One of the tenets of Armstrong’s creed was that you can’t trust the role that doctors have assumed. In one of the sermons in which Bobby became engrossed, Armstrong preached:
We take the broken bread unworthily if, and when, we take it at communion service and then put our trust in doctors and medicines, instead of in Christ—thus putting another god before Him! So, many are sick. Many die!
If God is the Healer—the only real Healer—and if medical science came out of the ancient heathen practice of medicine-men supposed to be in the good graces of imaginary gods of medicine, is there, then, no need for doctors?
Yes, I’m quite sure there is. But if all people understood and practiced God’s truth, the function of the doctor would be a lot different than it is today. Actually, there isn’t a cure in a car-load—or a train-load—of medicine! Most sickness and disease today is the result of faulty diet and wrong eating. The true function of the doctor should not be to usurp God’s prerogative as a healer, but to help you to observe nature’s laws by prescribing correct diet, teaching you how better to live according to nature’s laws.
Taken by Armstrong’s argument, Bobby sent away for copies of the sermon and distributed it to his friends.
Armstrong’s Radio Church of God grew into an international undertaking, the Worldwide Church of God, and eventually claimed more than one hundred thousand parishioners and listeners. Bobby felt comfortable with the church since it blended certain Christian and Jewish tenets such as Sabbath observation from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown, kosher dietary laws, belief in the coming of the Messiah, keeping of Jewish holy days, and rejection of Christmas and Easter. In very little time, he became almost as absorbed in the Bible and “the Church” as he was in chess. On Saturday nights, after his Sabbath devotion, he’d usually go to the Manhattan Chess Club or to the Collins home and play chess all evening, and though he sometimes didn’t return home until nearly four a.m., he still felt that he should pray for an hour. He also began a correspondence course in “Biblical understanding” that had been created by the Church and was often tied in to world events as interpreted by Armstrong. There was a self-administered test at the end of each week’s lesson. A typical question was:
What is the basic cause of war and human suffering? A. The inordinate lusts of carnal man. B. False political ideologies such as Communism and Fascism. C. Poverty. D. Lack of educational and economic opportunity.
The correct answer: “A” [Bobby’s answer as well.]
Eventually, Bobby sent 10 percent of his meager chess earnings to the Church. He refused to enter tournaments whose organizers insisted he play on Friday night, and he began a life of devotion to the Church’s tenets, explaining: “The Holy Bible is the most rational, most common-sense book ever written on the face of the earth.”
He began carrying a blue-covered cardboard box wherever he went. When asked what was in it, without answering he’d give a look that said in essence, “How can you possibly ask me that question? I’m deeply hurt and insulted.” Week after week, wherever he went—be it chess club, restaurant, cafeteria, or billiard parlor—there was the blue box. Finally, in the mid-1960s, at a restaurant off Union Square, Bobby went to the restroom and left the box on the table. His dinner companion couldn’t resist. Despite feeling guilty at invading Bobby’s privacy, he slid the top off the box. Inside, was a book with a title embossed in gold: Holy Bible.
During this time, owing to his newfound piety, Bobby used no profanity. One evening when he and a friend were having ice cream sodas at the Howard Johnson’s restaurant on Sixth Avenue and Greenwich, a woman in her late teens kept coming in and out of the restaurant. Either drunk or high, she kept up a continuous babble of four-letter words. Bobby became very upset. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “That’s terrible.” He couldn’t bear listening to her any longer. “Let’s leave,” he said. And the two friends walked out, leaving their sodas unfinished.
6
The New Fischer
THE PLEADING WAS EMBARRASSING to witness. “C’mon, Bobby. Let me pick you up. C’mon.” Silence on the other end of the phone. “We can just hang out.” Dead air. “We can play some Five-Minute, or go to a movie.” A young chess master, a few years Bobby’s senior, was calling from the office phone of the Marshall Chess Club, attempting to talk Fischer into getting together. “Or take a taxi. I’ll pay for it.” It was two in the afternoon and Bobby had just woken up. His voice, when he finally answered, sounded tinny and sluggish, the words drawled so that each syllable was stretched into two. His volume was loud, though—loud enough for everyone in the office to hear. “I don’t know. No. Well, what time? I have to eat.” The caller’s optimism surged. “We can eat at the Oyster Bar. You like that. C’mon.” Success. An hour and a half later sixteen-year-old Bobby was having his first meal of the day: filet of sole and a large glass of orange juice.
As he walked through Grand Central Terminal toward the restaurant, Bobby probably wasn’t recognized by most of the people he passed, but to his host—and almost all other chess players—having a meal with Fischer was like dining with a movie star. He was becoming a super-celebrity in the world of chess, but the more fame he achieved, the more unpleasant his behavior became. Inflated by his successes on the board, his ego had begun to shut out other people. Gone was Charming Bobby with the electric smile. Enter Problematic Bobby with the disdainful attitude and frequently flashed warning scowl. Increasingly, Bobby viewed it a favor merely to be seen with him.
And it didn’t matter if he rebuffed or rejected a person, because someone else was sure to phone with yet another offer to play chess, see a movie, or eat a fish dinner. Everyone wanted to be in his company, to be part of the Bobby Fischer Show, and he knew it. One mistake, disagreement, or mistimed appointment on the part of a friend was enough for Bobby to sever a relationship. And banishment from his realm would last forever; there were always others who’d take the offender’s place.
If you didn’t play chess, it was nearly impossible to enter Bobby’s world, and yet his disrespect seemed to be directed more at weak players than those who didn’t know how to play the game. The latter could be forgiven their ignorance, but a weak player—which, by definition, included almost anyone he could beat—had no excuse. “Anyone should be able to become a master,” he said with certainty.
Ironically, given his regal attitude, nothing seemed to be going right for Bobby in the fall of 1959. He’d been home barely a month from the Candidates tournament in Yugoslavia, and he was tired—never really weary of the game itself, but fatigued from his excruciating two-month attempt to become Botvinnik’s challenger. He was psychically injured from not winning the tournament, and he couldn’t eradicate the sting of his four bitter losses—robberies, he called them—to Tal.