Fischer, the Cold War hero, traveled to New Jersey and became the temporary houseguest of his lawyer Paul Marshall. So besieged was Bobby by the media that for a while Marshall had to have a bodyguard stationed in front of his palatial home to keep the press hordes at bay.
11
The Wilderness Years
BOBBY FISCHER’S LONG, almost monastic pursuit of the World Championship, although not totally chaste, gave him little time to connect with women. “I want to meet girls,” Bobby said when he moved back to Los Angeles in 1973. “Vivacious girls with big breasts.” He was twenty-nine years old, and though there’d been a few brief liaisons, at no time had he experienced a meaningful romantic relationship. Now, with his earnings from Reykjavik and a new place to live—an apartment provided for him at a modest rental fee of $200 per month by the Worldwide Church of God—he felt that he was starting a new life. He wanted to read more—not just chess journals—acquire more money, continue his religious studies, and possibly meet someone with whom he could fall in love. What it all added up to was an intense need to recharge his emotional and spiritual life.
Not all was altruism and ebullience, however; certain realities still cast a pall. His alienation from the press caused ongoing problems. He’d suffered a series of fractured relationships with chess organizers in the United States (he was no longer speaking to Edmondson, the executive director of the U.S. Chess Federation) and looming in the near future were the Soviets, with what he foresaw would be a resumption of their underhanded ways of competing.
After Bobby’s period of post-Reykjavik idleness had stretched to about a year, he decided that his first priority should be accumulating more money, always on his terms. So, working with Stanley Rader, the chief counsel for the Worldwide Church, he called a press conference in August of 1973 to publicly discuss his plans.
Rader was a lawyer and Armstrong’s closest advisor. As chief counsel, he was becoming rich through his work with the Church, and Bobby was impressed with Rader’s trappings: his Ferrari, his chauffeur-driven limousine, his palatial mansion in Beverly Hills, and his use of a private jet. Rader was in charge of the $70-million-a-year windfall that the Church was bringing in, mostly from tithing its members. Bobby himself had given the Church more than $60,000 from his Icelandic winnings, and ultimately his tithe would be close to $100,000.
For the press conference, dozens of journalists and photographers assembled in Rader’s soaring living room. Aside from two television appearances right after Reykjavik, it had been almost twelve months since Bobby had made any statements or, for that matter, been seen in public. The words “secluded” and “recluse” had begun straying into newspaper stories about him. Hardly days after his win in Iceland, an article in The New York Times headlined NEW CHAMPION STILL MYSTERY MAN speculated as to whether he’d ever play again. The Associated Press took the same tack, publishing a story entitled BOBBY FISCHER TURNS DOWN FAME, FORTUNE; GOES INTO SECLUSION. It was an odd slant, since at that point Bobby had no intention of isolating himself or turning down money; he was just tending to personal matters that he’d neglected for years. Also, up to that time chess champions would traditionally defend their title only every three years. Although the public wanted to see Bobby back at the board, his absence from chess for less than a year was not an aberration.
Rader did most of the talking at the press conference, and he was good at it, having graduated first in his class at the University of California Law School. Bobby, dressed conservatively, stood somewhat nervously at his side. Throughout the event, photographers took photos, and Bobby looked annoyed every time a flashbulb popped. Rader said, in a voice that was both sonorous and emphatic, that Fischer would like to announce that he will soon be back at the 64 squares and 32 pieces again … quite soon. “We are making arrangements for a series of simultaneous exhibitions and matches for early next year. We are also considering an exhibition match where Bobby would play the entire Dutch Olympic team simultaneously.” A reporter shot out a question: “What about a re-match for the championship?” Rader and Bobby exchanged a flicker of a glance, and the lawyer responded: “That is a possibility.” The reporter came back with an immediate follow-up: “Would that match be under the authority of the World Chess Federation?” Rader didn’t hesitate: “That would not be likely but it is under discussion.” Rader also mentioned that a tour of both Russia and South America was being talked about.
The reporters wanted a go at Fischer: “What have you been doing for the last year?” was one of the first questions. Bobby drawled out his response: “Well, uh, I’ve been reading, working out, playing over some games, that sort of thing.” A few other general questions were tossed out, and Bobby answered them succinctly and with aplomb, until someone asked whether he was living in an apartment subsidized by the Church. “That’s personal,” he said. “I don’t want to answer any more personal questions.” A reporter asked him about a supposed offer of $1 million for a match against Spassky in Las Vegas. Rader jumped in with the answer: “To begin with, the Las Vegas offer was not a firm $1 million offer. They said the offer was for a million but it would have turned out less, and Bobby didn’t want to agree with anything less than a firm $1 million.”
Rader pointed out that aside from any non-sanctioned matches, the official match for the World Championship would be in 1975, and it would consist of Bobby against whoever qualified through the Candidates system. “When he defends his title in 1975,” Rader added, “he’ll be much better able to capitalize financially.”
And then the conference was over. “That’s all gentlemen. Thank you,” said Rader, and he and Bobby scurried away. The reporters looked at one another, incredulous at the abrupt termination. As a result of the non-event event, the resulting press coverage was practically nil.
Rader had reason to be helpful to Bobby. If Bobby could make millions, and if he continued tithing large amounts to the Church, he could emerge as one of the Church’s biggest benefactors. Also, the more publicity Bobby received, the more publicity the Church would receive. Before anything was completed, however, complications set in.
Attractive financial offers kept tumbling Bobby’s way—almost pouring over him—but nothing was to his satisfaction:
Warner Bros. offered him a million dollars to make a series of phonograph records on how to play chess, but Bobby wanted to voice the series himself. Scripts written by Larry Evans were translated into several languages and rendered phonetically to make it easier for Bobby to read. Unfortunately, when he voiced one of the scripts for a pilot recording, he didn’t like the sound of his own voice, and he wouldn’t approve a professional announcer as a substitute. Ultimately, he rejected the whole project.
An entrepreneur, hearing of the $1 million offer from the Hilton Corporation in Las Vegas for a Fischer-Spassky match, offered to raise the amount of the prize fund to $1.5 million if the two men played in his home state of Texas. Nothing came of it.
A publishing company offered Bobby a “small fortune,” according to press reports, to write a book on his title match. He refused.