Endgame_ Bobby Fischer's Remarkable Rise And Fall Part 8

At the start of the ninth game, more than ten thousand fans packed the playing hall, the lobby, and the surrounding streets. Even in Russia, chess crowds this enormous had never been seen. Petrosian resigned on the forty-sixth move, and Bobby Fischer was the new challenger for the World Championship. Against a former World Champion who was known to be one of the most difficult to defeat, Bobby had won five games, drawn three, and lost one, for a total score of 62.

Fischer would now be the first non-Soviet or non-Russian in more than three decades to play for the t.i.tle against the reigning World Champion. For years Soviet grandmasters had competed only against one another, ensuring that the championship would remain in the hands of the Soviet Union. For his labors, Bobby was awarded a $7,500 prize plus an honorarium of $3,000 from the U.S. Chess Federation. More significant, he ignited a phenomenon in the United States not seen before: Almost overnight, a chess boom arose. Sales of chess sets shot up over 20 percent. Virtually every major magazine and newspaper in the country ran a story about Fischer, often with pictures of him and a diagram of his final position against Petrosian. The New York Daily News New York Daily News reprinted the score of every game, and reprinted the score of every game, and The New York Times The New York Times ran an article on the cover of its Sunday Magazine section, and then a news story on its front page the following day. The last time chess had made the ran an article on the cover of its Sunday Magazine section, and then a news story on its front page the following day. The last time chess had made the Times Times front page was in 1954, when the Soviet team visited the United States and Carmine Nigro had brought the eleven-year-old Bobby to witness the international match. front page was in 1954, when the Soviet team visited the United States and Carmine Nigro had brought the eleven-year-old Bobby to witness the international match.

Bobby Fischer had become a national hero. After returning home, he appeared on television constantly and his face became so familiar that people on the streets of New York City asked him for his autograph. But he became more than a household name, more than the equivalent of a pop star. He was the American who had a fighting chance of defeating a Soviet champion. The Cold War-or at least a version of it-was about to be decided not on a battlefield or in a diplomatic meeting, but in a contest of intellect and will involving thirty-two enigmatic pieces.

10.

The Champion

TO KEEP B BOBBY F FISCHER HAPPY, the American Chess Foundation provided him with a room at the Henry Hudson Hotel in early 1972. As Fischer goes, so goes the chess nation As Fischer goes, so goes the chess nation, organizers believed. Also, since he was preparing to play Boris Spa.s.sky for the World Championship, his lawyers and U.S. Chess Federation officials needed to know where he was at all times. Questions arose almost daily about such details as the prize money, the schedule, and the venue. Decisions had to be made.

Up to that point, much of Bobby's life had been nomadic because he spent so much time traveling from one compet.i.tion to another. Whenever he returned to Brooklyn to prepare for the next tournament or match, he tended to sequester himself in his apartment. He'd often disconnect the telephone and render himself incommunicado-sometimes for weeks. This modus operandi wouldn't have been workable as officials scurried to arrange a host of details for the World Championship match. So the Henry Hudson Hotel made sense, and it had the right atmospherics. It was where Bobby had won several United States Championships, and should he grow lonely in his room or want to play or talk chess, all he need do was take the elevator down a few floors and enter the Manhattan Chess Club. As its most eminent member, he was always given the red carpet treatment whenever he entered.

So it was that one night, shortly after taking up residence at the hotel, Bobby found himself stretched out on his bed, his heels locked over the edge, unself-consciously talking with two of his closest friends. The 1970s were the years of Nixon's visit to China, the advent of Transcendental Meditation, cigarette advertising being banned from the airwaves, and fast-food chains multiplying. But none of those topics interested the three men in the room that evening. They were there to talk about chess and the anxiety Bobby was feeling.

Sam Sloan was a reed-thin stockbroker, with a slight Virginian drawl. A year younger than Bobby, his notable accomplishment wasn't in chess-he was a tournament player but not of championship caliber-but in law. Aided by an eidetic memory, he was the last non-lawyer to argue a case before the United States Supreme Court-a case he won. Bobby trusted him.

The other man in the room that night was Bernard Zuckerman, only twenty-two days younger than Bobby, a fellow Brooklynite, and an international master. He was called "Zuck the Book" because he was considered by many-including Fischer-to have studied the literature on chess so thoroughly ("booked up," as it is known in chess circles) that he was the most up-to-date opening theoretician in the country. However, he claimed that Fischer knew more. Zuckerman had soulful eyes, immensely long lashes, and shoulder-length hair, a residue of the '60s. At tournaments he often arrived a half hour late for games, played rapidly, and usually offered a draw, which was invariably accepted. Bobby respected him. Both Sloan and Zuckerman were intensely interested in chess, Bobby, and women-interests that Bobby resoundingly shared in the first two cases and peripherally in the third.

That night the two men were being true friends and trying to calm down Bobby about his impending match. Although he'd just accomplished one of the greatest feats in the annals of chess by defeating Taimanov, La.r.s.en, and Petrosian with a combined score of 18 2, Fischer was concerned about the strength of Spa.s.sky, who, he believed, had a "dynamic, individual style." Bobby had never beaten him, and he revealed to his friends that he thought he might have trouble. "Why don't you think you can beat him easily?" asked Zuckerman gently, pointing out that Spa.s.sky was no better than Petrosian, for example. "Spa.s.sky is is better," said Bobby somewhat woefully. "Not much better, but better." Little did he know that Spa.s.sky, comparing his own performance to Bobby's in 1971, judged Bobby the stronger player. better," said Bobby somewhat woefully. "Not much better, but better." Little did he know that Spa.s.sky, comparing his own performance to Bobby's in 1971, judged Bobby the stronger player.

So much was at stake in the upcoming match that conflict was almost bound to result. Eventually, internecine warfare erupted between the United States and Soviet Chess federations and FIDE. The Soviets spared no energy in maneuvering for every advantage they could. They'd held the World Championship t.i.tle for thirty-four years and had no intention of handing it to an American, especially an "uneducated" American. There were financial considerations as well. The six-figure purse that was being discussed would be the richest prize ever for a head-to-head confrontation in any sport other than boxing.

When Iceland submitted a bid to host the match, Bobby flew to its capital city, Reykjavik, to inspect the site. He was encouraged to play there by Freysteinn Thorbergsson, an Icelandic player in his early forties who'd drawn with Bobby in a tournament in Reykjavik in 1960. But the president of the Icelandic Chess Federation, thirty-two-year-old Gudmundur Thorarinsson, a soft-spoken engineer and Shakespearean scholar, was wary of Bobby. A man who carried a big stick and had political ambitions (eventually, he became a member of parliament), Thorarinsson wanted the match in his country but had a low tolerance for Fischer's shenanigans.

