The Cold War on a chessboard
In the first days of July 1972, correspondents and special envoys from all over the world took over Reykjavik's hotel offering. That swarm of journalists was not due to any international summit, nor to the eruption of one of the volcanoes that dot the island, but to the World Chess Championship. Never before had that tournament aroused such interest, until, in the middle of the Cold War, a Soviet and an American met in the final. During the almost two months that the duel between Boris Spassky and Bobby Fischer lasted, the superpowers moved their confrontation to a board. It was evident that the result would not influence geopolitics, but at stake was the prestige of the countries represented in the final. And in that battle, the Soviet Union had more to lose than the United States.
Since 1948, the world title seemed like a club reserved for Soviet players. Its overwhelming superiority allowed the Soviet Union to boast the best record in history. All of this was the result of a conscientious policy that had promoted chess until it became a mass sport at the service of the State. For decades, the Kremlin had conceived the extension of its practice as a strategy of social engineering, seeing in it the tool that would reinforce the discipline and sharpen the minds of millions of workers to mold them in the image of the communist ideal. It was not strange that from that infinite pool later emerged the saga of great masters that garnered international success. The Kremlin was convinced that its leadership in a sport with such a high intellectual component demonstrated the superiority of socialism.
However, the Reykjav铆k final, with an American in the fray, threatened its hegemony for the first time since 1948. For the United States, where chess was a minority, the possibility of a compatriot taking one of its most precious crowns from the enemy was a unbeatable opportunity to torpedo Soviet pride and prestige. And the White House would try to make it so, because, embroiled in the Vietnam War, it needed good news.
The champion and the contender
Spassky and Fischer had been in the elite for more than a decade. The current champion, the last jewel of the Soviet chess school, was defending the title won three years earlier. His direct and aggressive play had brought him countless triumphs. Like the rest of the chess figures in his country, Boris Spassky was a celebrity, admired for having reached the top of sports meritocracy, and that translated into unimaginable living conditions for ordinary citizens: his own home, car and salary. ministerial.
At the age of fifteen, and after winning everything that was possible in his country, Fischer was the youngest chess player to obtain the title of International Grandmaster. From then on, he became as popular as he was controversial. He claimed without shame that he was the best and that he would dethrone the Soviets. But, to do so, he demanded changing the system that designates the finalist of the championship. According to him, the league system perverted the competition, by always benefiting the Soviets, the majority in that format. As an alternative, he proposed to the International Federation a system of elimination rounds in pairs, the winner of which would face the champion. The idea was rejected, and, in protest, Fischer stopped competing for the world title until, years later, with a view to the 1972 championship, the knockout rounds were adopted. With the new system, the American obtained a passport to Reykjavik after destroying all of his opponents.
Bobby Fischer (right) calibrates his next move against Boris Spassky in the 1970 Chess Olympics, which the Russian won.
Bobby Fischer (right) calibrates his next move against Boris Spassky in the 1970 Chess Olympics, which the Russian won. Getty Images
Fischer had an IQ higher than Einstein and a wonderful memory, capable of remembering the moves of countless games. All this, together with exquisite strategic precision, made him a fearsome chess player. The surprising counterpoint to that genius was his demands in tournaments. The lighting, the board, the distance from the public, and even the time of the games, which could not interfere with his religious practices, had to be adjusted to his criteria. And, of course, he also imposed financial demands, because if there was one thing Fischer was as passionate about as chess, it was money.
The Reykjav铆k duel pitted two antagonistic egos against one another. Spassky's cordiality and diplomacy contrasted with Fischer's rudeness. The champion was sociable, cultured and a bit bohemian. The applicant, a loner lacking social skills, avoids spotlights and microphones. The Russian enjoyed chess,
but without the obsession of the American, always accompanied by his pocket board studying games. Despite such differences, they shared a singular trait in the context of that final marked by the Cold War. None fit the values of the superpower he represented. Spassky was neither a communist nor an atheist. He felt Russian before he felt Soviet. And his political views made the Kremlin uncomfortable, but, as a chess star, he was untouchable. Fischer, for his part, was the opposite of the stereotype of the affable American. And his eccentricities and arrogance, in the eyes of the White House, did not make him the best ambassador of the free world.
