Frank Brady - Endgame

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.”