While negotiations as to the venue and the prize fund continued, both players went to the mountains to train. Spa.s.sky ensconced himself in the Caucasus while Fischer settled in the Catskills, more than seven thousand miles away. Grossinger's, a mammoth hotel complex in Ferndale, New York, the heart of the "Borscht Belt" where much of the New York City Jewish population had been vacationing for more than half a century, served as Fischer's training camp for the four months preceding the match. Since Fischer's Worldwide Church of G.o.d faith observed the same dietary and many of the Sabbath laws as the Judaic tradition, Grossinger's was an ideal selection. There was no pork served in the dining room, and from Friday sundown to Sat.u.r.day sundown, the devout observed a sabbatical decorum.

Grossinger's removed Bobby from the pressures of New York City, where he was just a ten-cent telephone call away from anyone who wanted to reach him, and it prevented people from dropping in for a casual visit and disturbing his concentration and study. The hotel was also renowned for catering to famous guests. Bobby loved being there and was in a perpetually good mood, with thoughts of growing rich from the impending match. He was saving money from his book royalties, tournament winnings, and exhibitions, and he informed his mother that he was doing "real well financially."

At that time it looked as though the match with Spa.s.sky would have a total prize fund of $138,000, the highest amount ever for a chess match. Bobby was trying to not get too excited about the money that would be coming his way. In spite of all the money and acclaim, he wrote with a certain humility that he was doing his best "not to forget who I really am, and to keep my mind on the eternal values."

He was also happy to learn that Regina had pa.s.sed the examination that would allow her to practice medicine in the United States, and he was hoping that she would consider moving back from Europe.

To prepare for the strenuousness of the World Championship match, Fischer trained his body as well as his mind, with workouts in the hotel gym, fast laps in the pool, and a few games of tennis each day. He seemed to dominate the tennis court while he was at Grossinger's, and other than his games with the resident pro, Fischer usually won all of his matches. His serve was graceful and forcibly delivered, as were his return volleys. While waiting for his opponent to serve, he rapidly twisted the racket, bounced from foot to foot, and swayed his body, always ready to move to either side of the court. Walking back to his cottage or off to the swimming pool, he often swung the racket at an invisible tennis ball, just as he did as a boy when he'd swing an imaginary baseball bat while gamboling along Flatbush Avenue. All this physical activity kept him in great shape. He wrote to his mother that he was feeling "real fine" and that everyone was saying that he looked good because of his daily training.

Only after hours of exercise would he sit down at his chessboard. In the evenings, in a state of quiet contemplation, he began his exhaustive inspection of Spa.s.sky's games. This microscopic a.n.a.lysis often continued until the early hours of the morning. The reference text he consulted most frequently was what journalists were quick to describe as the "Big Red Book"-number 27 of the excellent Weltgeschichte des Schachs Weltgeschichte des Schachs series-the games of champions-containing 355 games of Spa.s.sky's, conveniently typeset with a diagram at every fifth move. Bobby never let the book out of his sight and carried it everywhere. It contained his own notes on Spa.s.sky's games, jotted in pencil, with comments and question marks designating poor moves, exclamation marks designating good ones. Almost as a parlor trick, he would often ask someone to pick a game at random from the book, tell him who played it against Spa.s.sky and where the game was played, and he would then recite the game move by move. He had memorized more than 14,000 moves! series-the games of champions-containing 355 games of Spa.s.sky's, conveniently typeset with a diagram at every fifth move. Bobby never let the book out of his sight and carried it everywhere. It contained his own notes on Spa.s.sky's games, jotted in pencil, with comments and question marks designating poor moves, exclamation marks designating good ones. Almost as a parlor trick, he would often ask someone to pick a game at random from the book, tell him who played it against Spa.s.sky and where the game was played, and he would then recite the game move by move. He had memorized more than 14,000 moves!

Although Bobby said in his letter to his mother that he was "studying a bit" for the match, in reality he was spending as much as twelve hours a day, seven days a week, going over such issues as what openings he would or wouldn't play against Spa.s.sky and what kinds of games he felt Spa.s.sky was most uncomfortable playing. He was buoyed when he played over Spa.s.sky's games in the recently concluded Alekhine Memorial tournament in Moscow. Bobby told an interviewer: "They were atrocious games. He was really lost in half the games in that tournament; really bad games on his part."

While Spa.s.sky was supported by a small army of helpers, Fischer basically toiled alone. A British player, Robert Wade, supplied Bobby with a detailed a.n.a.lysis of Spa.s.sky's openings in two loose-leaf books, one marked "Spa.s.sky: White" and the other "Spa.s.sky: Black." Other than that, Bobby relied on his own efforts. To the press, however, he displayed nothing but confidence. "I'm not worried," he said. And in a Muhammad Alitype quote, destined to be picked up by the press, he added: "The odds should be twenty to one [that I will win]."

During the months Fischer spent in training at Grossinger's, he was visited by several other players, but while chess was the topic du jour, no one really contributed to Fischer's preparatory efforts. Larry Evans and then Bernard Zuckerman visited, helping Bobby in any way they could, but even though he respected them, he sometimes asked them to sit away from the board so he could think things through himself.

Later, Lombardy fought the notion of Fischer as a player who was totally self-sufficient, an island unto himself. "It's true that he works alone, but he is learning from the games of other players all the time," he said. "To say that Bobby Fischer developed his talent all by himself is like saying that Beethoven or Mozart developed without the benefit of the music...that came before them. If other chess players had never existed for Bobby Fischer to learn from, then there would be be no Bobby Fischer today." no Bobby Fischer today."

Since Bobby's suite had two bedrooms, he liked to have guests from time to time. Jackie Beers was his most frequent visitor. Bobby had known Jackie since childhood and they were an odd pair. Jackie was a rated expert, an excellent speed player, but he was always finding himself in trouble at chess clubs, usually because of his ferocious temper. Once, a fight at the Manhattan Chess Club resulted in a lawsuit against him that was eventually settled out of court, and there were stories of his chasing people in the street or their chasing him because of altercations. With Bobby, Jackie acted meekly and respectfully. He often stayed overnight in the Fischer apartment in Brooklyn and later was Bobby's houseguest when Fischer lived in California. Jackie was no sycophant or whipping boy, as he's been described by other writers. He recognized that Bobby was the "chief" of their friendship, but he wasn't afraid to speak up and disagree. While Bobby knew of Jackie's reputation for truculence and tolerated him nevertheless, he was careful not to include him in all areas of his life, knowing instinctively when Beers wouldn't be welcomed by others.

