Frank Brady - Endgame

While Spassky was supported by a small army of helpers, Fischer basically toiled alone. A British player, Robert Wade, supplied Bobby with a detailed analysis of Spassky’s openings in two loose-leaf books, one marked “Spassky: White” and the other “Spassky: 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 Ali–type 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 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 analyzed 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, assisted 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. Endorsements 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-Spassky duel as the most important match ever played by an American. Time magazine was just one of many media outlets beating the geopolitical drum. It dubbed the contest “The Russian Bear vs. the Brooklyn Wolf.” Spassky’s defense of his title 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 Spassky … 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 title holder, secure in the knowledge of his superiority, frequently plays on his own “normal” level, falsely assuming that because he is the champion, the proven quality of his past play is sufficient for current victory. One advantage Spassky enjoyed, though, was a rule stipulation called “draw odds.” If he could draw every game, giving him 12 points, Spassky would retain his title without winning a game. Fischer needed 12 ½ points to dethrone Spassky.

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-Spassky 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.