Endgame (30 page)

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
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 Spassky, has been told many times. At the beginning of the competition, Fischer looked Abraham Lincoln–thin; 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
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 Spassky. 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 Spassky on one side and Fischer on the other. Fischer, with a weak smile, looked somewhat embarrassed, 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 finishing 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.

D
URING THE
1960
S
, 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
; and he summarily dropped out of the 1967 Interzonal in Tunisia—even though he was leading and was almost assured 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 participating in the tournament he was allowing yet another chance for the World Championship to slip from his grasp, but he was resolved no matter what the consequences:
He
, not the organizers, would decide when he’d play and when he wouldn’t.

Fischer’s most significant accomplishment of 1969 was actually publishing-related. His long-promised games collection,
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
was seen as a revealing glimpse into the teenager’s mind, but it was criticized for its sparse annotations. In this new
book, his first—and, ultimately, only—serious work as an adult, Fischer was anything but sparse. 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 analysis to his draw against Botvinnik at Varna.

Bobby was at first going to title his book
My Life in Chess
, but he changed his mind, possibly deciding to reserve that title 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
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 competitors. The company reached a financial accommodation with him and publishing 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 analyst, would have been preserved through its publication.

Bobby withdrew from playing competitive 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 competition “
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 competitors 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
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 Larsen, 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 analyze the position and consider possible strategies the older grandmaster might play when the game resumed. After ten years of bitterness and competition, 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: 20½–19½, 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 3–1 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
the car, not to
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.”

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.”