At the beginning of May, Bobby's Iceland acquaintance Freysteinn Thorbergsson made the journey from Iceland to America and checked in at Grossinger's. At first, Bobby was a little reserved with him, but as they talked-for about seven hours-he warmed up. Though Bobby had always pushed for Belgrade as the site of the championship match, a tentative understanding seemed to have been worked out to at least split the match between Belgrade and Reykjavik. Thorbergsson clearly favored the idea of all the games being staged in Iceland. Going back to Bobby's chalet, the two a.n.a.lyzed some games, and Thorbergsson continued his volley of subtle arguments for why Bobby should play exclusively in Iceland.

A gentle man, Thorbergsson had lived in Russia and was a rabid anti-Communist. He saw Bobby's playing for the World Championship as a political act as much as a cultural one; and he used that line of reasoning with Bobby, maintaining that it would be morally wrong to allow the championship to be played within the Soviets' sphere of influence. In an essay, he'd later write: "The Russians have for decades enslaved other nations and their own nationals. They use their victories in various sports, chess and in other fields to fool people and make them believe their system is the best." He added that a Fischer victory would "strike at the uplifted propaganda fists of the Communists."

By the time the Icelander left Grossinger's the next morning, he felt that Bobby was on the verge of agreeing to play exclusively in Reykjavik.

As the date of the championship match grew closer, Bobby quit Grossinger's and, a.s.sisted by one of his lawyers, Andrew Davis, a Yale University alumnus, checked into the Yale Club in midtown Manhattan, where he stayed for a few weeks.

As summer approached, the reality of the match caused such heightened curiosity that it seemed like Fischer's every remark, his every action, was recorded around the globe. Even at Grossinger's, far removed from the business of Manhattan, he'd been besieged by calls, cables, and visits suggesting schemes to make him-and their originators-rich. A "Bobby Fischer Chess Set" was suggested. Endors.e.m.e.nts were sought. One Wall Street broker even tried convincing Bobby to become a "corporation," like the Beatles, so that shares of "Bobby Fischer" could be traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Fischer went his own way, agreeing to little and signing nothing.

Chess players were beginning to regard the forthcoming Fischer-Spa.s.sky duel as the most important match ever played by an American. Time Time magazine was just one of many media outlets beating the geopolitical drum. It dubbed the contest "The Russian Bear vs. the Brooklyn Wolf." Spa.s.sky's defense of his t.i.tle became, symbolically, a defense of the Soviet Union, and the Russian's millstone was a heavy weight to bear. Fischer, completely aware of the encounter's political and cultural implications, accepted the extra layer of significance as his own responsibility. "I now feel a sense of mission to win the championship," he declared. Asked if the bout would be a grudge match, he replied: "In a sense. But not personally between me and Spa.s.sky...it's against the Russians." magazine was just one of many media outlets beating the geopolitical drum. It dubbed the contest "The Russian Bear vs. the Brooklyn Wolf." Spa.s.sky's defense of his t.i.tle became, symbolically, a defense of the Soviet Union, and the Russian's millstone was a heavy weight to bear. Fischer, completely aware of the encounter's political and cultural implications, accepted the extra layer of significance as his own responsibility. "I now feel a sense of mission to win the championship," he declared. Asked if the bout would be a grudge match, he replied: "In a sense. But not personally between me and Spa.s.sky...it's against the Russians."

The challenger in any contest often has a special advantage in that he's forced to play "up" in order to win; he's motivated to compete harder because he must prove that he's better than the champion. The t.i.tle holder, secure in the knowledge of his superiority, frequently plays on his own "normal" level, falsely a.s.suming that because he is is the champion, the proven quality of his past play is sufficient for current victory. One advantage Spa.s.sky enjoyed, though, was a rule stipulation called "draw odds." If he could draw every game, giving him 12 points, Spa.s.sky would retain his t.i.tle without winning a game. Fischer needed 12 points to dethrone Spa.s.sky. the champion, the proven quality of his past play is sufficient for current victory. One advantage Spa.s.sky enjoyed, though, was a rule stipulation called "draw odds." If he could draw every game, giving him 12 points, Spa.s.sky would retain his t.i.tle without winning a game. Fischer needed 12 points to dethrone Spa.s.sky.

Iceland, the westernmost and one of the smallest countries in Europe, sitting remotely in the North Atlantic just below the Arctic Circle, may have seemed a curious venue for a World Chess Championship. Largely uninhabited except around the coast, the island is a physical contradiction, partly covered with vast ice fields yet home to several active volcanoes that rise in flames from both the land and the sea around it. Virtually treeless, it features frosted picture-book mountains that are interspersed with rugged, lava-strewn terrain, giving the landscape an unnatural, almost lunar appearance: American astronauts trained there before their voyages to the moon. In 1972 the average income for an Icelander was barely $2,000 a year. But it is a spirited country, is pollution-free, and has no urban slums and virtually no crime.

So what made Iceland the ideal country to stage the Fischer-Spa.s.sky match? Undoubtedly it was the resoluteness, pride, and enthusiasm of its people, and their love of the game as an intellectual and cultural pursuit. Icelanders are among the most literate in the world and the Icelandic sagas rate among the greatest in literature. Icelanders read more books per capita than any other people on the globe, and-like the Russians-they almost all play chess. In the winter months when there is almost twenty-four hours of darkness, what better way to spend an evening or a weekend than to stay at home or visit a comfortably heated club, play chess for hours, and avoid the chill of the Atlantic winter with its gales, thunderstorms, and biting rain.

Over the years, Icelanders have sponsored many international tournaments and matches, and the possibility of holding what was being billed as the Match of the Century was more than exhilarating to chess players throughout the country. As it developed, the 1972 Fischer-Spa.s.sky match was one of the most expertly organized World Championship matches ever conducted, intoxicating for Icelanders as well as the tourists and members of the international press who descended on the capital city of Reykjavik. Photographic blowups of Fischer and Spa.s.sky adorned the windows of almost every shop, with black-and-white checkered displays serving as backdrops for huge papier-mache chess pieces.

Most of the residents started out wishing for Fischer's victory, but after the numerous false starts, threats, and general difficulties Bobby caused, sympathy began to swing to the gentlemanly Spa.s.sky. Fischer wasn't satisfied with the financial arrangements. The winner was to receive $78,125 and the loser $46,875. Beyond that, each was to be given 30 percent of all television and film rights. Fischer, though, demanded 30 percent of the gate receipts in addition in addition, arguing that paid admissions might amount to $250,000 and that he and Spa.s.sky should receive a share.

