Curaçao aside, the real reason the Soviets always seemed to be among the finalists in tournaments was, of course, that they were overrepresented in the field of players, due to the game’s popularity in their home country and the level of government support. The Soviet Union had more first-rate players than any other three nations combined. So long as that imbalance remained—and with the superb Soviet “farm system,” it continued to reinforce itself—two to three Russians would always survive the Interzonal to enter the Candidates, with one or two more seeded over. That created the possibility of the Russians “teaming up” if they so chose, and led to charges such as Bobby’s that no Westerner could hope to win the world title under the existing FIDE system.
Perhaps because of Fischer’s intransigent article in Sports Illustrated, the Soviets and the rest of the chess world were shocked into accepting a new FIDE dictum: A radical reform of the Candidates was instituted. From that point forward, the old setup would be replaced with a series of matches of ten or twelve games each between the eight individual contestants, with the loser of each match being eliminated.
Still unanswered was the question of whether Bobby Fischer would really drop out of the World Championship cycle and never realize his dream. Some wondered: Might he even drop out of chess altogether?
The answer came quickly.
8
Legends Clash
ABOARD THE New Amsterdam ocean liner nineteen-year-old Bobby Fischer didn’t wear a tuxedo to dinner in the first-class lounge, but he dressed as conservatively as he could, with a blue serge suit, white shirt, and dark tie. Forgetting that he’d ever been way behind the fashion curve, he was appalled, in some priggish, nouveau riche kind of way, that certain passengers appeared in the dining room in slacks and sneakers.
During the nine-day voyage from New York to Rotterdam in September 1962 he slept as much as could, played over some games, and sat on the promenade deck to take in the bracing sea air. The trip was paid for from the $5,000 appearance fee he was getting to compete for the United States in the Olympiad in Varna, Bulgaria. He had a triple motive in sailing, instead of flying, across the Atlantic: He wanted to see and experience how the “aristocrats” traveled, he needed some rest and time alone, and he was also beginning to become afraid—in a way that many might consider paranoid—that the Soviets, to protect their national chess honor and remove him as a threat to their hegemony, might sabotage a plane that he was in.
Bobby’s diatribe about cheating by the Soviets was being discussed all over the world, and the chess hierarchy in Russia was incensed. Consequently, he believed the Soviets might be furious enough to, as he put it, murder him by “tinkering with the engine of a plane.”
The anticipation of playing against World Champion Mikhail Botvinnik for the first time was exhilarating, though, and worth the discomfort of participating at what was rumored to be a not-so-exemplary tournament site—the Black Sea resort called Golden Sands.
Mikhail Moisevich Botvinnik of Leningrad was fifty-one years old and arguably one of the best chess players who ever lived. Winner three times of the World Championship, he’d defeated Alexander Alekhine, José Capablanca, Max Euwe, and Emanuel Lasker, among other renowned players, and was a living legend. Ironically, despite his much-deserved reputation, he was apprehensive about playing Bobby Fischer for the first time. The Russian had, of course, heard of Bobby’s “Game of the Century,” his near-perfect performance at Bled, and his astounding win at Stockholm. But there was another factor putting Botvinnik on edge: He considered Bobby an enemy of the Soviet state, owing to the nineteen-year-old’s post-Curaçao accusations.
What loomed was a mini Cold War—one played across sixty-four squares.
Fischer and Botvinnik had met once—but not to play—at the Leipzig Olympiad in 1960, and when introduced, Bobby shook hands and said succinctly, “Fischer.” No other words of greeting were exchanged. Although he spoke passable English, Botvinnik was not known for his cordiality.
Botvinnik surmised that someday Bobby might be his or someone else’s challenger for the World Championship—and perhaps even hold the title—but even if that did not occur, the whole world would be studying and analyzing his game with Fischer at this Olympiad perhaps for hundreds of years. Thinking of the embarrassment if he lost, Botvinnik suggested to the organizers that the game be played in a private room: At least then he wouldn’t have to face spectators and the other players in the hour of his possible defeat. But no such room was available, and anyway the organizers wanted the game to be in public view for the publicity it would generate. Of the thousands of games to be played at this Olympiad, Fischer-Botvinnik promised to be the tournament’s one marquee event, and the organizers didn’t want chess fans to be robbed of the excitement.
Botvinnik, who wore steel-rimmed glasses and a gray suit, exhibited a serious, businesslike demeanor. He was buttoned up, both literally and figuratively, projecting the look of a scientist—which, in addition to being a grandmaster, was exactly what he was. He knew he was a major representative of the Soviet Union, and he chose his words as if his every conversation might end up as a part of a court transcript somewhere. His pupil, Anatoly Karpov, said of him that he had an “Olympian inaccessibility.”
Bobby had already played fifteen games over four weeks in the Olympiad by the time he sat down to play Botvinnik, so long before their matchup he’d shaken off any rust. As they met at the board, they shook hands and then slightly banged heads when they went to be seated. “Sorry,” said Bobby, uttering the second word he’d ever spoken to Botvinnik, again without a reply.
When the game was adjourned, it appeared that Fischer’s position was clearly superior.
Fischer dined alone that night, took a cursory look at the game, was confident he had it won, and went to sleep early. Not so, the Soviets. Mikhail Tal, Boris Spassky, Paul Keres, Efim Geller, team coach Semyon Furman, and Botvinnik worked on the position until five-thirty the next morning. They also called Moscow and spoke to Yuri Averbach—an endgame authority—and asked for his opinion. It was Geller who suggested that although Fischer was ahead materially, there was a subtle way that the game might be drawn.
The next morning at breakfast, someone approached Botvinnik and asked him what he thought about the position. He answered in Russian with one word: “Nichia.” Draw.
When play resumed, Botvinnik was in shirtsleeves, a look so unusual for him that the other players knew he was worried and prepared for serious work. Bobby, meanwhile, was unaware that he was about to play against the analysis of no less than seven Soviet grandmasters, not just the ingenuity of his opponent. Slowly, he saw what Botvinnik was up to, and his face became ashen. Botvinnik, who rarely rose from the board until the game was over, was so exuberant about having changed the game’s momentum that he could not sit still. He stood, walked over to the Soviet team captain, Lev Abramov, and, once again, whispered, “Nichia.” Bobby, still remembering the argument he’d had with Abramov in Moscow in 1958—the men hadn’t spoken since—immediately complained to the arbiter. “Look,” he said. “Botvinnik is getting assistance!”
Abramov, though he was far less skilled than Botvinnik, was nevertheless an international master and might have, at that moment, relayed to Botvinnik information from the other Soviet grandmasters. At least, that’s what Bobby was thinking. No official protest was put before the tournament committee, however, because Bobby’s own teammates believed he was being extreme and wrongheaded.