Endgame (5 page)

In an attempt to find other boys who might want to play with Bobby, Regina wrote to the chess editor of the
Brooklyn Eagle
to see if he knew of any seven-year-old players. She referred to her son as “
my little chess miracle.” The editor, Hermann Helms, a great old chess master, replied that she should bring Bobby to the Grand Army Plaza library on a particular Thursday evening in January 1951, so that the boy could play in a simultaneous exhibition to be given by several chess masters.

Normally, a simultaneous exhibition is given by
one
master who walks from board to board, competing against multiple players. The boards are arranged in the shape of a square or horseshoe. When the master reaches each of the boards, the player makes his move and the master responds before quickly moving to the next board.

Bobby, accompanied by his mother, entered the high-ceilinged rotunda of the Grand Army Plaza library and was momentarily surprised by what he
saw. Circling the room were locked glass cases displaying unusual and historic chess sets, loaned to the library from private collectors for the occasion. The cases also contained a variety of popular chess books and some incunabula printed in German. There was a ceramic set of chessmen inspired by Tenniel’s illustrations of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland;
two sets from displaced persons’ camps, one carved by hand and another made of woven straw; each set had taken more than five hundred hours of work to produce; and a set from Guatemala that was reminiscent of pre–Spanish New World architecture. This was all quite fascinating for the general spectator, but Bobby Fischer hadn’t come to look at chess sets. “
They did not interest me too much,” he remembered. He’d come to play.

On that evening masters were performing in rotation, one playing for about an hour, followed by another who’d take his place. When Bobby sat down to play with his own new wooden set, the master who came to his board was Max Pavey, a thirty-two-year-old radiologist who’d been champion of both Scotland and New York State and who was playing at the top of his form. Pavey was the first master Bobby ever played. It’s also likely this was his first serious game of chess against a player with tutored expertise. What was occurring at that moment was analogous to a seven-year-old playing a few games of tennis with his peers, then taking to the court against a still-active John McEnroe.

A crowd of spectators gathered around the board as the diminutive Bobby faced the self-assured, tweed-jacketed Max Pavey. The boy was so serious about what he was doing that the game attracted more and more onlookers. He kneeled on his chair to get a more panoramic view of the pieces.

Bobby remembered his experience in solving puzzles. He must not move too quickly; he knew that the solution was there waiting to be found, if only he had time, time, more time. Pavey, who excelled at playing rapidly—he’d recently captured the title of U.S. Speed Chess Champion—seemed to zoom around the room hardly studying the other boards as he made his moves, returning to Bobby’s game in such a short time that the child couldn’t calculate as deeply or as carefully as he wanted. That night there were only eight players, making it more difficult for each to contend with the master than if there’d been scores of players, who would have slowed Pavey’s progress.

The master was much too strong. In about fifteen minutes, puffing on his
pipe, Pavey captured Bobby’s queen, thereby ending the game. He graciously offered his hand to the boy and with a gentle smile said, “Good game.” Bobby stared at the board for a moment. “He crushed me,” he said to no one in particular. Then he burst into tears.

Despite his phenomenal memory, Bobby as an adult could never remember the moves of that game with Pavey. A friend’s offhand mention that Bobby probably had every expectation of winning his first game against a chess master elicited a strident rebuke: “Of course not!” He did say that Pavey probably had “gone easy” on him and that he was amazed that he’d even lasted a quarter of an hour against him. That he was passionate enough to cry demonstrated his growing intensity concerning the game. Even at seven he didn’t consider himself an amateur. He later admitted that the game had a great effect in motivating him.

One spectator at the exhibition that evening was Carmine Nigro, a short, bald man in his early forties; Bobby described him as “cheery.”

Nigro studied the Pavey-Fischer game intently. He liked the moves that Bobby was making. They weren’t scintillating, but they were sensible ones, especially for a beginner. With the utmost concentration, Bobby seemed to block out everything and everyone around him. When the game concluded, Nigro approached Regina and Bobby and introduced himself as the newly elected president of the Brooklyn Chess Club. He invited Bobby to come to the club on any Tuesday or Friday night. No, there would be no membership dues for the boy, Nigro assured Regina. She took him to the club, which was located in the old Brooklyn Academy of Music, the very next evening.

W
HEN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD
B
OBBY
, accompanied by his mother, walked into the Brooklyn Chess Club for the first time on a Friday night in January 1951, he was an anomaly. He was, in fact, the first child permitted to enter. Even the appearance of Regina Fischer was unusual: There were no other women present, and at that time there were no female members on the club’s roster, as was the case at many other clubs in the United States.

As the new president of the club, Carmine Nigro announced that Bobby was his guest and would be accepted as a member.
No one had the temerity to disagree. It was a tradition in many chess clubs, not only in the United States but throughout the world, that children were not to be heard, and certainly not seen.
Even Emanuel Lasker, who ultimately became World Chess Champion, was as a child denied membership in his local club in Germany, despite his evident talent.

The Brooklyn Chess Club, established just after the Civil War, was one of the most prestigious in the nation. It was housed in the impressive and stately Brooklyn Academy of Music,
where Enrico Caruso and Geraldine Farrar had sung. The club had distinguished itself by competing every year in the Metropolitan Chess League, often defeating dozens of clubs throughout the New York area. Nevertheless, Bobby seemed unafraid of the cigar-smoking adepts hunched over their boards.