The Icelandic chess officials-who weren't at all sure how they were going to fill the three-thousand-seat Laugardalsholl, the site of the match, game after game for as many as twenty-four sessions, not counting adjournments-argued that gate-receipt income should go entirely to them to cover their outlay for the stakes and the arrangements.

Fischer canceled his flight to Iceland at the last minute, on the evening of June 25. The airline had reserved a full row of seats just for him and had stocked the plane's refrigerator with oranges so that Fischer could have fresh juice "squeezed in front of him," as he'd requested, during the four-hour trip across the Atlantic. Meanwhile, talks continued between Bobby's lawyers, Paul Marshall and Andrew Davis, and the Icelandic Chess Federation concerning the matter of the gate receipts. Both sides stood firm. During the ensuing week, additional flights were booked and then canceled by Fischer as headlines began to question whether he'd appear at all. Icelandic papers were asking HVENAER KEMUR HINN DULARFULLI FISCHER? ("WHEN COMETH THE MYSTERIOUS FISCHER?") HVENAER KEMUR HINN DULARFULLI FISCHER? ("WHEN COMETH THE MYSTERIOUS FISCHER?") A few days after Fischer's first flight was changed, Bobby and Davis drove to John F. Kennedy International Airport, apparently to board a Pan American flight. But, strangely, Fischer paused to buy an alarm clock and was seen by reporters and photographers (there were more than a hundred members of the press waiting to interview and photograph him). He fled the airline terminal and missed the flight. Later, he was observed at a nearby Howard Johnson's restaurant, having dinner. When, indeed, would Bobby goeth to Iceland? A few days after Fischer's first flight was changed, Bobby and Davis drove to John F. Kennedy International Airport, apparently to board a Pan American flight. But, strangely, Fischer paused to buy an alarm clock and was seen by reporters and photographers (there were more than a hundred members of the press waiting to interview and photograph him). He fled the airline terminal and missed the flight. Later, he was observed at a nearby Howard Johnson's restaurant, having dinner. When, indeed, would Bobby goeth to Iceland?

Although money was the focal point of the controversy, it wasn't just about dollars (or kroners); rather, it was about Bobby getting his way. In this case, he was pretty confident he could receive what he demanded. As an editorial in The New York Times The New York Times suggested: "If he plays in Reykjavik and wins-as he has an excellent chance of doing-his prospective earnings would make the amount he is arguing about now seem infinitesimal." Fischer knew that. He also knew that the world was clamoring for the match and that if he held out a little longer, more money might be forthcoming. suggested: "If he plays in Reykjavik and wins-as he has an excellent chance of doing-his prospective earnings would make the amount he is arguing about now seem infinitesimal." Fischer knew that. He also knew that the world was clamoring for the match and that if he held out a little longer, more money might be forthcoming.

The world press was, to say the least, not amused. Foreign papers reflected the outrage of their readership. RUSSIANS DISDAIN FISCHER FOR CONCERN WITH MONEY RUSSIANS DISDAIN FISCHER FOR CONCERN WITH MONEY, blared a headline in The New York Times The New York Times, and Ta.s.s, the Soviet press agency, editorialized: "Whenever the matter concerns Fischer, money comes first while sports motives are relegated to the background. Characteristically, his confidants are not chessplayers, but lawyers to whom he [entrusts] all his chess affairs." The leading German Sunday newspaper, Bild am Sonntag Bild am Sonntag, reported: "Fischer has dragged chess down to the level of a wrestling match. We've never known of such arrogance and sn.o.bbism." The London Daily Mail Daily Mail stated: "Bobby Fischer is quite certainly the most ill-mannered, temperamental and neurotic brat ever to be reared in Brooklyn. As far as the international prestige battle goes, the Soviet Union has won the opening round 10 to 0." What the press-and seemingly everyone else-failed to understand was that it was Bobby's shrewdness in protecting his financial interests, rather than temper tantrums or neuroses, that was making him hesitate. He knew instinctively that the longer he waited, the more swollen the prize fund would become. stated: "Bobby Fischer is quite certainly the most ill-mannered, temperamental and neurotic brat ever to be reared in Brooklyn. As far as the international prestige battle goes, the Soviet Union has won the opening round 10 to 0." What the press-and seemingly everyone else-failed to understand was that it was Bobby's shrewdness in protecting his financial interests, rather than temper tantrums or neuroses, that was making him hesitate. He knew instinctively that the longer he waited, the more swollen the prize fund would become.

Bobby felt that journalists weren't really interested in how or why he moved the chess pieces, but rather in the scandal, tragedy, and comedy of his life. To him, the press was a puzzle that he could never quite solve. He felt that he couldn't lie if asked a direct question, and yet if he simply refused to answer, the a.s.sumption was that he was hiding something crucial.

Whispers had been bandied about as far back as 1958, when he played at Portoro, that he was an anti-Semite, but privately, he categorically denied it when playing at Netanya, Israel, in 1968. One of Bobby's closest friends, Anthony Saidy, said that he never heard Fischer make an anti-Semitic remark until at some point after the 1972 championship.

During the match, Bobby didn't issue any statements that were either anti-Semitic or anti-American-on the contrary, he appeared deeply patriotic and included many Jews among his friends, lawyers, and colleagues. But Wilfrid Sheed, an American novelist and essayist, penned a comment just before the match ended that many would later regard as prescient. In his The New York Times Book Review The New York Times Book Review of a work by Ezra Pound, Sheed likened Bobby to Pound, the infamous anti-Semite and anti-American who was indicted for treason by the United States for his fascist broadcasts. Sheed wrote: "Of Ezra Pound, as of Bobby Fischer, all that can be decently said is that his colleagues admire him. There is no reason for anyone else to." of a work by Ezra Pound, Sheed likened Bobby to Pound, the infamous anti-Semite and anti-American who was indicted for treason by the United States for his fascist broadcasts. Sheed wrote: "Of Ezra Pound, as of Bobby Fischer, all that can be decently said is that his colleagues admire him. There is no reason for anyone else to."

