Endgame

by Frank Brady

  “We’re going to work now,” Bobby said dismissively to Benko, as he was eating a large late-night room service dinner. He and Bisguier had planned to go over some games. “You can’t come in.”

  “Yes I can. Bisguier also my second,” said Benko.

  “Bisguier also my second,” parroted Bobby, trying to duplicate Benko’s Magyar accent.

  “Why you make fun at me?” Benko asked.

  “Why you make fun at me?” Bobby parroted again.

  “Stop it!”

  “Stop it!”

  All the while Bisguier stood by and, with body language and a few words of attempted peacemaking, tried to calm things down.

  “Get out of my room!” Bobby commanded.

  “No, you get out!” Benko replied, somewhat illogically.

  It isn’t clear who hit first, but since Bobby was sitting, he was at a disadvantage. Blows and slaps were exchanged as both grandmasters screamed at each other. Bisguier jumped in and separated the two men. Benko had achieved the “better” of it and years later would confess: “I am sorry that I beat up Bobby. He was a sick man, even then.” In the annals of chess, this was the first fistfight ever recorded by two grandmasters, both prospective World Champions.

  The day after the fight, Bobby penned a letter to the Tournament Committee, asking them to expel Benko. The committee chose to do nothing about the protest.

  Before May and June of 1962 Bobby seemed to be gaining strength with every contest. “Fischer grows from one tournament to the next,” Mikhail Tal had said. He’d surpassed his great achievement at Bled in 1961 with an even more dazzling triumph at Stockholm. He’d defeated at least once all of the five Soviet grandmasters he was to meet at Curaçao, and he seemed to be reaching the peak of his powers sooner than anyone (but himself) had expected.

  Pundits’ predictions were proven totally wrong when the first news issued from Curaçao that May. Fischer and Tal had both lost in the first and second rounds, and Bobby was soon lagging in fourth place. All in all, Eliot Hearst observed in Chess Life, the Candidates tournament had furnished “a series of early-round surprises that are probably without parallel in chess history.”

  Some have speculated that Bobby might have been spending too much of his off time gambling, but Bisguier said that all Bobby would do was, on occasion, wander into the casino in the evenings and play the slot machines—the “one-armed bandits” as they were called—until he got bored. He didn’t watch television or go to the local movie house, because he said such activity was bad for his eyes and he didn’t want to hurt his play. He did attend a prizefight one night and went to a local nightclub a few times, but his heart and interest weren’t in it.

  Henry Stockhold, a chess player who was covering the match for the Associated Press, brought Bobby to a brothel one night and waited for him. When Bobby exited an hour later, Stockhold asked him how he enjoyed it, and Bobby’s comment, which he repeated at other times, has often been quoted: “Chess is better.”

  Tigran Petrosian won the 1962 Candidates tournament with a score of eight wins, nineteen draws, and no losses, for 17½ points. Soviets Efim Geller and Paul Keres tied for second, a half point behind, and Bobby’s fourth-place score was three full points below the three leaders and a half point ahead of Korchnoi.

  Bobby wanted the world to know what really happened at Curaçao. He wrote: “There was open collusion between the Russian [Soviet] players. They agreed ahead of time to draw the games that they played against each other.… They consulted during the games. If I was playing a Russian [Soviet] opponent, the other Russians watched my games, and commented on my moves in my hearing.”

  Korchnoi, in his memoir Chess Is My Life, backed Bobby’s accusations: “Everything was arranged by Petrosian. He agreed with his friend Geller to play draws in all their games together. They also persuaded Keres to join their coalition … this gave them a great advantage over the remaining competitors.”

  When asked why Fischer hadn’t won, Pal Benko, still smarting over his fight with Bobby, replied: “He simply wasn’t the best player.”

  Bobby’s self-image was shattered as a result of Curaçao. His dream—his obsession—of becoming the youngest World Champion in history had eluded him. It had seemed inevitable to him that he’d win the title, but that was not enough. His ascendancy to international chess prominence at such a young age had made him certain that he’d become champion, but the Russians—through what he considered their chicanery—had proven that they could hold him back, and this both enraged and saddened him.

  Bobby now realized that there was nothing about his destiny that was inevitable, and yet he would not go quietly into the chess night. He despised the Soviets for what they’d done to him. He was convinced they’d stolen the championship, and he insisted that the world know it.

