earlier days he was often ill after a tournament, afflicted by tonsillitis and a high temperature. But later on, the German grandmaster and psychologist Helmut Pfleger measured the stress levels (blood pressure and so on) of a number of grandmasters in a major tournament in Munich. He discovered that Spassky was the calmest. Spassky’s serenity was an asset: any champion would have had his nerve tested by the manner in which Fischer stormed his way to the final.
7. BULLDOZER TO REYKJAVIK
As far as world championship events are concerned, Fischer is in some danger of becoming the Yeti of the chess world. Indeed, to organizers of such events, he must seem as elusive and as fearsome as the abominable snowman.
In the world championship cycle, the Zonal, the Interzonal, and the Candidates, the United States, like the USSR, was considered a zone in its own right, Zone 5. The U.S. Championship doubled as the U.S. Zonal, with the rules stating that the top three placed players would qualify. However, for several years Fischer had boycotted the tournament. His grievance was that it was too short: with only eleven rounds, a player who suffered a loss of form for one or two days could be put out of the running. The organizers said they could not afford a longer tournament. In 1969, Fischer was absent again; the three players to qualify for the Interzonal were William Addison, Samuel Reshevsky, and Pal Benko.
Fischer had not played competitive chess for eighteen months, and many thought he would never return. Then, to general surprise and delight, he agreed to participate in the Soviet Union vs. the Rest of the World in 1970 in Belgrade. To even greater amazement, when the Danish grandmaster Bent Larsen demanded that he play on Board One for the Rest against the leading Soviet, pointing out quite reasonably that he had achieved the best tournament results over the previous two years, Fischer yielded the point and agreed to step down to Board Two. It meant that he played Petrosian rather than Spassky.
Despite his voluntary concession, Fischer was fuming. Knowing how he could take his anger out on tournament organizers, the press monitored his every movement. Soviet grandmaster Mark Taimanov says reports on Belgrade Radio were akin to battlefield dispatches: “Fischer has left the room,” “Fischer has ordered dinner in the restaurant.” However, the American’s humor soon improved; though handicapped by a lack of practice, he beat Petrosian in the first two rounds and drew with him in the last two. Meanwhile, Spassky and Larsen shared the honors with a win apiece. (Spassky’s win became famous—achieved in seventeen moves; it was one of the quickest in grandmaster history.) The Soviet Union edged to victory overall by a single point.
Representing their countries, Fischer and Spassky were to meet at the chess Olympiad at Siegen in West Germany in 1970. Naturally, there was great pressure on both men. Spassky was spotted puffing away tensely on cigarette after cigarette before they faced each other. Hundreds gathered in the hall to watch the game; Fischer had ensured that the table was kept several yards away from the spectators.
Those who could make out the position were not to be disappointed: it was a truly fabulous game. Fischer, with the black pieces—a minor disadvantage—quickly gained equality with one of his favorite openings, the Grunfeld Defense, and, as is common in the Grunfeld, sniped away at white’s center. The American then planted a knight on a secure square, c4, on which it was both safe from attack and, within its surrounding area, a dominating presence. Yet Fischer seemed to underestimate Spassky’s attack, involving rook, knight, and queen, on the other side of the board. The winning combination was delightfully elegant, an unexpected rook sacrifice, winning Fischer’s queen. The chess correspondent of the London
When Spassky emerged victorious after five hours and thirty-nine moves, the Soviet ambassador to West Germany, Semion Tsarapkin, kissed him with joy. Spassky was lucky: according to then West German chancellor Willy Brandt, Tsarapkin was nicknamed “Pincers.” “The ambassador’s powerful jaws sometimes snapped with a force suggestive of the intention to pulverize his words.” Tsarapkin was given the chessboard on which the match had been played, signed by all the grandmasters there save one—Fischer.
In an interview later, Spassky said of this win that he had succeeded in working himself up “into that special state of elan without which any tour de force is impossible. Fischer himself may have unwittingly contributed to my high spirits. It has always been a pleasure to play against him.” Spassky told the interviewer that he regarded Fischer as the most likely challenger for his crown and that he held him in high esteem as a man who loved chess passionately and for whom the game was everything. In a display of empathy, he described Fischer as “very lonely. That is one of his tragedies.”
So Fischer was back, and a series of impressive tournament results followed; he was apparently growing stronger with each game. As he once again approached his best form, to the neutral chess observer it began to seem a catastrophe that the self-destructive American had disqualified himself from the world championship cycle. But help was at hand from Fischer’s guardian angel, Ed Edmondson.
Colonel Edmondson had a bearing that could only be American: square jawed, upright, solid. He had entered the byzantine world of chess administration in the twilight of his military career in the U.S. Air Force, where he edited its
For years, the ever cheerful director of the U.S. Chess Federation acted as Fischer’s unpaid agent, standing between Fischer and the potential consequences of his extreme conduct. Now the colonel and Pal Benko hatched a plan. Rules had been bent for Fischer before; they could be bent for him again. If FIDE agreed, and the other players in the U.S. Zonal agreed, Benko would give up his Interzonal place to Fischer. Some reports suggest this was Edmondson’s idea; Benko says it was at his initiative, since only Fischer had a realistic chance of the title. The prospect that one of the three American Interzonal contenders might make way for Fischer had been the talk of the chess world as early as the Siegen Olympiad. In any case, Edmondson persuaded FIDE to accept the deal. As for Benko, he received a modest payoff from the U.S. Chess Federation of $2,000. Fischer’s place in the world championship had been bought for him—and bought cheaply, given the potential rewards.
Fischer’s rapture was modified: as usual, there was a last minute hiccup when he expressed his dissatisfaction with the money on offer. His threat not to take up his Interzonal spot after all provoked this anguished plea from Colonel Edmondson:
More than anything else, I want to help you to become World Champion. I can only do so if there is a high degree of cooperation and faith between us. I strongly urge you to play in the Interzonal and in the Candidates Matches, trusting me as you progress to fight every step of the way for the best possible playing and financial conditions on your behalf.
I believe you appreciate this fact and ask that we again confirm agreement on the following.
A. Interzonal $4,000
B. Candidates Match, Quarter-Final $3,000
C. Candidates Match, Semi-Final $3,000
D. Final Candidates Match $4,000
E.World Championship Match $5,000
Total guaranteed honorariums $19,000