The best of twenty four
The Icelandic government had wanted to promote its country by betting heavily on Reykjav铆k as the venue for the final. He offered a succulent prize, twenty times greater than that won by Spassky in 1969. In March 1972, all the details of the organization of the match had been agreed between representatives of both players, and the sports palace was prepared to host the duel.
The opening of the tournament would be on July 2, but, days before, Fischer surprised the world by refusing to compete if the final referee was not replaced. The duel was in danger. The International Federation was not going to give in to blackmail, and the organizers did not want their investment to go to waste. The Icelandic government saw no other solution than to ask the White House for help. A call from Henry Kissinger, President Nixon's right-hand man, reminding Fischer that the entire country wanted him to defeat the Russians, and the generosity of a magnate who doubled the prize in the final convinced Fischer to fly to Reykjav铆k, where arrived on July 4, without the Kremlin's protests demanding his disqualification having subsided.
He would win the final the best of twenty-four games. Spassky scored the first two. A misleading advantage. The second point had been achieved by the non-appearance of Fischer, who had refused to play because the room did not meet his demands, and threatened to return to the US if they were not met. Fischer himself proposed the solution to save the final: play the next game in a small room without an audience, while the main room was adapted to his whims. Spassky, who wanted to play at all costs, because he refused to win without glory, compromised against the opinion of the Kremlin, which denounced the candidate's attitude as a maneuver to psychologically wear down his player.
The third game changed the direction of the match. Fischer dismasted the Soviet barricade, exhibiting incontestable superiority. In the next three, the champion could only force a draw, while his rival took advantage after a masterful game, the sixth, which has gone down in history for the beauty of the North American's game.
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Bobby Fischer in December 1971. (Photo by Tyrone Dukes/New York Times Co./Getty Images) Getty
Given Spassky's low level, who wasted advantageous situations and made inexplicable mistakes, the Kremlin began to suspect that everything was due to some type of match manipulation, and fell into conspiracy. There was talk of espionage to Spassky's team of advisors. It was even believed that the Americans used some technology that made it difficult for the champion to concentrate. Secretly, an expert was sent to Reykjav铆k to find her. And although he did not discover anything, the Kremlin's suspicions were not dispelled at all.
In game number eleven, Spassky inflicted a severe defeat on the challenger, but there was no comeback. Seven consecutive draws brought Fischer closer to one point of the title, which he won by winning the twenty-first game.
The match of the century, as it was then known, had concluded. For the first time, an American won the world championship. A memorable success for the United States. On the other side, the loss of hegemony on the boards at the hands of a representative of imperialism was a painful failure.
Bobby Fischer's reign, however, was short-lived. Three years later, in 1975, he resigned from defending the title, after the International Federation rejected his long list of conditions to participate in the final. He was succeeded by the candidate, Anatoly Karpov, the new Soviet talent, a twenty-something docile to Moscow and a convinced communist. Thanks to him, the Soviet Union regained chess hegemony until its dissolution.
Revenge in Yugoslavia
The Reykjavik duel was repeated twenty years later, in Yugoslavia. Five million dollars was a good reason for the former rivals to reunite. Fischer reappeared after many years away from public life. Spassky lived in France, after leaving the Soviet Union in 1976. The American won again. But this time his victory
a no entusiasm贸 en la Casa Blanca, al contrario. A causa de la guerra en los Balcanes, Estados Unidos hab铆a prohibido a sus ciudadanos cualquier tipo de contacto con el r茅gimen de Slobodan Milosevic. Fuera de la ley, Fischer comenz贸 entonces el periplo m谩s tortuoso de su vida para evitar la deportaci贸n. En 2005 obtuvo la ciudadan铆a islandesa, y tres a帽os despu茅s muri贸 en el pa铆s donde se coron贸 como campe贸n del mundo.
En 1992, Spassky y Fischer reeditaron su duelo en Yugoslavia.
En 1992, Spassky y Fischer reeditaron su duelo en Yugoslavia. Getty Images
En 1999, un jurado formado por sesenta y cuatro jugadores de todo el mundo eligi贸 a Bobby Fischer como el mejor ajedrecista del siglo XX.