  In its August 20, 1962, issue, Sports Illustrated published Bobby’s j’accuse: “The Russians Have Fixed World Chess.” The article was reprinted in German, Dutch, Spanish, Swedish, Icelandic, and even the Russian chess journalists made mention of it. Bobby announced that he’d never again participate in a Candidates tournament, because the FIDE system made it impossible for any but a Soviet player to win. He wrote, “The system set up by the Fédération Internationale des Échecs … insures that there will always be a Russian world champion.… The Russians arranged it that way.” At Portorož he confirmed that he’d grown in strength sufficiently to have defeated all the Soviet grandmasters competing with him for the title. He believed that Russian manipulation of tournaments had become a great deal more “open,” or apparent, presumably in response to his threat of domination.

  Chess watchers seem to agree that it was likely the Soviets had colluded, on some level, at Curaçao. And yet Bobby failed to mention that neither he nor anyone else ever proved a threat to the three leading Russians throughout this tournament, so the question of why the Russians would have colluded as flagrantly as Bobby maintained remains unanswered. Economics professors Charles C. Moul and John V. C. Nye wrote a scholarly analysis, “Did the Soviets Collude? A Statistical Analysis of Championship Chess, 1940–64,” examining hundreds of tournament results involving Soviet and non-Soviet players, and concluded that there was a 75 percent probability, in general, that Soviet players did collude. The authors were quick to point out, however, that “Fischer was not a strong enough favorite to be severely harmed by the draw collusion in the notorious Candidates Tournament in Curaçao, 1962.”

  Curaçao aside, the real reason the Soviets always seemed to be among the finalists in tournaments was, of course, that they were overrepresented in the field of players, due to the game’s popularity in their home country and the level of government support. The Soviet Union had more first-rate players than any other three nations combined. So long as that imbalance remained—and with the superb Soviet “farm system,” it continued to reinforce itself—two to three Russians would always survive the Interzonal to enter the Candidates, with one or two more seeded over. That created the possibility of the Russians “teaming up” if they so chose, and led to charges such as Bobby’s that no Westerner could hope to win the world title under the existing FIDE system.

  Perhaps because of Fischer’s intransigent article in Sports Illustrated, the Soviets and the rest of the chess world were shocked into accepting a new FIDE dictum: A radical reform of the Candidates was instituted. From that point forward, the old setup would be replaced with a series of matches of ten or twelve games each between the eight individual contestants, with the loser of each match being eliminated.

  Still unanswered was the question of whether Bobby Fischer would really drop out of the World Championship cycle and never realize his dream. Some wondered: Might he even drop out of chess altogether?

  The answer came quickly.

  8

  Legends Clash

  ABOARD THE New Amsterdam ocean liner nineteen-year-old Bobby Fischer didn’t wear a tuxedo to dinner in the first-class lounge, but he dressed as conservatively
as he could, with a blue serge suit, white shirt, and dark tie. Forgetting that he’d ever been way behind the fashion curve, he was appalled, in some priggish, nouveau riche kind of way, that certain passengers appeared in the dining room in slacks and sneakers.

  During the nine-day voyage from New York to Rotterdam in September 1962 he slept as much as could, played over some games, and sat on the promenade deck to take in the bracing sea air. The trip was paid for from the $5,000 appearance fee he was getting to compete for the United States in the Olympiad in Varna, Bulgaria. He had a triple motive in sailing, instead of flying, across the Atlantic: He wanted to see and experience how the “aristocrats” traveled, he needed some rest and time alone, and he was also beginning to become afraid—in a way that many might consider paranoid—that the Soviets, to protect their national chess honor and remove him as a threat to their hegemony, might sabotage a plane that he was in.

  Bobby’s diatribe about cheating by the Soviets was being discussed all over the world, and the chess hierarchy in Russia was incensed. Consequently, he believed the Soviets might be furious enough to, as he put it, murder him by “tinkering with the engine of a plane.”

  The anticipation of playing against World Champion Mikhail Botvinnik for the first time was exhilarating, though, and worth the discomfort of participating at what was rumored to be a not-so-exemplary tournament site—the Black Sea resort called Golden Sands.

