up the tournament ladder, he confronted stiffer opposition and started to lose. Harry Fajans, a tall, pencil-thin master with poor posture, who was a member of the Marshall Chess Club, one of the most renowned chess institutions in the country, related that when he beat Bobby in that Washington Square tournament, the boy began to cry. When questioned about the incident years later,Bobby was highly indignant and vehemently denied it.
The rounds of the tournament stretched into October, and toward the final weeks it was often cold and rainy. Bobby, dressed in a light zip-up jacket thatwasn’t warm enough, pressed on despite the discomfort, his pieces occasionally sliding off the cement tables slick with rain. “We were glad when it was over,” Fischer remembered.
He finished fifteenth, and was awarded a ballpoint pen, perhaps because he was the youngest player. He later recounted: “I felt bad when the pen was handed to me, because it looked like the ones that I was always buying for a quarter or a half dollar.”A few weeks later, however, while walking with his mother past a drugstore, she pointed out an identical pen for sale in the window. It had a price tag of $10.00. “I felt better,” quipped Bobby.
As a result of his participation in the tournament, Bobby for the first time saw his name published in a major newspaper, a harbinger of the vast publicity he’d attract for the rest of his life.
The New York Times
ran a small story about the results, crammed in the back of the paper, on the obituary page. The headline proclaimed, EASTMAN WINS AT WASHINGTON SQUARE—BOY 12, NEAR TOP .
Although Charles Eastman had won the event, it was Bobby who received the most ink. The
Times
extolled: “Many in the crowd of 400 onlookers seemed to think the best show was given by Bobby Fischer. Despite competition from his more mature and experienced adversaries, he was unbeaten until yesterday, when he came within 15 players of the championship.”
When Bobby’s maternal grandfather, Jacob Wender, died, the yellowed
Times
article was found among his papers. Bobby commented with both wistfulness and sting: “My grandfather had shown little interest in [me] and knew nothing about chess.” Still, the irony wasn’t lost on him. He sensed that the old man was probably proud of him from the very beginning of his chess career, but never told him.
3
Out of the Head of Zeus
D URING THE SUMMER of 1955 Bobby serendipitously happened upon a gathering place for chess aficionados and, in so doing, raised his game to a whole new level. Nigro would often take him to Manhattan’s Central Park, where they’d rent a boat for an hour or two and then paddle up, down, and around the placid lake, through the lily pads, looking like fin de siècle oarsmen in an Impressionist painting. Bobby did most of the rowing, which broadened his shoulders.
One Saturday afternoon, as they walked out of the park on their way home, Bobby noticed a brass plaque affixed to the front of an elegant stone building on Central Park South, a posh street bordering the park. The engraving read simply, MANHATTAN CHESS CLUB . The sign startled the boy, and as he stared at it, his attention was drawn to an open window on the ground level. Bobby stood there for a moment, agape: He was just inches away from two players sitting at a table inside, intently moving pieces across a board. The men were attempting to get a breath of fresh air during one of the dog days of summer. The club looked inviting. Bobby turned sheepishly to Nigro. “Can we go in?” His teacher said simply, “Let’s try.”
“We were looking for [a way] to get out of the heat,” Bobby remembered. “As soon as I saw the sign I wanted to go in, and the minute I went in, I liked it.” The club was decorated with trophies; oil paintings of legendary players such as Lasker, Morphy, and Capablanca; photographs of contemporary masters; and bookcases filled with works on chess strategy. There were about
The rounds of the tournament stretched into October, and toward the final weeks it was often cold and rainy. Bobby, dressed in a light zip-up jacket thatwasn’t warm enough, pressed on despite the discomfort, his pieces occasionally sliding off the cement tables slick with rain. “We were glad when it was over,” Fischer remembered.
He finished fifteenth, and was awarded a ballpoint pen, perhaps because he was the youngest player. He later recounted: “I felt bad when the pen was handed to me, because it looked like the ones that I was always buying for a quarter or a half dollar.”A few weeks later, however, while walking with his mother past a drugstore, she pointed out an identical pen for sale in the window. It had a price tag of $10.00. “I felt better,” quipped Bobby.
As a result of his participation in the tournament, Bobby for the first time saw his name published in a major newspaper, a harbinger of the vast publicity he’d attract for the rest of his life.
The New York Times
ran a small story about the results, crammed in the back of the paper, on the obituary page. The headline proclaimed, EASTMAN WINS AT WASHINGTON SQUARE—BOY 12, NEAR TOP .
Although Charles Eastman had won the event, it was Bobby who received the most ink. The
Times
extolled: “Many in the crowd of 400 onlookers seemed to think the best show was given by Bobby Fischer. Despite competition from his more mature and experienced adversaries, he was unbeaten until yesterday, when he came within 15 players of the championship.”
When Bobby’s maternal grandfather, Jacob Wender, died, the yellowed
Times
article was found among his papers. Bobby commented with both wistfulness and sting: “My grandfather had shown little interest in [me] and knew nothing about chess.” Still, the irony wasn’t lost on him. He sensed that the old man was probably proud of him from the very beginning of his chess career, but never told him.
3
Out of the Head of Zeus
D URING THE SUMMER of 1955 Bobby serendipitously happened upon a gathering place for chess aficionados and, in so doing, raised his game to a whole new level. Nigro would often take him to Manhattan’s Central Park, where they’d rent a boat for an hour or two and then paddle up, down, and around the placid lake, through the lily pads, looking like fin de siècle oarsmen in an Impressionist painting. Bobby did most of the rowing, which broadened his shoulders.
One Saturday afternoon, as they walked out of the park on their way home, Bobby noticed a brass plaque affixed to the front of an elegant stone building on Central Park South, a posh street bordering the park. The engraving read simply, MANHATTAN CHESS CLUB . The sign startled the boy, and as he stared at it, his attention was drawn to an open window on the ground level. Bobby stood there for a moment, agape: He was just inches away from two players sitting at a table inside, intently moving pieces across a board. The men were attempting to get a breath of fresh air during one of the dog days of summer. The club looked inviting. Bobby turned sheepishly to Nigro. “Can we go in?” His teacher said simply, “Let’s try.”
“We were looking for [a way] to get out of the heat,” Bobby remembered. “As soon as I saw the sign I wanted to go in, and the minute I went in, I liked it.” The club was decorated with trophies; oil paintings of legendary players such as Lasker, Morphy, and Capablanca; photographs of contemporary masters; and bookcases filled with works on chess strategy. There were about
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