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When Fischer awoke on the afternoon of the first game, July 11, 1972, and it slowly began to permeate his consciousness that he was actually in Iceland playing for the championship of the world, he was nervous. After years and years of tribulations and controversy, and the recent brouhaha about the match, Fischer had arrived at the threshold of his lifelong goal. Laugersdalhöll was to be his universe for the next two months.
Bobby Fischer's arrival at Reykjavik Airport on July 4th – Gudmundur
Thórarinsson
greets him with the words: "Bobby, welcome to Iceland!" Bobby replies:
"Yeah".
All details had been checked and double-checked in the playing hall to ensure maximum comfort for the players. Laugersdalhöll is a cavernous, dome-shaped stadium (someone described it as a large Icelandic mushroom), with huge, white-covered sound baffles on the ceiling that resemble mammoth albino bats. The entire first floor was covered with carpeting to muffle the sound of entering and exiting spectators, and the folding seats were replaced with upholstered and consequently "soundless" chairs. The two film towers were pushed back, on Fischer’s request, and the lighting intensity on stage was increased. A handsome, Eames-designed executive swivel chair, an exact duplicate of the one he sat in while playing Petrosian in Buenos Aires, was flown in from the U.S.
Bobby was driven to the Stadium by Lombardy, and due to heavy traffic they arrived shortly after five o'clock, the scheduled starting time. Fischer rushed through the backstage corridor on to the horticultured stage, and was greeted by the polite applause of an audience of 2,300 spectators. Spassky had made his first move precisely at five – it was 1 P-Q4 – and Schmid had started Fischer's clock. Fischer, dressed in a white shirt and blue conservative business suit, sped to the table; the two men shook hands while Fischer kept his eyes on the board. Then he sat down in his black leather chair, considered his move for ninety-five seconds, and played his Knight to his King Bishop's third square.
A rare colour picture from the first game of the Match of the Century –
oops, no, not
from game one, as Dan Scoones of Port Coquitlam, Canana, explained: "Spassky
did not get a black leather chair like Fischer's until game seven."
Lombardy stood on the sidelines and watched. Later, he said: “When I finally saw Bobby up there on the stage playing for the Championship of the World, I was filled with emotion. Tears almost came to my eyes.” Many American players and spectators felt the same way. One of their finest players, after a decade of hope, had finally come into his own: the first American ever to seriously challenge the Soviet hegemony of nearly a half century.
It was a unique moment in the life of a dynamic prodigy in that he had somehow overcome the irrationality of his character to arrive where he was. Everyone knew it, not only in Laugersdalhöll, but all over the world. As Isaac Kashdan said: "It was the single most important chess event in the history of the game."
Fischer had been known for his predilection in recent years for the Gruenfeld Defense and the King's Indian, so it was somewhat surprising that he played the Nimzo-Indian, his first attempt with it in over two years. The first game developed along uninspired lines.
Fischer left the stage twice during the game (pre-adjournment), once complaining that the orange juice left in his dressing room back-stage was not cold enough. Ice cubes were provided. He also asked for a bottle of cold water and a dish of skyr, an Icelandic yogurt-type dessert. This last request caused quite some confusion in the stadium's cafeteria, as they were unable to supply the skyr themselves. Fortunately, a local restaurant could.
As moves were made on the board, they were simultaneously shown on forty closed-circuit television monitors in all points of the stadium. In the cafeteria, where spectators wolfed down the local variety of lamb-based hot-dogs and gurgled bottles of two-percent Icelandic beer, the action on the stage was discussed vociferously. In the basement, Icelandic masters more quietly explained and analyzed the moves on a large demonstration board, while in the press rooms, a condescension of grandmasters surveyed the television screens and analyzed in their heads, to the confusion and awe of most of the journalists. In the playing hall itself, decorum and quiet reigned. But when it did not, Lothar Schmid or the Assistant Arbiter, Gudmundur Arnlaugsson, would activate a large white electrical sign that insisted, in both English and Icelandic, upon immediate attention: Silence! Thögn!
As the first game progressed, most experts were beginning to predict a draw. And then, on the twenty-ninth move, with the position equal, Fischer engaged in one of the most dangerous gambles of his career. Without consuming much time on his clock (he had equalized on the seventeenth move and was now ahead of Spassky on time) Fischer sacrificed his Bishop for two Pawns in a move that thoroughly electrified the audience, and literally sent Spassky's eyebrows arching.
We would love to tell you that this is the moment when Fischer played the
ominous
29...Bxh2, but it is on the wrong side of the board and probably the move 18...Bxb3
The real thing: Fischer capturing the pawn on h2 with his bishop...
... in Liz Garbus documentary "Die
Legende Bobby Fischer" in Arte TV
At first impression, it appeared that Fischer, overly eager to gain the psychological momentum of winning the first game, had over-extended himself and simply blundered. But on closer inspection, the game still looked like a draw. Next, Fischer complained to Schmid that the camera poking through a hole in the blue-and-white FIDE sign located at the back of the stage, was disturbing him. No change was made, however, in the camera's position.
On his forty-first move, Spassky, to take advantage of overnight analysis, decided to adjourn the game. Since five hours, the official adjournment time, had not yet been reached, he took a loss of thirty-five minutes on his clock. Spassky had a Bishop and three Pawns against Fischer's five Pawns. He sealed his move and handed the large brown envelope to Schmid.
As the crowds began to file out, Fischer drove back to the Loftleider to analyze the position with Lombardy, discussing it in the car without sight of the board. Byrne said: "Fischer is playing desperately for a draw." Larry Evans felt Fischer had drawing chances, "perhaps." Gligoric thought Fischer's chances were "slim." But Krogius said it was ". . . probably a draw."
– Will Bobby Fischer be able to save the game? Tune in tomorrow to find out. –
The above text was taken from the Batsford edition of Frank Brady's 1974 book, of which we possess (and treasure) a rare copy. There appears to be one available at AbeBooks, but probably our readers will find more.
