David Edmonds - Bobby Fischer Goes to War

Preparation for the next game remains the priority for the two contestants. Between periods of analysis with his seconds, Spassky relaxes with tennis—when it is not raining or too windy—or by seeing a movie. (When Larisa arrives, the TASS correspondent accompanies her to a film that would never reach the screen in Moscow, about a priapic monk who takes charge of a nunnery.) During the course of the two months, a number of close supporters of Fischer’s arrive to cheer him on. There is his early mentor, Jack Collins, his sister, Joan Targ, with her family, and his friend from Los Angeles, Lina Grumette.

Fischer works alone until late at night to the accompaniment of rock music; then he swims at the hotel, plays table tennis or tennis, or goes bowling at Keflavik. Archie Waters, a second-rate chess player, is Fischer’s favored table tennis partner. As for tennis, he has a number of opponents to choose from, including Svetozar Gligoric and Robert Byrne, both of whom are quite a few years older than Fischer. Byrne says they walked onto the court at eleven o’clock at night: “He saw that I could only play for twenty minutes, and for all these twenty minutes we merely warmed up. Then, noticing that I was already panting, he said: ‘Okay, that’s the end of the knock-up. Now we’ll start playing.’”

Fischer’s favorite leisure activity, however, is bowling. Even this is a means to a chess end, as Victor Jackovich from the U.S. embassy recalls. The most junior diplomat, Jackovich was assigned to take Fischer to the bowling alley in the American air base:

Bowling was partly a physical exercise and partly a mental distraction. That’s all it was. Bowling as a sport had no interest for him. He would always bowl out of turn. I would bowl, and his second, the Reverend William Lombardy, would bowl, and Fischer would bowl, and I would bowl, and Fischer would stand up. And if I went over and said, “No, it’s not your turn, it’s the father’s turn,” Lombardy would signal me to say no, no. And he told me later, ‘It makes no difference. It’s just throwing a ball at a bunch of pins, it’s not real bowling here, it’s not a game.’ And I remember a person at the base coming up to Fischer and with the best of intentions trying to tell him, “Look, let me show you what you’re doing wrong with your hook,” or whatever, because his balls were going all over the place. Fischer very curtly, very abruptly, told him, Look, I throw this heavy ball in order to exercise my arm, in order that I can be in better physical shape, in order that I can sleep better, in order that I can play better chess. That’s it.” He wasn’t impolite about it. I think the American was a bit taken aback because he thought this was his opportunity to show Fischer something, help him out. But Fischer didn’t care.

Fred Cramer compiles a timetabled daily duty roster, which he writes on Loftleidir stationery and sends to Frank Skoff, with a copy for Lombardy. They are a reminder to Skoff of his numerous tasks, though these vary from day to day. He must regularly comb the playing hall for cameras. He must chase up the Mercedes-Benz automatic-shift car, as promised by the Icelandic organizers. He must arrange the laundry. He must ensure there is a tennis or table tennis or bowling partner for Fischer, available at all times, and that the facilities are unlocked and ready for Fischer to walk straight in.

In general, have each activity so set up that Bobby can be doing it on thirty minutes notice or less. Don’t leave any blank spots. Don’t leave anything to anybody else, even Sammy. (Of course, we count on him—and various others—heavily, but you must, in all cases, be so set up that Bobby can go, regardless of any other individual. Always have at least three of four backup men at each point.)

Skoff should always have suitable clothing ready for Bobby’s activities. He should try to ensure the facilities are not used “for other persons or other activities.” He should always be looking to add to the list of potential playing partners for Bobby. “Bear in mind that people do other things. Some even leave Iceland.”

As the sun sinks on a Friday night, the mood lifts in the American camp and among the championship organizers. For twenty-four hours, Fischer is locked away, observing his Sabbath. There is a temporary armistice between Fischer and the organizers. It is all quiet on the Loftleidir front.

In the Fox tragicomedy, it was far from quiet. The central issue now was not whether the cameras would be permitted in—most of the parties concerned had reluctantly abandoned any such hope—but whether Fischer could be made to pay. Chester Fox maintained he had so far spent up to $200,000 on setting up the film coverage and estimated his lost earnings at $1.75 million. He wanted compensation and threatened to sue Fischer “for every cent we can lay our hands on.” To cover himself, Fischer asked the Icelandic Chess Federation to deposit $46,875—half the loser’s share of the prize fund—in his bank account. The ICF refused.

Legal proceedings continued apace, with Fox going to the U.S. federal court to claim that Fischer had intentionally inflicted upon him “grave financial harm.”

On Fischer’s behalf, Cramer shrugged off the impending court action: Fox was merely trying to upstage Fischer—as usual. Fox’s lawyers obtained an order from a federal judge, Constance Baker Motley, to freeze a portion of Fischer’s prize money. “All we really want is to make sure that this historic game is preserved on film for posterity,” explained Fox’s attorney, Richard Stein. He would rather serve the order on Fischer privately, but if Fischer refused to meet him, he might have no option but to do so publicly, even if that meant walking onto the stage during the game. From this point, four helmeted policemen stood backstage to protect the challenger in case someone tried to thrust the papers on him.

On 27 August, the ICF came to a settlement with Fox. In return for Fox’s agreement neither to block the prize money nor to bring a lawsuit in Iceland against Fischer, the ICF gave up its share of any profits he had made from the film rights so far (and still hoped to make in the future). Not for the first time, Fischer was absolved of responsibility for his actions. Once again, the Icelanders had lost out. Eventually Fox would abandon the legal fight; it was only throwing good money after bad.

To the rest of the chess world, Fischer’s conviction that the game’s elite could and should command the same respect and rewards as screen idols, boxing stars, golfing celebrities, or Formula One racing drivers was in the realms of fantasy. Up to the 1970s, chess was Western sport’s poor cousin, never quite shaking off its character as a strictly cerebral game for passionate amateurs, inevitably bespectacled and boasting bad haircuts, playing in the smoky back rooms of tenebrous, sequestered clubs or on the bare boards of dank church halls.

A decade before Iceland, Fischer complained, “Reshevsky and I are the only ones in America who try to make a living. We don’t make much. The other masters have outside jobs. Like Rossolimo, he drives a cab. Evans, he works for the movies. The Russians, they get money from the government. We have to depend on tournament prizes. And they’re lousy. Maybe a couple of hundred bucks.” Thousands enjoyed the game, but nobody could make a living wage from it. There was little prize money in tournaments, little demand for books and coaches. In 1962, when Donald Schultz, later president of the U.S. Chess Federation, was setting up a tournament in a small town in upstate New York, he thought of inviting the teenage superstar, Bobby Fischer. “I contacted the chess federation office in New York and they put up $500—which doesn’t seem much now but was a lot then, and certainly no one else was doing it. And we brought Fischer to our tournament.”