Former world chess champion Boris Spassky passed away at the age of 88 on Thursday (February 27).
In 1972, the Russian played the legendary ‘Match of the Century’ against American grandmaster Bobby Fischer in Reykjavik, Iceland — a chess battle that ended up becoming a proxy for the Cold War.
The match was built up as a clash of cultures and personalities. Fischer was brash and headstrong. A prima donna. A poster boy for American individualism, for American exceptionalism. Spassky on the other hand was more suave and laid-back, seen as an exemplar of the might of the Soviet state-sponsored chess machinery.
In reality, both grandmasters did not fit this billing. Spassky was not the Soviet foot soldier he was seen as, while Fischer was far from a model American. The World Chess Championship of 1972 nonetheless defined their two legacies, and how they are remembered till date.
Lead up to the match
Entering 1972, the Soviets had a 24-year monopoly on the world championship title, with Spassky just the latest in a line of Soviet champions stretching back to 1948. Spassky had defeated compatriot Tigran Petrosian in 1969 to earn the title.
Thus, when Bobby Fischer, someone who had long been critical of the Soviet style of settling for early draws (or so he claimed), won the candidates’ tournament to set up a challenge to Spassky, the world was bound to take notice.
Yet, for some time, it was unclear whether the match would even take place — in no small part due to Fischer’s repeated demands for more money.
However, even as Fischer kept the world on tenterhooks, he trained hard in Pasadena, California, almost like one would for a boxing match. He hired Harry Sneider as a trainer. He swam, cycled on a stationary bike, played sports like table tennis for aerobic fitness and worked on the strength of his grip (“So my opponent can feel my might when I shake his hand”).
Spassky, on the other hand, went about his job like he was going to enter a tricky business negotiation. He landed in Iceland’s capital 12 days before the match without a fuss.
Fischer landed much later. He landed in New York three days before the first game was set to be placed, but was spooked by the paparazzi at the airport. It took a phone call from US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger and a British businessman James Slater raising the prize money amount for Fischer to finally board the flight to Iceland.
Fischer’s tantrums, Spassky’s grace
If Fischer was being difficult before, he became almost insufferable after landing in Iceland.
He showed up late for the first game, claiming he was caught in traffic. After his first move, he started moaning about the cameras, and the noise they were making even though the equipment was 150 feet away. Then he made an uncharacteristic mistake and lost.
Fischer then forfeited the second game after being unable to convince the organisers to have the cameras removed from the playing hall. But the third game was held in a small table tennis room, behind the actual playing hall, to placate Fischer.
Because of all of Fischer’s shenanigans — before the Match and during — Spassky as the reigning world champion could have simply walked away, or thrown a fit about having to constantly adjust to his opponents whims. But he chose not to, something that till date defines his persona among chess fans.
As Garry Kasparov wrote after Spassky’s passing: “His rise as a prodigy, conquest of the crown against the invincible Petrosian on the second attempt, and decades of elite play are too often lost in the shadow of his dramatic title loss to Bobby Fischer in 1972 and the circus Fischer turned it into. But Spassky always wanted to play, and he handled the situation with impressive dignity”.
Spassky’s grace was perhaps best exemplified at the end of Game 6, considered to be one of the greatest exhibitions of chess till date. After conceding defeat to his prodigious rival, Spassky stood up and applauded his rival along with the rest of the spectators. Fischer was so touched by the gesture that he rather uncharacteristically praised Spassky’s sporting spirit to his entourage.
“To be able after an important defeat in 1972 to stand up and applaud the opponent Fischer who just performed a masterpiece, tells a lot about the person. And in times when people still did such things sincerely, there were no (social media) Likes existing,” wrote former world champion Vladimir Kramnik on X.
Dignity in defeat
As Fischer started to show his strength on the board and won game 13, the Soviet delegation started to raise a stink about the American using “non chess” methods to rattle Spassky. Spassky himself said nothing, even as his entourage clutched at straws.
They removed a team member, a second called Ivo Ney, from their team, suspecting him to be a mole. Then, they alleged that the chairs had been wired to disrupt Spassky with electromagnetic fields. This led the organisers to bring in a chemist and an electrical engineer to the scene along with the Icelandic police. The lighting in the arena was inspected. Chairs were X-rayed. Air samples were tested.
None of those tests found anything. Except two dead flies in a chair, which led to an iconic headline in The New York Times: “Who killed those two flies — and why?”.
Spassky eventually conceded the crown by a phone call to the chief arbiter after game 21. In those days games could be postponed for a second day if a player could write down his move in a sealed envelope and hand it to the arbiter.
But this came at a price for Spassky, who was reportedly banned from flying abroad for two years after he returned to the USSR. Decades later, Spassky would say: “I was happy to lose the championship. My years as champion were the worst years of my life.”