  Mikhail Moisevich Botvinnik of Leningrad was fifty-one years old and arguably one of the best chess players who ever lived. Winner three times of the World Championship, he’d defeated Alexander Alekhine, José Capablanca, Max Euwe, and Emanuel Lasker, among other renowned players, and was a living legend. Ironically, despite his much-deserved reputation, he was apprehensive about playing Bobby Fischer for the first time. The Russian had, of course, heard of Bobby’s “Game of the Century,” his near-perfect performance at Bled, and his astounding win at Stockholm. But there was another factor putting Botvinnik on edge: He considered Bobby an enemy of the Soviet state, owing to the nineteen-year-old’s post-Curaçao accusations.

  What loomed was a mini Cold War—one played across sixty-four squares.

  Fischer and Botvinnik had met once—but not to play—at the Leipzig Olympiad in 1960, and when introduced, Bobby shook hands and said succinctly, “Fischer.” No other words of greeting were exchanged. Although he spoke passable English, Botvinnik was not known for his cordiality.

  Botvinnik surmised that someday Bobby might be his or someone else’s challenger for the World Championship—and perhaps even hold the title—but even if that did not occur, the whole world would be studying and analyzing his game with Fischer at this Olympiad perhaps for hundreds of years. Thinking of the embarrassment if he lost, Botvinnik suggested to the organizers that the game be played in a private room: At least then he wouldn’t have to face spectators and the other players in the hour of his possible defeat. But no such room was available, and anyway the organizers wanted the game to be in public view for the publicity it would generate. Of the thousands of games to be played at this Olympiad, Fischer-Botvinnik promised to be the tournament’s one marquee event, and the organizers didn’t want chess fans to be robbed of the excitement.

  Botvinnik, who wore steel-rimmed glasses and a gray suit, exhibited a serious, businesslike demeanor. He was buttoned up, both literally and figuratively, projecting the look of a scientist—which, in addition to being a grandmaster, was exactly what he was. He knew he was a major representative of the Soviet Union, and he chose his words as if his every conversation might end up as a part of a court transcript somewhere. His pupil, Anatoly Karpov, said of him that he had an “Olympian inaccessibility.”

  Bobby had already played fifteen games over four weeks in the Olympiad by the time he sat down to play Botvinnik, so long before their matchup he’d shaken off any rust. As they met at the board, they shook hands and then slightly banged heads when they went to be seated. “Sorry,” said Bobby, uttering the second word he’d ever spoken to Botvinnik, again without a reply.

  When the game was adjourned, it appeared that Fischer’s position was clearly superior.

  Fischer dined alone that night, took a cursory look at the game, was confident he had it won, and went to sleep early. Not so, the Soviets. Mikhail Tal, Boris Spassky, Paul Keres, Efim Geller, team coach Semyon Furman, and Botvinnik worked on the position until five-thirty the next morning. They also called Moscow and spoke to Yuri Averbach—an endgame authority—and asked for his opinion. It was Geller who suggested that although Fischer was ahead materially, there was a subtle way that the game might be drawn.

  The next morning at breakfast, someone approached Botvinnik and asked him what he thought about the position. He answered in Russian with one word: “Nichia.” Draw.

  When play resumed, Botvinnik was in shirtsleeves, a look so unusual for him that the other players knew he was worried and prepared for serious work. Bobby, meanwhile, was unaware that he was about to play against the analysis of no less than seven Soviet grandmasters, not just the ingenuity of his opponent. Slowly, he saw what Botvinnik was up to, and his face became ashen. Botvinnik, who rarely rose from the board until the game was over, was so exuberant about having changed the game’s momentum that he could not sit still. He stood, walked over to the Soviet team captain, Lev Abramov, and, once again, whispered, “Nichia.” Bobby, still remembering the argument he’d had with Abramov in Moscow in 1958—the men hadn’t spoken since—immediately complained to the arbiter. “Look,” he said. “Botvinnik is getting assistance!”

  Abramov, though he was far less skilled than Botvinnik, was nevertheless an international master and might have, at that moment, relayed to Botvinnik information from the other Soviet grandmasters. At least, that’s what Bobby was thinking. No official protest was put before the tournament committee, however, because Bobby’s own teammates believed he was being extreme and wrongheaded.

