Bobby fischer where is he i dont know

And I want the keys. Nobody looked at anybody. The nearest lockers were about 90 feet away. Bobby insisted on carrying most of the bags across the lobby himself.

Saidy was allowed to carry a few. Then Bobby and Saidy stowed the bags in lockers. Finally, with a private smile that seemed to go with feelings of power and possession, Bobby pocketed all the keys.

The others he instructed to wait. Then he marched off, stone-faced, and left Davis standing there like an untipped porter. A bleak little group gathered around Davis. The desperate extremity of the situation was clear to everyone. In chess terms, Bobby was on the verge of self-mate. In the next half hour Bobby faced a decision that must crown or crush the hopes of a lifetime, and he was clearly in no mood to make such a decision rationally.

To make matters worse, Davis now looked beat. He felt as if he had whipped into a hairpin turn at 90 and all at once found himself clutching a steering wheel that had simply come off in his hands. What now? Davis and the others went up to the bar next to the coffee shop and knocked back a belt or two. Then Davis squared off, lawyer style, for another look at the problem.

Davis suspected that it was fear. Bobby at best was one of the most easily frightened people Davis knew, but he had never seen him as frightened as he was today.

Frightened of what? Of losing? Of winning? Of the press and the crowds? Of being jailed by the Icelanders or assassinated by the Russians? He may have been afraid of all these things, but there was something else. What was it? Davis had no idea and there was no time to puzzle it out now.

It was midnight. The flight, the last plane to Reykjavik, was already 90 minutes late. There was no time for tact; he had to barge in there and see Bobby right this minute.

By 11 P. Then they scattered to find him. For a full hour dozens of story-starved reporters, photographers and TV camera men ran a fine-meshed dragnet through that airport. Oblivious to all this, seized by his own problem, Bobby sat in the coffee shop stuffing himself with eggs and toast and talking earnestly with Saidy only a few feet off the corridor but somehow too obvious to be seen.

The conversation was going well, Saidy said later. He felt he had finally persuaded Bobby to swallow his pride and take the plane. It was a year-old boy who spotted Bobby. You could tell this was the big moment of his life. This kid came along and I saw him duck into the restaurant where Bobby was eating. A minute later, he came running out and went tearing down the corridor to where most of the press was waiting. Bobby and Saidy took off just like that.

Well, the whole megillah came thundering up, at least twenty of them. Nikons, TV cameras, strobes. They charged into the restaurant, and then out again. About two minutes later, they all came charging back up again. Hallowell was ready for them. When they hit the end of the bar, they ran into a year-old pound former third-string tackle on the worst Harvard team since World War Two and he threw the greatest block of his career.

For about 30 seconds, Hallowell had 20 men piled up in front of him. Suddenly they all broke through Hallowell, but as they went charging toward Bobby, they met Bobby charging out. Face closed and shoulders twisting, he pushed quickly through the startled pack. It was a scary moment, and not only to Bobby.

My heart started pounding. But it was worse for Bobby. Maybe his eyes are more sensitive. Anyway, it seems to hurt him physically. Just ahead lay the corridor. As Bobby hit it, he turned left. Hallowell was not far behind him and right behind Hallowell was a TV cameraman, an assistant carrying a battery pack and a rack of lights and the year-old boy who had started it all. It belonged to Hochstetter, who had been waiting in the corridor for just such an opportunity.

The lighting man screamed, too. Finally they pushed me out of the way, but as the cameraman went past, I gave him a good swift kick—right in the crack. He gave a yell and turned around and started after me.

I backed off. All I wanted was to give Bobby a chance to take off. Bobby got it. He ran down the stairs three and four at a time, Hallowell about 20 feet behind him.

After him, yelping with alarm, came the pack of news-hounds. For about five seconds they body-checked the roaring horde. Somebody threw a punch at Saidy. Davis gave way slowly and as the TV cameraman rushed past him, he stepped accidentally, he insists, on the cord that connected the camera to the battery pack.

The camera went dead. The cameraman stared in disbelief. First some son of a bitch had grabbed his lens and kicked him in the slats.

Now this son of a bitch had unplugged his camera. It was too much. Yelling and cursing, the newsmen closed in on Davis, Saidy and Hochstetter. A Port Authority policeman hurried over. Everybody explained at once and then the cameraman indignantly described the first assault on his person. Another cop grabbed Hochstetter by the arm. He indignantly denied the charge.

The cameraman then accused Davis of punching him. The cops knew a lawyer when they heard one. Move along. Davis, Saidy and Hochstetter stood staring at what was left of one another.

