tournaments became conditional upon high appearance fees, which the sponsors reluctantly found—they understood that the participation of the American added glamour to any lineup and stimulated public interest. But money was only part of it. Playing conditions had to be up to Fischer’s rigorous standards. The lighting had to be just right, the crowd had to be kept far enough back to limit noise. Less unusual, the rounds had to be prearranged so as to accommodate his religious practices. (Reshevsky, an Orthodox Jew, had the same requirement.)
In the mid-1960s, Fischer had become involved in the Worldwide Church of God, though he never formally joined. Based in Pasadena in Southern California, it was a rapidly growing fundamentalist sect, with over 75,000 members in 300 congregations across the country and abroad. The founder was an erstwhile newspaper advertising designer turned charismatic radio preacher, Herbert Armstrong. He served a Bible-based theological cocktail, part Judaism, with salvation through Jesus Christ, and a strict moral life. Followers were ordered to observe the Jewish Sabbath and such festivals as Passover and to adopt a kosher diet. With one exception, Fischer fitted in with the Church’s religious practices, broadly observing its dietary code as well as more strictly following its Sabbath injunctions. Even so, one has the sense that the American imposed his personalized interpretation on the rules of his Church, just as he did on competition rules. Yevgeni Vasiukov records seeing Fischer on the Sabbath at a tournament: “I have no wish to cast doubt on Fischer’s religious beliefs, but it was somewhat strange to see him come to the hall and analyze the games that had ended.” The pronouncement Fischer chose to ignore entirely was the Church’s doctrinal prohibition on board games, anathematized as “frivolous.”
In December 1963, Fischer entered the U.S. Chess Championship. He had already won it five times, but nobody could have foreseen the outcome. Against eleven of the highest-ranked players in the country, he won every game. It was an awesome performance; “historic” was the adjective used, rightly, in the press. To win a national tournament is one thing, to win it several years in succession is another, but to win it without losing or even drawing a single game is staggering. He had proved himself in a different league.
On such form, Fischer posed a real threat to Soviet supremacy, and the chess world buzzed in anticipation of his participating in the Amsterdam Interzonal of 1964. Not to participate—missing this world championship cycle— would mean that he could not hope to become world champion until the end of the following cycle, in 1969. Surely this was a chance he would not pass up.
But still raging against the “Soviet swindlers,” Fischer did indeed pass it up. His fury was turned in on himself, in the rejection of what he wanted most. He did not play competitive chess again for a year and a half. Offers came in, but Fischer turned them all down or asked for appearance fees beyond even the most munificent of sponsors. At the age of twenty-one, he staged his first retirement.
The tournament that brought him back was the Capablanca Memorial in Havana, which opened in August 1965—Fischer’s first international event since what he regarded as the catastrophe of Curacao. For an American, participation was a diplomatic challenge. This was only a few years since the Bay of Pigs fiasco and the Cuban missile crisis. Contact between Cuba and the United States was severely curtailed—when Fischer applied to the U.S. State Department for a permit to visit Cuba, they flatly turned him down.
Rather than fight the bureaucracy, Fischer’s ingenious solution was to offer to play by telex. (Some claim the idea originated with the Cuban chess organizer Jose Luis Barreras.) He would make his moves in New York while his opponents made theirs in Cuba. The solution would set the Cubans back $10,000. In the meantime, his lust for control was undiminished. Before the tournament began, Fischer read that Castro was proclaiming his, Fischer’s, involvement a propaganda victory. Fischer reacted with a cable to the Cuban leader withdrawing from the tournament unless “you immediately [send] me a telegram declaring that neither you, nor your government, will attempt to make political capital out of my participation.”
To students of Fischer’s psychology, Castro’s choice of riposte carried an interesting lesson, as the Cuban leader stood his ground. Scornful counterattack was the mode. Cuba, he wrote back, had no need of propaganda victories. “If you are frightened… then it would be better to find another excuse.” Fischer agreed to play. He came joint second.
In January 1966, Fischer took his seventh U.S. title, qualifying him for the 1967 Interzonal in Sousse, Tunisia. He was again on his way to another shot at his ultimate goal, the world title. In the meantime, there was a tournament in Santa Monica, in which the then world champion Tigran Pertrosian would participate, together with his recently defeated challenger Boris Spassky. Fischer had a disastrous first half, losing his individual game against Spaasky. As so often, however, he somehow stepped up a level, gathered momentum, and began cruising through the field. In the penultimate round, he faced Spassky again (all players played each other twice). This time he secured a draw—he had still not managed to beat the Russian—and Spassky went on to take the top prize, with Fischer finishing second.
Fischer and Spassky were to square off once more, in the chess Olympiad in Cuba in November 1966. There was almost a diplomatic incident when the Soviets initially refused to adjust the game times to fit in with Fischer’s Sabbath. Eventually the entire U.S.-USSR match was rescheduled, and hundreds watched Fischer and Spassky eke out a long draw. Castro and Fischer were later seen in amicable conversation as though no cross words between them had ever been exchanged. By now, Spassky and Fischer had played four times, with Spassky drawing two and winning two.
The following year, the Interzonal was held in the Sousse-Palace hotel. What happened there continues to stimulate comment. Fischer was the favorite, and the organizers had done what they could to accommodate his wishes, including placing additional lamps by his table, so that the lighting met with his approval, and scheduling the matches in such a way that both Fischer and Reshevsky would be free of chess for twenty-four hours from Friday night as well as on religious holidays.
Nevertheless, the tournament was beset by problems. Fischer was acutely sensitive to offstage noise and commotion, demanding on one occasion that a cameraman be removed from the hall. More important, as a result of the rescheduling, he had to play a number of games in succession—which he claimed put him under unreasonable strain. Although he was way ahead on points, halfway through he summarily departed his hotel and the tournament—and set off for Tunis.
Soviet international master Aivar Gipslis was his scheduled opponent the following day: Fischer was defaulted for failing to appear. A representative of the U.S. embassy went to see him, as did one of the organizers, begging him to return. In the next game, he was pitted against his old adversary and compatriot Samuel Reshevsky. Reshevsky watched Fischer’s clock slowly tick down and must have expected not to have to make a move. With only five minutes to go before the automatic forfeit, Fischer strolled in and began to make accurate moves with extraordinary speed. Emotionally drained, Reshevsky capitulated quickly despite his time advantage. The veteran American then went around the other players with a petition objecting to Fischer’s behavior.
Now the issue was the lost Gipslis game. Fischer said it must be replayed. The organizers discussed it, but they knew that if they complied, the other players would regard this as too great a concession—there would be mutiny. On the authorities’ considered refusal, Fischer finally walked out, for good measure ripping up the hotel bill for “extras” that he was handed at reception.
Apparently at the peak of his powers, Fischer now disappeared from chess for two years. It appeared that in forfeiting the Gipslis game, he might forever have forfeited his chance of winning the world title. As the Sousse Interzonal had testified, Fischer had become the enfant terrible of chess, his antics attracting global attention to the normally sedate, dignified, inside-page, down-column Royal Game. But some of those who suffered at his hands would have thought “enfant terrible” too kind, believing that there was something demonic about him. Beyond the antics, what must be accounted for is how he lacked concern for others’ feelings while retaining the loyalty of rejected supporters, how he aroused fear as well as reverence, and why he was willing to risk the highest prize to get his way.
3. MIMOPHANT
…a complete pain in the fundament.