  Eventually, Bobby could make no headway in this game that he should have won. He looked up at Botvinnik and said the third word he’d ever spoken to him: “Draw.” Botvinnik simply offered his hand. Later, he recalled that Bobby, his face pallid, shook hands and left the tournament hall in tears. The United States team wound up finishing a disappointing fourth, mainly as a result of Bobby’s disappointing results. Mysteriously, the nineteen-year-old wrote a letter of apology to Dr. Eliot Hearst, the United States team captain, saying he’d been under great stress that had nothing to do with the Olympiad or chess.

  Aboard the New Amsterdam once again, heading back to New York, Bobby wrote a note to his friend Bernard Zuckerman explaining how he felt about his draw against Botvinnik. The message was cabled to Brooklyn. Bobby felt that he had fallen into a “cheapo”—that he’d been tricked by one of his opponent’s ruses and had made an unsound move—and that, prior to Bobby’s committing this error, Botvinnik, because of Bobby’s superior position, seemed so upset that he looked like he was going to collapse.

  In an estimation filled with sour grapes, Bobby also wrote that Botvinnik, the well-respected former World Champion, was never really a great player, never “first among equals” as Botvinnik had once described himself. Instead, Bobby claimed that Botvinnik’s superiority lay in the field of politics. He suggested that Botvinnik might have been able to become Premier of the Soviet Union because of his [political] ability “off the chessboard.”

  Curaçao was a watershed for Bobby in his vow to never again play in the World Championship cycle. The Varna match, with the assistance of Botvinnik’s teammates to eke out a draw, was also a turning point. It would be two years before Bobby accepted an invitation to play in another international tournament. The Russians claimed that his retreat from the world stage was because of his “pathological” fear of the “hand of Moscow.” But back in Brooklyn, Bobby said he just no longer wanted to be involved with those “commie cheaters,” as he called them.

  Then—a little more than a year later, in December 1963—came t
he 1963–64 United States Championship, held in the unpretentious Henry Hudson Hotel in New York. Bobby’s opponents fell as if they were tenpins, Bobby scoring a strike—game after game they toppled—with not a hint of a draw. The audience sensed that something unusual was about to happen. It did.

  Bobby defeated the powerful champion Arthur Bisguier and the aging Samuel Reshevsky, and speculation surged through the hotel ballroom: Was it possible Bobby could make a clean sweep—pull off a win against every foe, with not even a single draw? The audience increased every round as word of Fischer’s incredible run spread throughout the chess community.

  Tension, always high in a major tournament, was escalating. Bobby’s immaculate timing and apparently infallible play was creating a psychological handicap for players who hadn’t yet faced him. He vanquished every player he met. It was December 30, 1963, and Bobby had played all but one game of the championship without losing or drawing a game. There was only one more to go.

  The combatants rested on New Year’s Day and returned to the contest on January 2. Bobby’s score made him the winner already, but how the tournament would end was not inevitable. His final game was against Anthony Saidy, a friend. In his mid-twenties, six years older than Fischer, Saidy was then a medical doctor with the Peace Corps and had been given a leave to play in the championship. He’d been playing very well, and this round gave him a chance at second place. He could also be the “spoiler,” the person to ruin Fischer’s chance for a perfect score in the championship. If that happened, it would go into the chess history books. And Saidy might, in fact, win, especially since he had the advantage of the white pieces.

  By now there were hundreds of spectators at the hotel, tensely watching the big demonstration board. Most of them were clearly, but very quietly, rooting for Bobby, in part because his win that day would give him a clean sweep. But as the game grew longer, a win seemed very unlikely. Saidy’s position was powerful, and Bobby’s was precarious. The two-and-a-half-hour time limit ended, and there was no winner as yet. It was Saidy’s turn to move. The young doctor thought for about forty minutes, wrote down his intended move on his score sheet, sealed it in an envelope according to the rules, and handed it to the tournament director. The game was then adjourned until the next day. Everyone left the hotel ballroom assuming that when the game resumed it would be a draw, at best. It was not. It took Saidy about thirty minutes to realize that he’d sealed a blunder. The next day when the envelope was opened by the director, and the move made on the board, Bobby realized immediately that Saidy hadn’t chosen wisely. He looked up at Saidy and a slight smile appeared on his face. Saidy’s blunder gave Fischer an opportunity to develop a winning endgame, and half an hour after the adjourned game was resumed, Saidy was forced to resign.