Hochstetter had been up since eight that morning and had eaten almost nothing all day. The blue blotches under his eyes were the size of mussel shells. Saidy was pale with shock. For three days running, he had put out a total effort of emotional diplomacy—and now this! Davis looked battered, but there was still plenty of fight in him. Anybody see which way he went?

Davis bit his lip. For the second time that night, Davis organized a search. No reply. Their ace in the hole was Hallowell. In the meantime, they had to do what they could—and hope they got lucky. Unstoppable, Davis proposed plan B. Bobby was registered at none of them.

It was one A. A full hour had passed since Bobby bolted. The last plane to Reykjavik was now two and a half hours late. Hope was going out of his mind. There was no word from Hallowell. It looked as if the jig was up. Bobby ran down the stairs three and four at a time.

Behind him he heard shouts and racing feet. Someone was closing on him, a big man, landing hard and breathing heavily as he ran. At the bottom of the stairs, the main lobby of the International Arrivals Building spread away on both sides.

Straight ahead he saw a row of glass doors and beyond the doors a traffic bay. He ran for the nearest door, hitting it with both palms just as the photoelectric cell popped it open automatically. He was on the sidewalk. Which way now? A wall of rain lay ahead. He turned left and began to sprint.

The big man hit the door and came pounding after him. Bobby jerked a glance over his shoulder. It was Hallowell! No pursuit in sight. They were in the clear! He picked up his knees and really poured it on. Hallowell raced after him. He was in no shape for this. For the past five years that big body of his had pushed nothing heavier than his chair away from his desk. Remembering his morning workout in mid-Manhattan, he wondered uneasily how long he could keep it up.

He was sagging after 14 hours of incessant and increasing nervous tension, but as he watched Bobby blast off in front of him, he had a sinking sensation that he was chasing a man so charged up he might run for an hour before he ran down. He set his will hard. Losing him now would mean losing everything they had been fighting for. As long as he held on, there was a chance he could talk Bobby back to the plane. The sidewalk in front of the terminal was about 18 feet wide and Bobby ran straight down the center of it.

He was obviously running in a blind burst of emotion—all kinds of emotion. His feet hit the pavement like blows struck in anger and his legs leaped and exulted as if shackles had just been struck off. He was a prisoner breaking for freedom and in his first wild dash, he had no idea where his legs were taking him. Hallowell saw in horror that he was running straight toward the Loftleidir terminal, where the media people had been headquartered all night. The sidewalk was empty now—could they zip by without being seen?

They made it halfway. Then Hallowell heard a scurry of running feet. It was one of those cries of despair, like the yowls of a cartoon cat when the mouse escapes, that are rightly answered with a raspberry. But this time, inexplicably, the victim apologized for escaping.

Like a scatback heading for the sidelines, he veered into the traffic bay. Puffing hard, Hallowell raced after him. Rain engulfed them. Both were coatless and before they hit the other side of the highway their jackets and thighs were soaked. At the third or fourth step, Hallowell landed splat in a huge puddle. Water gushed up through a hole in one shoe. Water spewed up his trouser legs and drenched his knees.

Water ran down inside his socks. Bobby kept on running. Believe me. After that, Bobby slowed down a little, but he showed no sign of stopping as he galloped across a black lake inhabited by swimming snakes of light and bouldered with silent empty automobiles.

Behind them, the roar of the traffic died to a murmur. Now there was only the noise of their own heavy breathing and the ruckus made by their feet as they pounded blacktop and splashed through puddles. Bobby ran on for two minutes, three minutes.

Nothing but will kept him going. No press people can… find us there. Bobby fiercely refused. I want to get out of this airport!

I want to take a cab. I want to take a cab and get out of here! I want something to eat. When they hit the circular highway again, Hallowell hailed a passing cab. Bobby told the driver where to go and they drove for seven or eight minutes. Bobby was still jumpy, still teetering on the brink. Hallowell made small talk, giving him time to wind down. It had been wiped out by a cloverleaf.

Hallowell groaned—more time wasted. Bobby looked around suspiciously. Bobby paid, thanked the driver and threw in a quarter tip. Inside, they were told that the restaurant was closed, but the bar was still open. Bobby said he wanted food, so they ran about yards through the rain to the Hilton Motel next door.