By the time the opening ceremonies took place at Iceland's National Theatre on Sat.u.r.day evening, July 1, less than twenty-four hours before the beginning of the scheduled first game, reporters and spectators were making reservations to return home, in the belief that Fischer wouldn't appear. Bobby had moved from the Yale Club to the home of Anthony Saidy, who lived with his parents in a large Tudor house in Douglaston, Queens. As Saidy later related, the house was subjected to an unending media barrage. Fischer was besieged with calls and cables, and photographers and journalists staked out the grounds in hopes of just a glimpse of him. Fischer headlines dominated the front pages of newspapers all over the world, crowding off such "secondary" news items as the 1972 United States presidential nominations.

Saidy suggested that there was an actual plot to keep Fischer from becoming World Champion, and this involved the wiretapping of his parents' phone. "At one point, when Bobby was talking to Davis, who was in Iceland," Saidy said, "Bobby made a reference to one of the Icelandic Chess Federation officials as being 'stupid.' Suddenly, he heard a woman's voice cutting through the line saying: 'He said: "He's stupid."' The line was obviously tapped." Saidy added that Fischer also believed that the line was tapped.

Anything is possible, of course. There was a theory prevalent among a number of Americans, such as Fred Cramer, who was on Bobby's team, that the Icelanders were underhandedly working with the Russians to repel Fischer's a.s.sault on Soviet chess hegemony. Aside from the personal dislike for Fischer that a number of the Icelandic chess officials, such as Thorarinsson, openly felt, though, not one instance emerged suggesting that they did anything to hinder Fischer's World Championship bid. Indeed, some of the Icelandic officials were convinced that Spa.s.sky was the better player and that he was going to defeat Fischer rather easily anyway. At the commencement of the match, they were privately expecting to see Fischer humiliated on the board on the board.

The drawing for colors for the first game didn't take place during the opening ceremonies, which failed to develop strictly according to schedule. Spa.s.sky was seated in the first row, elegantly attired in a gray-checked vested suit. Meanwhile, an empty seat, also in the front row, which Fischer was to have occupied, remained conspicuously vacant. While speeches were made in English, Russian, and Icelandic, the audience fidgeted, craning their necks to the side entrance, half expecting-hoping-that at any moment Fischer would make a grand entrance. It didn't happen.

Dr. Max Euwe, representing FIDE, allowed Fischer a two-day postponement. "But if he does not show up by Tuesday at twelve noon, at the drawing of lots, he loses all of his rights as challenger," Euwe said.

Fischer remained apparently unmoved: He wanted 30 percent of the gate receipts and was not traveling to Iceland unless his demands were met. The ICF received hundreds of cancellations of tickets and reservations. People who'd traveled from all over Iceland to see the first game, and who hadn't heard that it had been canceled, were sadly turned away from the hall. Then a rumor spread through the press corps (there were now about two hundred accredited reporters and photographers) that Fischer was already on the island, that he'd arrived in a navy submarine to avoid the press and was hiding out somewhere in the countryside. Even though it was a rumor, several newspapers and agencies-including the eminent gray lady, The New York Times The New York Times-published it as at least a possibility possibility.

The Soviet Chess Federation lodged a biting protest with FIDE against the forty-eight-hour postponement, saying that Fischer actually warranted "unconditional disqualification." Charging Dr. Euwe as the responsible agent, the federation warned him that it would consider the match "wrecked" if Fischer did not appear in Reykjavik by noon on July 4, Euwe's deadline. Finally, two unexpected phone calls were placed, one from England, the other from Washington, D.C. The calls saved the match.

Journalist Leonard Barden phoned the Icelandic organizers to tell them that British financier James Derrick Slater, a chess devotee and investment banker, was willing to donate $125,000 to double the existing prize fund-if Fischer would agree to play. Slater, a millionaire, stated: "The money is mine. I like chess and have played it for years. Many want to see this match and everything was arranged. If Fischer does not go to Iceland, many will be disappointed. I want to remove the problem of money from Fischer and see if he has any other problems."

Fischer's first reaction was immensely positive. "It's stupendous," he said. "I have to accept it." Later, he told a newsman that though he hadn't studied the offer in detail, he'd decided to play the match because "there's an awful lot of prestige of the country at stake." Yet he still needed one more nudge to propel him to the board.

The second call proved to be that needed nudge. Saidy answered the phone for what seemed to be the twentieth time that day, thinking it was yet another request for Bobby to make a statement or grant an interview. Instead, it was the personal secretary of Henry Kissinger, President Nixon's national security advisor (and later, secretary of state), wanting to set up a telephone conversation with Bobby. Bobby dragged himself to the phone, and Kissinger started off in his deep, German-accented voice, "This is the worst chess player in the world calling the best chess player in the world." Kissinger told Bobby that he should go to Iceland and beat the Russians at their own game. "The United States government wishes you well and I wish you well."

After this ten-minute conversation, Bobby said he was going to play "no matter what," and that the interests of the United States were greater than his personal interests. It was at this point that Bobby saw himself not just as a chess player, but as a Cold War warrior in defense of his country.

After months of disenchanting negotiations, the millionaire Slater, backed by the diplomat Kissinger, had accomplished the impossible. What made Bobby run-in this case, to Iceland? Three elements apparently: pride, money, and patriotism.

To avoid being spotted by either reporters or the public, Fischer was smuggled onto a Loftleidir (Icelandic Airlines) flight. He made the overnight trip with William Lombardy, whom he'd announced as his official second that same day. Lombardy, the large, pale, and intense Roman Catholic priest, was perhaps the chief supporting actor in the drama at Reykjavik. Thirty-five years old, six years older than Fischer, he was the first chess master of international importance connected with the Catholic Church since Ruy Lopez (sixteenth century) and Domenico Ponziani (eighteenth century) made their imprints on the game.

The drawing of the lots to determine who'd play what color, scheduled for noon at the Hotel Esja, attracted hundreds of journalists, officials of the ICF, and members of both the American and Russian sides. When Spa.s.sky arrived, he was told that Fischer was still sleeping and had sent Lombardy to draw for him. Unnerved, Spa.s.sky refused to draw and left the hotel in a huff. At lunch, shortly afterward, he told a newsman that he was "not abandoning the match," but Fischer had acted improperly. "I still want to play," he said, "but I I will decide when." He then issued the following statement, possibly written for him in Moscow: will decide when." He then issued the following statement, possibly written for him in Moscow: Soviet public opinion and I, personally, are full with indignation at Fischer's behavior. According to concepts common to all people, he has completely disqualified himself.Therefore he has, in my opinion, called in doubt his moral rights to play the match.If there now is to be any hope for conducting the match, Fischer must be subjected to just penalty. Only after that I can return to the question whether it is possible to conduct the match.Boris Spa.s.sky World Champion The penalty the Soviets required was a forfeit of the first game. The Soviet Delegation also said: 1. Robert Fischer must apologize.

