Frank Brady - Endgame

THE PLEADING WAS EMBARRASSING to witness. “C’mon, Bobby. Let me pick you up. C’mon.” Silence on the other end of the phone. “We can just hang out.” Dead air. “We can play some Five-Minute, or go to a movie.” A young chess master, a few years Bobby’s senior, was calling from the office phone of the Marshall Chess Club, attempting to talk Fischer into getting together. “Or take a taxi. I’ll pay for it.” It was two in the afternoon and Bobby had just woken up. His voice, when he finally answered, sounded tinny and sluggish, the words drawled so that each syllable was stretched into two. His volume was loud, though—loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. “I don’t know. No. Well, what time? I have to eat.” The caller’s optimism surged. “We can eat at the Oyster Bar. You like that. C’mon.” Success. An hour and a half later sixteen-year-old Bobby was having his first meal of the day: filet of sole and a large glass of orange juice.

As he walked through Grand Central Terminal toward the restaurant, Bobby probably wasn’t recognized by most of the people he passed, but to his host—and almost all other chess players—having a meal with Fischer was like dining with a movie star. He was becoming a super-celebrity in the world of chess, but the more fame he achieved, the more unpleasant his behavior became. Inflated by his successes on the board, his ego had begun to shut out other people. Gone was Charming Bobby with the electric smile. Enter Problematic Bobby with the disdainful attitude and frequently flashed warning scowl. Increasingly, Bobby viewed it a favor merely to be seen with him.

And it didn’t matter if he rebuffed or rejected a person, because someone else was sure to phone with yet another offer to play chess, see a movie, or eat a fish dinner. Everyone wanted to be in his company, to be part of the Bobby Fischer Show, and he knew it. One mistake, disagreement, or mistimed appointment on the part of a friend was enough for Bobby to sever a relationship. And banishment from his realm would last forever; there were always others who’d take the offender’s place.

If you didn’t play chess, it was nearly impossible to enter Bobby’s world, and yet his disrespect seemed to be directed more at weak players than those who didn’t know how to play the game. The latter could be forgiven their ignorance, but a weak player—which, by definition, included almost anyone he could beat—had no excuse. “ Anyone should be able to become a master,” he said with certainty.

Ironically, given his regal attitude, nothing seemed to be going right for Bobby in the fall of 1959. He’d been home barely a month from the Candidates tournament in Yugoslavia, and he was tired—never really weary of the game itself, but fatigued from his excruciating two-month attempt to become Botvinnik’s challenger. He was psychically injured from not winning the tournament, and he couldn’t eradicate the sting of his four bitter losses—robberies, he called them—to Tal.

Too, as always, there was the problem of money. Those still close to Bobby asked the obvious question: If he was one of the best players in the world, or certainly in the United States, why couldn’t he make a living practicing his profession? While the average American salary at that time was $5,500 annually, Bobby, who certainly didn’t consider himself average , had made barely $1,000 for a year’s work. His prize for playing in the Candidates tournament had been only $200. If there just wasn’t substantial tournament money to be had, why couldn’t the American Chess Foundation sponsor him? It backed Reshevsky, even sending him to college. Was it because Bobby wasn’t devoutly Jewish, while Reshevsky was Orthodox? Virtually all of the directors of the foundation were Jewish. Were they exerting subtle pressure on him to conform? To go back to school? Did they not respect him because he was “just a kid”? Was it because of the way he dressed?

Telegrams and phone calls kept pouring into Bobby through the end of November and the first weeks of December. Some of the correspondents asked whether he was going to defend his United States Championship title in the Rosenwald tournament. He really didn’t know. A letter finally arrived in early December that announced the pairings. It listed the twelve players who were invited—Bobby included—and detailed who’d play whom on which dates, and what color each player would have in each round. Bobby went into a slow fume. Public pairing ceremonies were the custom, he loudly pointed out, in all European and most international tournaments.

The Rosenwald organizers, catching Bobby’s implication that they’d colluded to make the pairings more favorable for some, expressed outrage at his protest. “Simple,” said Bobby in response, “just do the pairings over again … this time publicly.” They refused, and the sixteen-year-old Bobby threatened a lawsuit. The New York Times picked up on the dispute and ran a story headlined CHESS GROUP BALKS AT FISCHER DEMAND. The fracas escalated, and Bobby was told that a replacement player would take his place if he refused to play. Finally, the contest of wills ended after officials agreed that if Bobby would play this time, they’d make the pairings in public the following year. It was enough of a concession for Bobby, and he agreed to play. Ultimately, he’d won the battle.

In the past, Bobby had been perturbed by the constant criticism he received for his mode of dress. For example, an article in the Sunday newspaper supplement Parade , read by tens of millions, published a photograph of him giving a simultaneous exhibition with the caption: “Despite his rise to fame, Bobby still dresses casually. Note his dungarees and [plaid] shirt in contrast to his opponents’ business suits and ties.” Such potshots, he felt, diminished him—however subtle they might be. They detracted not only from who he incontestably was—a grandmaster and the United States Champion—but who he believed he was—the strongest player in the world.

Later, Pal Benko, whom Bobby had played in the Candidates tournament, would claim to be the one who talked Bobby into changing the kind of clothes he wore. He introduced Bobby to his tailor in the Little Hungary section of Manhattan so that the teenager could have some bespoke suits made. How Bobby could afford custom-tailored clothing is a mystery. Possibly, the money came from an advance he received for his book Bobby Fischer’s Games of Chess , which was published in 1959.

When Bobby arrived at the Empire Hotel in December 1959 for the first round of the U.S. Championship tournament, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, a custom-made white shirt, a Sulka white tie, and Italian-made shoes. Also, his hair was neatly combed, completing an image makeover so total that he was barely recognizable. Gone were the sneakers and ski sweaters, the mussed hair, the plaid cowboy shirt, and the slightly stained corduroy trousers. Predictably, the press began talking about “the New Fischer,” interpreting Bobby’s sartorial upgrade as a sign that he’d crossed into young manhood.

Bobby’s competitors tried to hide their astonishment at the teenager’s transformed appearance. As play progressed, though, they were stunned in a different way. By the end of the tournament, the suavely bedecked Bobby had played all eleven games without a single loss. Fischer had not only retained his title as United States Champion, he’d accomplished something unprecedented: For the third year in a row, he’d marched to the title without being defeated in any of the pairings.

There was a financial windfall, too. Bobby received $1,000 for his tournament win—and the Fischer family’s pocketbook bulged further when Bobby’s maternal grandfather, Jacob Wender, passed away, leaving $14,000 of his estate to Regina. It was enough—if invested wisely—for the frugal Fischers to live on for several years.