The room was quiet except for the occasional rap of a chess piece slammed to the board in anger. At the conclusion of a game, a player might ask, “If I’d played the rook instead of the bishop, what would you have done?” or
mutter indignantly, “I overlooked a mating net: You’re lucky to get a draw.” Invariably, the tones were hushed, even when the speaker was annoyed. Bobby looked on in wonderment, understanding some of the jargon and trying to comprehend the rest.

The problem that developed for Bobby almost instantly that night was more in the minds of his potential opponents. None of the club’s veterans wanted to play a boy, especially since Bobby looked to be about five. A chorus of nervous, fretful snickers ran through the high-ceilinged room when it was suggested they “give Bobby a chance.” The predominant feeling was:
It’s bad enough to lose to a peer, but what if I lose to a seven-year-old? The embarrassment! The loss of reputation!
After coaxing from Nigro, a few of the older players relented and gave Bobby a game or two.

Most were experienced tournament competitors, some even approaching the strength of Max Pavey. As it developed, they had nothing to fear though: Bobby lost every game that night.

Despite his defeats, Bobby kept coming back for more. He became a dedicated member, and a bit of a novelty. The tableau of a little boy engaged in mental combat with a judge, doctor, or college professor some eight or ten times his age was often greeted with mirth and wonder. “
At first I used to lose all the time, and I felt bad about it,” Bobby said later. He was teased unmercifully by the conquering players. “Fish!” they’d bleat, using the chess player’s derisive term for a really weak player, whenever Bobby made an obvious blunder. The epithet hurt even more because of its similarity to his own name. Bobby himself despised the term. Later he’d refer to a poor player as a “weakie”—or, less commonly, a “duffer” or “rabbit.”

Nigro, an expert player of near master strength, sensed potential in the boy, and aware that Bobby was without a father, he assumed a mentoring position. He became the boy’s teacher and invited him on Saturdays to his home, where he’d match him up with his son Tommy, just a shade younger than Bobby though a slightly better player. Tommy didn’t mind playing chess with Bobby, but he didn’t want to take lessons from his father. On those teaching days,
Nigro would greatly increase his son’s allowance if he’d sit still long enough to learn chess tactics.

As soon as Bobby began to understand the basics of chess, Nigro went
over specific ways to conduct the part of the game known as the opening, where the first few moves can decide or at least influence the outcome of the contest. These initial moves and “lines” follow well-charted paths that have been chronicled for centuries, and players who want to improve their game attempt to understand and memorize them. Because there are a myriad of such variations, it’s difficult for most players to internalize even a small portion. For example, there are 400 different possible positions after two players make one move each, and
there are 72,084 positions after two moves each—not all good, it must be added. But Bobby approached with dedication the daunting task of learning many of the substantive ones. Referring to the difficult regimen, he later said, “
Mr. Nigro was possibly not the best player in the world but he was a very good teacher. Meeting him was probably a decisive factor in my going ahead in chess.”

Nigro had no problem teaching Bobby. The boy could hardly wait for his weekly lesson, and eventually he began to defeat Tommy. “I started going to Mr. Nigro’s house on Saturdays,” Bobby later wrote, “as well as meeting him on Fridays at the Club.
My mother was often on duty on weekends at her job as a nurse, and was glad to have me go [to Mr. Nigro’s house].”

In 1952, still not yet turned nine, Bobby made his first entrance into competitive chess. A group of Nigro’s protégés won the first match with a score of 5–3; the score of the second match has been lost or forgotten. Auspiciously, Bobby won his first game and drew his second against ten-year-old Raymond Sussman, the son of a dentist, Dr. Harold Sussman, a nationally rated master from Brooklyn.
Dr. Sussman was also an amateur photographer, and he captured some portraits of Bobby that worked their way into the Fischer oeuvre years later. Fittingly, Sussman also became Bobby’s dentist. “He had a great set of teeth,” Sussman remembered.

That summer and fall, Bobby also spent time playing against his grandfather’s septuagenarian cousin Jacob Schonberg, who also lived in Brooklyn. Regina would take the boy with her when she nursed Schonberg and Bobby would play his great-cousin as the old man sat in bed. Years later Bobby could not remember how strong Schonberg was or how many games the two played, but
one could tell by the inflection in his voice that he was affected by the experience, not so much by the playing of the games, but by the
encounter with a family member, however distant. It was a ritual that was all too rare for him.

Carmine Nigro was a professional musician, and taught music in a number of styles. Since Bobby was such a sponge in absorbing the intricacies of chess, Nigro tried to foster in him an interest in music. Since the Fischers didn’t own a piano, Nigro began giving Bobby accordion lessons, lending him a somewhat battered “twelve-bass” instrument so he could practice at home.
Soon Bobby was playing “Beer Barrel Polka” and other tunes and felt competent enough to give performances at more than one school assembly. After about a year, though, he concluded that the amount of time he was spending practicing the accordion was impinging on his chess studies. “
I did fairly well on it for a while,” Bobby said, looking back, “but chess had more attraction and the accordion was pushed aside.”