2. The President of FIDE has to condemn the behavior of the challenger.

3. The President of FIDE has to admit that this two-day postponement violated FIDE rules.

Euwe, again rising to the occasion, said in a touching display of humility that since two of the conditions concerned him, he'd be happy to compose a statement right there, admitting that he'd broken the rules and condemning Fischer "not only in the last two days but all through the negotiations." After working on his statement for about ten minutes, while the audience-in uncomfortable sympathy-sat waiting, Euwe read his confession aloud, signed it, and handed it to Efim Geller, Spa.s.sky's second. It stated: "1. The FIDE condemns the behavior of the challenger in not arriving on time, thus leaving the entire delegation and others in doubt about the realization of the match, and causing many troubles. 2. The President of FIDE admits that we had to postpone the match for two days; we violated the FIDE rules. I think it's for special reasons, and on the basis of some presumptions which proved to be wrong afterwards. I declare that the FIDE rules and match agreements approved by FIDE shall be strictly observed in the future." Euwe's face was flushed by the chastis.e.m.e.nt and he was on the verge of tears. The Soviets claimed that, according to the rules, Fischer should have lost the match when he failed to appear on opening day; and only through their benevolence was the contest continuing. It was now up to Fischer to make the next move.

That night, Fischer composed an elegant apology to Spa.s.sky. One reporter, Brad Darrach of Life Life, contended that in the first draft of the letter, Fischer had renounced any share in the prize money and had said he was willing to play for nothing but the love of chess. Though one can imagine Bobby, on the spur of the moment, proclaiming: "I'll prove to the world that I love chess more than the Russians!" it's easy to understand that his poor Brooklyn roots ultimately spoke to him of the need for pragmatism. He still wanted a paycheck, but the desire to prove himself over the board was his strongest motivation for trying to heal the rift.

In the end, a second letter was composed, and it was this version that was finally presented to Spa.s.sky. Fischer drove to the Saga Hotel early on the morning of July 6 and accompanied the bellboy to Spa.s.sky's room to watch him slide the apology under the door. The text: Dear Boris:

Please accept my sincerest apology for my disrespectful behavior in not attending the opening ceremony. I simply became carried away by my petty dispute over money with the Icelandic chess organizers. I have offended you and your country, the Soviet Union, where chess has a prestigious position. Also, I would like to apologize to Dr. Max Euwe, President of FIDE, to the Match Organizers in Iceland, to the thousands of chess fans around the world and especially to the millions of fans and the many friends I have in the United States.After I did not show up for the first game, Dr. Euwe announced that the first game would be postponed without prejudice to me. At that time you made no protest. Now I am informed that the Russian chess federation is demanding that the first game be forfeited to you. The timing of this demand seems to place in doubt the motives for your federation's not insisting at first for a forfeit on the first game.If this forfeit demand were respected, it would place me at a tremendous handicap. Even without this handicap, you will have an advantage to begin with of needing twelve points out of twenty four to retain your t.i.tle, whereas I will need twelve and a half to win the t.i.tle. If this demand were granted, you would need only eleven points out of twenty three but I would still need twelve and a half out of my twenty three. In other words I must win three! three! games without losses, just to obtain the position you would have at the beginning of the match and I don't believe that the world's champion desires such an advantage in order to play me. games without losses, just to obtain the position you would have at the beginning of the match and I don't believe that the world's champion desires such an advantage in order to play me.I know you to be a sportsman and a gentleman, and I am looking forward to some exciting chess games with you.Sincerely, Bobby Fischer Reykjavik, July 6, 1972 One obstacle remained and that was the Soviet Union itself. A Russian minister, Sergei Pavlov, head of the State Sports Committee, had cabled Spa.s.sky, furiously insisting that he return home to Moscow. Pavlov said that Fischer's "tantrums" were an insult to the World Champion, who had every legal and moral right to refuse to meet Fischer. Normally, such a "recommendation" had the force of law, but Spa.s.sky refused, as politely and diplomatically as possible. He replied to Pavlov that he could not debase his own standards of sportsmanship and would see the match through despite Fischer's outrageous conduct. It was a courageous act, and one that called for much finesse and force of will on Spa.s.sky's part.

Fischer arrived twenty minutes late for the drawing of colors, and he and Spa.s.sky met backstage. After shaking hands, Spa.s.sky humorously tested Fischer's biceps, as though they were two boxers "weighing in." They then sequestered themselves for a few minutes to discuss the schedule. Spa.s.sky wanted a short postponement before the start of the match. Fischer agreed if Spa.s.sky would drop the demand for a forfeit. They came to terms, and a moment later they walked to the stage, applauded by the journalists and well-wishers who'd been waiting patiently. Fischer, spying the chess table, galumphed to the center of the stage and immediately lifted the white queen, testing its weight. Then, one hand in his pocket, he tested all the other white pieces and sat down, stretching his legs under the Scandinavian-designed mahogany table. Spa.s.sky also sat.

After introducing both challenger and champion, and their respective seconds and aides, FIDE representative Harry Golombek, an international master from the UK, announced that Geller wanted to make a statement before the drawing of the lots took place. Speaking in Russian, Geller said: The challenger apologized in writing and the President of FIDE has declared that the match rules of FIDE will be strictly observed in the future. Taking into consideration the efforts made by the Icelandic organizers of the match, and the desire of millions of chess admirers all over the world to see the match, the world champion has decided to play with Robert Fischer.

Though the statement was mild enough, there was growing irritation in Fischer as he listened to the translation, and by the time it was completed, he was pale with indignation at the phrase "the world champion has decided to play with Robert Fischer," as if Spa.s.sky were doing him a favor. Bobby was mortified. For one very brief second, he considered walking off the stage and out of the match forever. He felt he'd complied with the wishes of the Soviets by making the apology to Spa.s.sky, writing it by hand and personally delivering it, and he'd just agreed to go along with Spa.s.sky's postponement. For Bobby, the Geller statement had soiled the first official ceremony of the match. The Russians were censuring his behavior in front of his friends and the world press. Somehow, Bobby maintained his composure. Fortunately, the drawing of colors quickly followed, leaving no opportunity to reflect further on the incident.

Lothar Schmid, the elegant German referee, handed each man a blank envelope, and Spa.s.sky chose the one that indicated he'd hold the pieces. Spa.s.sky concealed a black p.a.w.n and a white p.a.w.n behind his back in the time-honored fashion and then brought his closed hands forward across the board. Fischer, without hesitation, tapped Spa.s.sky's right hand-and Spa.s.sky opened it to reveal the black p.a.w.n. Fischer didn't change his expression.

