Bobby Would Rather Fight

Ever since 1952, when it first entered the Chess Olympics, Soviet Russia has won. Twice the U.S. has finished second: in Leipzig in 1960 and in Fidel Castro's Havana, a fortnight ago. On both occasions the U.S. team was headed by Bobby Fischer, the eccentric glamour boy of international chess.

There really were two major conflicts going on in the ballroom of the Habana Libre (formerly Hilton) hotel during Fischer's more recent appearance. One was for first place in the Olympics, which was likely to go to Russia, barring some considerable upset. The other was for a gold medal representing the outstanding individual performance among some 200 players from 52 countries. The eighth consecutive victory for the Soviet chess team (the Olympics are held every other year) was as close to routine as such a performance in chess can be. But Fischer's struggle for the gold medal belongs with the legends, and is going to be remembered, at least in Havana, long after the Soviet team victory has become merely another item in the record books.

At Leipzig, six years ago, Bobby was a touchy, thin-skinned, self-conscious 17-year-old, who suffered so acutely in the limelight that he almost had to win so the world would not witness his pain when he lost. At Havana he was an expansive, good-natured, self-possessed champion, who avoided that dilemma by a simple expedient: he did not lose. Or at least not until the last critical moment. The Olympics needed something dramatic, and he provided it. It was the biggest, best-run and most expensive Chess Olympics ever held. Rumor was that it cost the Cuban government 1.3 million pesos. It probably did. Castro learned to play chess just recently and wants the country to share his enthusiasm. With those familiar props of his—the long cigar and the crumpled cap—he dropped in at the tournament often, and he played both World Champion Tigran Petrosian and Fischer. The hall was crowded for every round of the tournament. And the games were broadcast, play by play, over radio and TV.

For several thousand who could not get into the hall, an electronic demonstration board was set up on a wall opposite the Habana Libre, and that alone, we were told, cost another 80,000 pesos.

Cuba's numerous and demonstrative chess fans soon became ardent partisans of Bobby Fischer. The brilliant and aggressive character of his play and his willingness to take on all comers gained the affection of the crowds, and it was a good thing: the U.S. team presently needed all the resources it possessed to obviate hostility. At one point the Polish captain accused us of having thrown our match with Norway.

The second blowup was more serious and came on the second day of the finals. It has been generally accepted in chess circles for the past two years that Fischer never plays chess, or even discusses the game, from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. That period, he says, is his "holy day." He has gotten religion, though no one has been able to find out which religion it is, or whether it has a brand name. Chess players are not a notably devout group, and Bobby's religion has provoked endless speculation and theological arguments among them. One theory is that he has come under the influence of an obscure California radio preacher, who aims at a reconciliation of the Jewish and Christian faiths. However, unless you know Bobby well you do not ask him about anything he does not want to discuss. You certainly do not ask him if you are playing on the same chess team.

In making arrangements with Cuban officials before the U.S. team left for Havana, Colonel Edmund Edmondson, the executive director of the U.S. Chess Federation, was assured that Bobby's sabbath would be respected. By the luck of the draw, the U.S. opponent on Saturday was Russia, and Fischer was therefore in line to meet Petrosian. The Russians were asked to postpone the starting time of Fischer's game against Petrosian from 4 until 6. Alexei Serov, the manager of the Russian team, not only refused, but chewed out Donald Byrne, the nonplaying captain of the American team, in a lengthy, irrelevant anti-American harangue.

Not wanting to play without Fischer, the other three members of the American team took the day off and thus forfeited the match. Our action was written up in the Havana press at least once as a yanqui dodge employed to avoid a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Soviet Union.

At this point Donald Byrne reported to Colonel Edmondson in New York by phone. Edmondson, in turn, outlined the situation to Folke Rogard, the president of the International Chess Federation, in Stockholm. Rogard cabled Byrne recommending that an arbitration board be set up to reschedule the match. Igor Bondarevsky, the Russian captain, said the incident had developed international repercussions. As a result the decision would have to be made by the Russian chess federation. He told us that we could expect it in a few days. But the very next day the director of the Cuban Sports Federation announced that the Russians had agreed to reschedule the match—"in order," they said, "not to disappoint their Cuban public."

The Cuban public, however, was not theirs. It was Fischer's. For tactical reasons the Russians replaced the cautious Petrosian at first board with young Boris Spassky, to the distinct disappointment of the Cuban fans, who wanted to see Fischer pitted against the world champion. Fischer, playing white, exploited an opening advantage and achieved a winning bind in 35 moves. On the 36th move, with 45 minutes at his disposal, he made a hasty pawn snatch and followed it with a dubious rejoinder that permitted Spassky to salvage a draw. On the second board Mikhail Tal trounced our Robert Byrne, and on the third board Pal Benko held Soviet Champion Leonid Stein to a draw, while my game with Lev Polugaevsky was also drawn. The score: 2�-1� in favor of the Russians.