasions during the previous nine months. He'd won a game from Bobby Fischer. and the victory cheer spread to the outer lobby and street. Some players rushed onto the stage and tried to lift the joyful Petrosian to their shoulders, but they were stopped by officials. He didn't care: He'd just accomplished what the finest players in the world had been unable to do on twenty occasions during the previous nine months. He'd won a game from Bobby Fischer.

Fischer screamed at Edmundson that he had been seeing too many people, and for the next ten days as he and Petrosian battled, Bobby agreed to see only the young Argentine player Miguel Quinteros.

Now supremely confident of his chances of winning both the eighth and the ninth games, which would give him the match, Bobby rather formally declared that he would dethrone Spa.s.sky. When the eighth round finally began, the lights went out again, but this time only for eight minutes. It had no effect on the results. Both players used attacking moves, but Petrosian resigned, giving Fischer his fourth victory of the match. Gone was the speculation that Bobby Fischer had played his best chess too soon. Rather, it seemed obvious that he couldn't be stopped.