From a source I consider reliable, I have a description of Fischer as “incredibly eccentric, possessing strange religious attachments, having a very colorful private life, can be both incredibly rude and charming, unpredictable.”
Following Fischer’s triumph, the issue returned to the White House agenda. Interestingly, there was even talk of flying in Spassky, too. General Alexander Haig, Nixon’s chief of staff, saw “no problems with the president agreeing to meet with Bobby Fischer. There has been widespread international interest in the match, and the meeting would be pleasing, for example, to the Icelanders considering that their president has just met with Fischer. On the other hand, we do not think it would be appropriate for the president to meet with Boris Spassky.”
What happened to the invitation is unclear. Palsson says it was ther, but Fischer could not make up his mind about dates. “Bobby knew I wanted to go to the White House. He had to send a guest list, and he said, ‘You’re top of the list.’ I asked when we were going. He was always postponing it.” The publicity value to the president diminished with every passing day. Almost thirty years later, an irate Fischer snarled, “I was never invited to the White House. They invited that Olympic Russian gymnast—that little communist Olga Korbut.”
Three months in the States were enough for Palsson. His family did not want to relocate to the United States, and he missed them. He told Fischer he was leaving; Icelandic Air paid for his ticket home. Fischer rushed up to his friend at the airport and said, “Are you really leaving me?” In a fit of guilt, the U.S. Chess Federation found $500 to compensate Palsson for his labors; as he had been with Fischer for five months, that worked out at $3 a day.
Within a few months, Fischer had virtually vanished from public view, pausing only to put in a cameo performance toward the end of 1972 at the Fried Chicken tournament. This took place in San Antonio, Texas, and was funded by George Church, who had made a fortune from his fried chicken franchise empire. Some of the best players in the world were there, though Fischer was not invited. One of the organizers said this was because “there was a danger that for his appearance fee Bobby would demand Mr. Church’s entire business.” However, he was welcomed as an honored guest and flown in on a private jet. Naturally, he was late, holding up a round of games for fifteen minutes.
The tournament culminated in a three-way tie, between the Armenian veteran Tigran Petrosian, the Hungarian veteran Lajos Portisch, and an anemic-looking twenty-one-year-old Russian. Anatoli Karpov was the Soviet authorities’ hope for the next generation, though they were worried about his stamina. He weighed only about 106 pounds and looked as if he barely had the strength to lift any piece weightier than a pawn. But he was hugely gifted, mentally tough, and a member of the Botvinnik school of wholeheartedly Soviet chess players. He once said that his three hobbies were chess, stamp collecting, and Marxism. His chess, like his personality, was sober, practical, and phlegmatic.
In 1974, Karpov took on the Soviet elite one by one in the Candidates round. Having already beaten Lev Polugaievskii and then Boris Spassky (in a closely fought contest), he emerged victorious against Viktor Korchnoi, too. Korchnoi had accused the Soviet authorities of favoring the younger man in their head-to-head.
So Karpov was set to challenge Fischer in a match for the world title. The general assembly of the International Chess Federation met during the chess Olympiad of 1974 to agree to the terms of the match. Fischer had fired off a fusillade of 179 demands, all but two of which FIDE immediately conceded. Petrosian grumbled, “These men do everything that Bobby wishes, and he will sit down at the chessboard on the conditions that he dictates to them.” Although Ed Edmondson was back on Fischer’s team, once again Fred Cramer was the main conduit for Fischer’s conditions, one of which was that the arbiter should be banned from engaging in any journalism about the match, even after it was over. A FIDE member was overheard to comment, “Mr. Cramer will not stay quiet even for three minutes, and he wants the match controller to stay silent for his whole life.”
There remained, however, two sticking points. Firstly, FIDE had proposed that the winner be the first person to win six games. Fischer insisted that the championship be decided by ten victories, draws not to count, and that the number of games be unlimited. Second, Fischer insisted that if the score reached nine wins apiece, the champion (that is, Fischer) should retain the title, meaning the challenger must win by two clear points, an unheard-of advantage for the incumbent. After much haggling behind closed doors, the delegates offered a compromise—victory to be achieved by ten wins, up to a maximum of thirty-six games (at which point the player with the most points would be declared the winner). Otherwise, they pointed out, the match could be prolonged indefinitely. Fischer instantly dispatched a note: “I have been informed that my proposals have been rejected by a majority of votes. By doing so, FIDE has decided against my participation in the 1975 world championship. I therefore resign my FIDE world championship title.”
All was not yet lost. Many people interpreted his resignation as another, familiar display of brinkmanship. The bidding process for the match continued apace, with Manila offering a staggering $5 million, said to be the second largest purse in sporting history (just below the Muhammad Ali—George Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” in Zaire).
The full FIDE body assembled in March 1975. Now they made one more concession, agreeing to an unlimited number of games. But they refused to countenance Fischer’s nine-to-nine rule. Edmondson went to California to plead with the champion. Meanwhile, FIDE announced that if Fischer did not agree by 1 April, he would be deemed to have forfeited the title. The day came and went. On 2 April, a new champion was proclaimed, Anatoli Karpov. In his acceptance speech, he hinted that he was prepared to meet Fischer in an unofficial match, presumably thinking of Manila and the $5 million. He even met Fischer secretly three times, in Japan, Washington, D.C., and Manila, to discuss terms. Eventually, Sergei Pavlov at the Sports Ministry, backed by the Central Committee, turned down the idea. Chief ideologist Mikhail Suslov himself signed its death warrant. He considered it “inexpedient.”
Fischer had been the most dormant of champions, not playing a single competitive game for three years. Eager to prove himself worthy of the crown, Karpov went on to be the most active, growing in strength over the following years, winning a series of elite grandmaster tournaments, and stamping his authority on the chess world. He beat Korchnoi twice more, in the Philippine city of Baguio in 1978 (just) and in Merano in Italy in 1981 (convincingly). Garry Kasparov, Karpov’s successor as world champion, wrote of Baguio, “It finally erased the memory of Reykjavik and restored the prestige of Soviet chess.”
Where was Fischer? For several years, he lived in the bosom of the Worldwide Church of God in Pasadena, where he was called “a co-worker.” The church fed him, they gave him comfortable accommodation in Mocking Bird Lane, they even flew him around in a private jet. In return, Fischer handed over around a third ($61,200) of his Icelandic prize money. He was befriended by Harry Sneider, a national weight-lifting champion who trained church students. Almost every evening, he and Fischer would take some form of physical exercise—soccer, basketball, racquet-ball, swimming, table football. Fischer was now also spending a lot of time listening to Christian preachers on the radio.