Several hours later, coming home from bowling in the early hours of the morning, before returning to the hotel, Bobby sneaked into the playing hall to check out the conditions. After an eighty-minute inspection, he had a number of complaints: He thought the lighting should be brighter; the pieces of the chess set were too small for the squares of the custom-built board; the board itself was not quite right-it was made of stone, and he thought wood would be preferable. Finally, he thought that the two cameras hidden in burlap-covered towers might be distracting when he began to play, and the towers themselves, looming over the stage like medieval battering rams, were disconcerting.

The organizers started working on the problems immediately. They wanted everything perfect before the first p.a.w.n was moved on opening day.

When Fischer finally awoke on the afternoon of July 11, 1972, and it slowly began to permeate his consciousness that he was actually in Iceland about to play his first game for the championship of the world, he was nervous. After years and years of tribulation and controversy, and the brouhaha about the match, Fischer had arrived at the threshold of his lifelong goal. Laugardalsholl was to be his universe for the next two months.

All details had been checked and double-checked in the playing hall to ensure maximum comfort for the players. Laugardalsholl was a cavernous, dome-shaped stadium (someone described it as a large Icelandic mushroom), with white-covered sound baffles on the ceiling that resembled mammoth albino bats. The entire first floor was covered with carpeting to m.u.f.fle the noise made by spectators, and the folding seats had been replaced with upholstered and consequently "soundless" chairs. The two film towers had been pushed back, at Fischer's request, and the lighting intensity on stage increased. A handsome Eames-designed executive swivel chair, an exact duplicate of the one Fischer had sat in while playing Petrosian in Buenos Aires, was flown in from the United States.

Fischer rushed through the backstage corridor onto the subtly flower-bedecked stage and was greeted by the polite applause of an audience of twenty-three hundred. Spa.s.sky had made his first move precisely at five, and Schmid had started Fischer's clock. Fischer, dressed in a white shirt and blue business suit, sped to the table; the two opponents shook hands while Fischer kept his eyes on the board. Then he sat down in his black leather chair, considered his move for ninety-five seconds, and played his knight to his king bishop's third square.

It was a unique moment in the life of a charismatic prodigy in that, to arrive where he was, he'd somehow overcome his objections to how he'd been treated by the Soviets over the years. Everyone knew it, not only in Laugardalsholl but all over the world. As grandmaster Isaac Kashdan said: "It was the single most important chess event [ever]." A lone American from Brooklyn, equipped with just a single stone-his brilliance-was about to fling it against the hegemony of the Soviet Union.

Fischer left the stage twice during the game (pre-adjournment), once complaining that the orange juice left in his dressing room backstage wasn't cold enough. Ice cubes were provided. He also asked for a bottle of cold water and a dish of skyr skyr, an Icelandic yogurt-type dessert. This last request caused confusion in the stadium's cafeteria, as they were unable to supply the skyr skyr. Fortunately, a local restaurant could, and did.

As moves were made on the board, they were simultaneously shown on forty closed-circuit television monitors, in all points of the stadium. In the cafeteria, where spectators wolfed down the local variety of lamb-based hot dogs and gurgled bottles of 2 percent Icelandic beer, the action on the stage was discussed vociferously. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, Icelandic masters more quietly explained and a.n.a.lyzed the moves on a demonstration board, while in the press rooms, lordly grandmasters surveyed the television screens and a.n.a.lyzed in their heads, to the confusion and awe of most of the journalists. In the playing hall itself, decorum and quiet reigned. When it didn't, Lothar Schmid would activate a white electrical sign that commanded, in both English and Icelandic: THoGN!SILENCE!.

As the first game progressed, most experts began predicting a draw. And then, on the twenty-ninth move, with the position equal, Fischer engaged in one of the most dangerous gambles of his career. Without consuming much time on his clock (he'd equalized on the seventeenth move and was now ahead of Spa.s.sky on time), Fischer sacrificed his bishop for two p.a.w.ns in a move that thoroughly electrified the audience and sent Spa.s.sky's eyebrows arching. The trade of pieces looked like a schoolboy's blunder. Grandmaster Edmar Mednis said in retrospect: "I couldn't believe that Fischer was capable of such an error. How is such an error possible from a top master, or from any any master?" master?"

At first impression, it appeared that Fischer, overly eager to gain the psychological momentum of winning the first game, had overextended himself. But on closer inspection, the game still looked as though it could possibly end in a draw. Next, Fischer complained to Schmid that one of the cameras, which was poking through a hole in the blue-and-white FIDE sign located at the back of the stage, was disturbing him. No change was made, however.

On his forty-first move Spa.s.sky decided to adjourn the game: This would enable him to take advantage of overnight a.n.a.lysis. Since five hours-the official adjournment time-hadn't yet been reached, he took a loss of thirty-five minutes on his clock. Spa.s.sky had a bishop and three p.a.w.ns against Fischer's five p.a.w.ns. He sealed his move and handed the large brown envelope to Schmid.

Fischer a.n.a.lyzed the position through the night and appeared at the hall looking tired and worried, just two minutes before Schmid opened the sealed-move envelope. Following FIDE tradition, Schmid made Spa.s.sky's adjourned move for him on the board, showed Fischer the score sheet so he could check that the correct move had been made, and activated Fischer's clock. Fischer responded within seconds, prepared by his night-long study of the game, and a few moves were exchanged.

Fischer then pointed to the camera aperture he'd complained about the previous day, and quickly left the stage with his clock running. Backstage, he vehemently complained about the camera and said he wanted it dismantled before he continued. ICF officials quickly conferred with Chester Fox, owner of the film and television rights, who agreed to remove the camera. All of this took time, and Fischer's clock continued running while the dismantling went on. When Fischer returned to the stage, thirty-five minutes had elapsed on his clock.

Fischer began fighting for a draw, but Spa.s.sky's moves were a study in precision and his position got stronger. Eventually, it became clear that Spa.s.sky could queen a p.a.w.n. Instead of making his fifty-sixth move, Fischer stopped the clock and offered his hand in resignation. He wasn't smiling. Spa.s.sky didn't look him in the eye as they shook hands-rather, he continued to study the position. Fischer signed his score sheet, made a helpless gesture as if to say "What am I supposed to do now?" and left the stage. It wasn't difficult to guess his emotional state.

