of queens; it left the American with a drawn game. He was absolutely right: to have taken the rook—indeed, any alternative move—would have spelled disaster. Spassky had brilliantly and daringly taken risks, but to no avail. “That Bobby,” said Gligoric, “he always escapes.”
Before game twenty, the Icelandic Ministry of Finance made a goodwill gesture. It announced that the government had decided to ask Parliament in the next session to make the prize money tax-free. Normally, the winner would have to pay government and local income taxes of $28,000 and the loser about $16,000.
The game itself was a long, tough struggle that lasted through the five-hour session. The advantage moved from one player to another and then back again. At the adjournment, they were well into an ending, but one that was not clear-cut. The following day, when the game resumed, Geller was seen in the audience barely able to stay awake. The night had been spent buried in analysis. Spassky too looked gaunt and fatigued; they had been searching for a win that patently was not there.
It was the seventh draw in a row. There had not been such a consecutive run in the world championship since the marathon contest between Alekhine and Capablanca in 1927. Far from being dull, lazy games, several of these had been desperate, protracted, bare-knuckle brawls, exciting if not always pretty. Fischer, who normally moved much more quickly than his opponent, was now taking just as long on the clock. Spassky prodded and probed and took gambles; Fischer, on untested ground, clung on. While the commentators had predicted a Spassky collapse, the champion had instead dug in, held the line, and, incredibly, fought back. This had required more than just skill and concentration; above all, the champion had had to draw upon cavernous reserves of psychological strength.
The twenty-first game took place on 31 August. Since game eight, not a single move had been filmed. But on this day, the Yugoslav journalist Dimitri Bjelica smuggled a Sony videocamera into the hall and sat in the back row. On one occasion, as the ushers wandered up and down, looking for the slightest disturbance, Bjelica covered up the camera’s hum with a fit of coughing. He realized this could be the last game, and so his last chance to film.
Fischer had 11.5 points and thus needed only one more for the title—a win or two draws. With tickets at a premium, the auditorium was packed for what was potentially the culminating moment. After two months of farce, mystery, and tragedy, of edgy strain and petulant anger, of showbiz and high jinks, of bluff and double bluff, of demands and climb-downs, of genius and blunder, the people of Reykjavik—even those ignorant of the rules of the game—wanted to be there to witness the climax.
As usual, Lothar Schmid started the clock. As usual, Fischer was late. The game opened with a Sicilian. On his second move, Fischer, black, played pawn to e6, yet another new line for him. Spassky was fueling himself with cup after cup of coffee. It may have been the surprise of Fischer’s seventh move—a pawn thrust tried before but considered somewhat dubious—that unsteadied the Russian’s hand, causing him to spill his drink. With his clock ticking, he went in search of a cloth. Fischer watched the cleanup operation as though his opponent were crazed.
The queens came off early, leaving Fischer with the advantage of two bishops against bishop and knight, but with the disadvantage of double isolated pawns. “[When] Fischer obtained an edge,” Spassky said later, “I felt everything was finished.” On move eighteen, the champion sacrificed a rook for a bishop and pawn in a reckless bid to create complications and perhaps winning prospects. Move thirty was the turning point. Rather than retrench, set up an impregnable fortress, and settle for a draw, Spassky pushed his knight pawn two squares to g4, allowing his opponent to create and exploit deadly weaknesses in white’s flailing defense. Fischer played out the ending with unremitting, nerveless accuracy.
Adjournment came at move forty-one. Spassky seemed exhausted. He invested only six minutes’ thinking time on his last move, which was then committed to paper and handed over to Schmid, who carefully sealed it in the adjournment envelope. Fischer signed the flap, a standard security check. Now the audience could relax and chat, and as they rose from their seats, the conversation was of who held the positional edge. Fischer had by now sacrificed back a pawn, so with his rook and two pawns against Spassky’s bishop and four pawns, the combatants were in theory evenly matched. But Spassky’s pieces were tied down, going nowhere. Meanwhile, Fischer’s rook’s pawn was “passed” (that is, it had a clear view to the eighth rank, with no opposition pawns on its file or the adjacent files). Every pawn has the potential to be reincarnated as a higher being, a more powerful piece, normally a queen, but a passed pawn is a particularly potent threat. And Fischer’s rook and king were well stationed to shepherd its advance.
Most amateurs would have rated the prospects for either side as about even. However, the experts realized Spassky’s struggle to retain the title was over; his doughty fight back had collapsed and the grandmasters were predicting a Fischer victory. In Moscow there was already an acceptance that their man had lost: the champion had told Geller that there was no point in fussing over the analysis. Spassky knew he had not sealed the best move.
The following day, there was an audience of 2,500 people, some of whom had arrived early to guarantee a good seat and all of whom had paid $5 in the expectation of witnessing an exciting denouement. Fischer bounded in late, looking confident but, surprising for one who normally took care to appear impeccable, dressed in a hastily selected and still unpressed blood-red suit. For a change, Spassky’s seat was the one empty.
Two hours earlier, at 12:50 P.M., the champion had put in a call to the arbiter Lothar Schmid. He officially informed Schmid of his resignation; he would not go to the adjourned session. Schmid had had to phone Euwe: Could he accept a resignation by telephone? Euwe ruled this was permissible. Fischer was not informed and might not have found out until later, had the
The match was over.
This was no grand finale, no knockout punch sending the champion to the mat, no winning hit into the stand or breasting of the tape. There were no hats thrown into the air, no stamping or cheering. This was the way the crown passed, not with a bang but a formal announcement. Once Fischer had arrived, Schmid walked to the front of the stage and addressed the hall: “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Spassky has resigned by telephone.” Polite applause broke out around the room. The spectators had seen no action for their entrance fee, but they were witnesses to chess history. The new world champion gave a gawky wave but rejected Schmid’s proposal to take a bow. The Italian daily
Icelandic government cars were parked in front of the hall alongside the U.S. ambassador’s car. Victor Jackovich was also waiting there.
It was all a ploy, because Fischer did not want to talk to anyone or be accosted by the press. So the plan was that he would come out of the side door and hop into my car—a pretty nondescript yellow and black Ford Maverick. I had been told, “Don’t stop for anybody. As soon as he gets in, just take off for the base.” So I drove him to the base, where he had a celebratory steak and a glass of milk, it was always a glass of milk. I don’t recall him being jubilant; he was a bundle of nerves, still high like a sportsman at the end of a game. It was the same Fischer I’d always taken to the base.
In victory, Fischer was at least magnanimous about his defeated opponent. Spassky was “the best player” he had met. “All the other players I’ve played crumpled at a certain point. I never felt that with Spassky.” President Nixon sent Fischer a telegram of congratulations. Spassky himself gave some interviews. He looked exhausted and said he needed to “sleep and sleep and sleep.”
