Robert James Fischer 1943 – 2008

On Friday 18th January 2008, Robert James “Bobby” Fischer died in Iceland, his adopted home.

Chess has a unique air of exclusivity to it. The titanic wrestling match unfolding on sixty four squares is hidden from the non-player, in a way that, say, a football match is not. If a footballer scores a great goal, it has a physical grace that the non-player can appreciate, even admire. Likewise a fine passing stroke on the tennis court, or an exquisitely controlled long pot on the snooker table, extract gasps of wonder from the spectator, even though that spectator may not play the sport he so enjoys watching. Perhaps we intuitively understand the physical prowess it takes to play a sport so gracefully and so well, these titans of corporeal power evoking our primeval respect, spear subconsciously replacing racket. Or that could be bollocks. Regardless, chess is pleasingly off-limits to the layman. It takes a considerable amount of investment to start to peel back its skin; to such an extent that someone unfamiliar with its grace might not know the difference between a grandmaster’s masterpiece and one of my hapless blunderings.

The joy of chess therefore becomes the study of it. Of all the time I spend immersed in the game, perhaps only ten percent of it, maybe less, is actually spent playing. The rest is study; its history, its theory, its technique. I am acquainted with its heroes, the great players of history, defining their ages and moving the game forward. Each has his own style, his own footprint. A wonderful feature of chess is its comprehensive record. The fact that you can record a game using simple algebraic notation (indeed, in tournament play, it is an obligation) means that chess players have instant access to every single competitive game played by every master, international master and grandmaster since the beginning of organized tournaments, plus puzzles, exhibition and specialist games going back to the fifteenth century. The wealth of material is overwhelming; grandmasters and authors therefore publish game collections online and in books that trace the development of players, openings and styles. I can set up my board and the ghosts of Fischer, Capablanca and Morphy sit by my side, guiding my hand, posthumously imparting their wisdom.

Kasparov asserts that Bobby Fischer’s posturing and petulance helped bring a degree of professionalism to the game. It is an intriguing point, but I am skeptical of the benefits of professionalism to chess. Fischer’s demands of tournament organizers were immature and unreasonable. During the 1972 world championship, he complained about everything, from the board to the lighting to the sound the cameras made. His demands were fiscal, too; so much so that a British businessman had to stump up $250,000 in extra prize money just to allow the match to continue. Professional sport makes unreasonable demands on those who follow it. The price of a football shirt bears grim testimony to the nature of professional soccer.

It’s a strange thing, professional chess. British players lament the lack of quality coming from these isles, wishing to promote the game in the forlorn hope that a British player might one day conquer the world. It seems unlikely; the quality of the chess infrastructure in Eastern Europe is beyond anything we are likely to see in the UK. Promotion is lackluster. Only one monthly publication, and an amateurish one at that, is produced here (as far as I can tell). It does not bother me, though. The hidden exclusivity of the game is a part of its joy. Attempts to promote chess in a professional manner have had some unfortunate consequences. Most notably, a young crop of attractive Eastern Europeans have, in recent years, tried to impart a bit of glamour and sassiness to the ancient game.

This appalling image is of Alexandra Kosteniuk. Get some bloody clothes on love. Chess is not, nor should it ever be, sexy. It should be played in the company of pipes and plentiful tweed, which, if unavailable, should be replaced by a dignified sense of decorum.
Anyway, the chess world has lost one of its greats. One day, I will have a beard like Fischer’s. Look at its Darwinian majesty.

Rest in peace, you big, daft racist.

http://www.chessgames.com/perl/chessplayer?pid=19233 (the greatest website in the world) for more info.