Though there have been a number of World Championship matches in which the loser of the first game went on to win, there's no question that Fischer considered the loss of the first game almost tantamount to losing the match itself. Not only had he lost, but he'd been unable to prove to himself-and the public-that he could win a single game against Spa.s.sky. Their lifetime record against each other now stood at four wins for Spa.s.sky, two draws, and no wins for Fischer. In the next several hours Bobby descended into self-doubt and uncertainty, but eventually his psyche shifted to rationalization: Since there could be no defect in his calculation and no question of his being the lesser player, the distracting camera was to blame for the loss.

The next morning, Thursday, July 13, the American delegation announced that Fischer wouldn't play the next game unless all all cameras were removed from the hall. Fischer insisted-and rightly so-that only he could say what disturbed him. But he refused to go to the hall to inspect the new conditions and decide whether they'd been sufficiently improved. cameras were removed from the hall. Fischer insisted-and rightly so-that only he could say what disturbed him. But he refused to go to the hall to inspect the new conditions and decide whether they'd been sufficiently improved.

Schmid declared that the second game would start at five p.m., and if Fischer didn't appear after one hour of official play had elapsed, he'd be forfeited. To complicate matters, one of the Soviets leaked to the press that if Fischer failed to come for the second game, Spa.s.sky would probably return to Moscow.

Spa.s.sky appeared on stage at two minutes to five, to a round of applause. At precisely 5:00, Schmid started Fischer's clock, since Bobby was to play the white pieces. Back at the Hotel Loftleidir, Lombardy and officials of the U.S. Chess Federation futilely appealed to Fischer to go to the hall. A police car, with its motor running, was stationed outside the hotel to whisk him down Suderlansbraut Boulevard to the hall, should he change his mind. At 5:30 p.m., with Fischer's clock still running, Chester Fox's lawyer in Reykjavik agreed to the suggestion that the cameras be removed just for the one game, pending further discussion. When this solution was relayed to Fischer, he demanded that his clock be set back to its original time. Schmid wouldn't agree, claiming that there had to be some limits. Fischer, in his underwear, sat in his hotel room, the door bolted and telephone unplugged, a picture in stony resistance. His mind was made up: "If I ask for one thing and they don't give it to me, I don't play."

The spectators continued to gaze hypnotically at the two empty chairs (Spa.s.sky had retreated to his dressing room backstage) and a chessboard of thirty-two pieces, none of which had been moved. The only motion was the minute hand and the agitated red star-shaped time indicator on Fischer's clock. It was a lonely tableau.

At exactly 6:00 p.m., Schmid stopped the clock, walked to the front of the stage, and announced the first forfeiture of any game in World Championship history. "Ladies and gentlemen, according to Rule 5 of the regulations, Robert Fischer has lost the game. He has not turned up within the stipulated hour of time."

Spa.s.sky was given a standing ovation. He said to Schmid, "It's a pity," while someone from the audience, angry at Fischer, yelled: "Send him back to the United States!"

Fischer lodged a formal protest less than six hours after the forfeiture. It was overruled by the match committee on the grounds that he'd failed to appear at the game. The committee upheld the forfeit, but not without some trepidation and soul-searching. Everyone knew that Fischer wouldn't accept it lightly. And he didn't. His instant reaction was to make a reservation to fly home immediately. He was dissuaded by Lombardy, but it seemed likely that he'd refuse to continue the match unless the forfeit was removed. Schmid himself voiced his sincere concern regarding the danger to Fischer's career if he walked out of the match: "What will happen to Bobby? What city would ever host a match for him?"

Bobby had his supporters, though. Grandmaster Svetozar Gligoric suggested that the cameras, staring constantly at him, may have signified human eyes peering at Bobby and distracted his attention. Vladimir Nabokov, the Russian-born novelist who'd written The Defense The Defense (about a genius who lives only for chess), also spoke up for Bobby, saying that he was "quite right" in objecting to the use of cameras in the match: "He can't be subject to the clicks and flashes of those machines [on their tall tripods] above him." (about a genius who lives only for chess), also spoke up for Bobby, saying that he was "quite right" in objecting to the use of cameras in the match: "He can't be subject to the clicks and flashes of those machines [on their tall tripods] above him."

Notified of the decision and realizing its implications, Dr. Euwe, who'd returned to the Netherlands, cabled his own decision to Schmid in case Fischer refused to appear at the next game: IN CASE OF NON-APPEARANCE OF FISCHER IN THIRD GAME, PRESIDENT OF FIDE DECLARES IF FISCHER NOT IN THE FOURTH GAME, MATCH WILL BE CONCLUDED AND SPa.s.sKY WILL BE PROCLAIMED WORLD CHAMPION.

Fischer began receiving thousands of letters and cables urging him to continue the match, and Henry Kissinger called him once again, this time from California, to appeal to his patriotism. The New York Times The New York Times even issued an open plea urging Fischer to continue his challenge. In an editorial ent.i.tled "Bobby Fischer's Tragedy," the paper wrote: even issued an open plea urging Fischer to continue his challenge. In an editorial ent.i.tled "Bobby Fischer's Tragedy," the paper wrote: The possibility seems strong that his temper tantrums will turn the present world championship match into a non-event in which Spa.s.sky will retain his crown because of Fischer's refusal to play.The tragedy in all this is particularly great because for nearly a decade, there has been strong reason to suppose that Fischer could demonstrate his supremacy convincingly if only given the opportunity to do so....Is it too much to hope that even at this late state he will regain his balance and fulfill his obligation to the chess world by trying to play Spa.s.sky without histrionics? Consequential as is the two-game lead the Soviet champion now enjoys, the board is still set for a duel that could rank among the most brilliant in this ancient game's annals.

Perhaps as a result of Kissinger's interest in the match and his two conversations with Bobby, President Nixon also relayed an invitation to Fischer, through Life's Life's photographer Harry Benson, to visit the White House after the match was over, win or lose. Nixon said that he liked Bobby "because he is a fighter." photographer Harry Benson, to visit the White House after the match was over, win or lose. Nixon said that he liked Bobby "because he is a fighter."

In an effort to ease the situation and encourage Fischer to continue the match, Schmid announced that according to the rules, he had the right to move the match from the stage of the hall to a backstage room. Speaking privately to Spa.s.sky, Schmid appealed to him "as a sportsman" to agree to this new attempt to enable the match to continue. Spa.s.sky, ever a gentleman, was willing. By the time Fischer was notified of the new arrangement, he'd already made reservations on all three flights going back to New York on the day of the third game. He took a few hours to consider the offer, and ninety minutes before the start of play he said he'd be willing to give it a try if he was a.s.sured complete privacy and no cameras.