At the Hilton, both the bar and the restaurant were closed. When they finally got settled in a dark corner of the cocktail lounge, it was close to one A. They ordered drinks—as Hallowell recalls, Bobby asked for a whiskey sour—and Bobby started talking about the press with concentrated hatred. Not a word about Iceland or catching the plane. If he rushed right off, Bobby would suspect what he was doing and when he came back, Bobby might not be there. But he had to chance it.

From a pay phone he called information. The phone rang interminably. In a little while, she said there was no number at Kennedy, there was only the main number in Manhattan. Hallowell called it. Hallowell rolled his eyes. Any minute now, Bobby might come looking for him. Then a young woman answered. Hallowell described his problem as quickly and as urgently as he could and asked her to put him through on the tie line to the Loftleidir terminal at Kennedy. Hallowell almost jumped into the mouthpiece.

So at that point, I said some extremely forceful things. Davis and Saidy jumped out and hurried in. Hope and Indridason followed them. Moments later, Hochstetter arrived in the Cadillac with Dubinsky, who at long last had resolved his two-day conflict between hate and duty. But this is ridiculous. I find this Fischer a very depressing person and I no longer wish to have him in my car. I am sure you will have no trouble getting home. I will send you a bill on the first of the month. Good night.

As Hochstetter walked through the street door into the lobby, he saw Davis, Hallowell, Indridason and Hope walking in from the lounge. A few minutes later, Saidy came out and beckoned to Davis. He was waving his arms and talking.

We thought, OK. Somebody finally got through to him. In fact, Bobby was telling Davis emphatically that he would not go to Iceland. He would not go, he said, until the deal was right. He wanted Davis to go instead and see if he could make it right. One: I want a nonplaying referee. Lothar Schmid has to go. Four: I want thirty percent of the gate. So they were back to the original position—and then some. Four people pushing for two full days with all their might had failed to budge Bobby an inch.

And now they had run out of time. There was nothing to do but admit defeat—and see what could be salvaged from that defeat. After all, there was still the Saturday-night plane…. Suppose I get a reasonable betterment of the deal. Will you come? I want to know. Bobby caved a little. Davis looked at Saidy. Saidy nodded. Then Davis nodded gravely and held out his hand. After that his mood improved rapidly: Saidy could hardly move or even speak, he was so exhausted and depressed by what had happened, and Hallowell and Hochstetter were not much better off.

They figured they had just watched Bobby destroy his career. But Bobby spoke firmly and moved confidently, like a man who had just had a major success. Wearily, Hallowell called for two limousines—one for himself, one for Bobby and the others. When his Cadillac came, Bobby jumped in eagerly. Saidy and Hochstetter eased in after him and slumped in the softly molded, back-supporting seats. Bobby and Saidy raided the refrigerator, which was loaded with leftover Lebanese goodies.

Bobby put away several pounds of food and then Saidy took him to the third floor. There were three bedrooms there and a bathroom, too. Saidy had the impression he wanted to play chess. And that is the beginning of the story of how Bobby Fischer caught a plane to Reykjavik. It took four more days and the combined efforts of several hundred people and two governments, as well as a landslide of good luck, to get him actually aboard.

For the next two days, Davis put Thorarinsson through the wringer and the Saidys treated Bobby like a sacred rhino, but he accepted their efforts as his due and calmly missed the plane on Saturday night.

The match was wrecked. Risking the certain disapproval of high officials in Moscow, he allowed the opening of the event to be postponed until Tuesday. Then came a purely incredible piece of luck. Bobby was tempted, but five hours after the offer reached him he was still holding out. Then Marshall threatened to quit again.

At that, Bobby gave in and agreed to go. Just for insurance, Marshall arranged to have Henry Kissinger call and ask Bobby to play the match for the sake of his country. Set up by his talk with Kissinger, Bobby announced to the press that he would fly to Reykjavik that night.

He did, and after another week of sometimes Byzantine, sometimes ludicrous maneuvering, the Chess Match of the Century began.

Before it was over, the world had discovered another Bobby. Right to the end he came on from time to time as the bad hat from Brooklyn: but as the games began to claim his attention, the fears and suspicions seeped away like goblins fading with the moon, and the force that had scattered in tantrums moved in behind his will and his talent.

Victory followed victory and the world eagerly forgave the winner for tearing up the pea patch back in June. Bruce Pandolfini : It's white's move. Josh Waitzkin : How many points is it worth? Bruce Pandolfini : It's just an opening move.

Josh Waitzkin : I want to know how much it's worth. Bruce Pandolfini : Just do it for its own sake. Do it for the love of the game. Josh Waitzkin : I want to know how many more points I am away to getting the certificate. Bruce Pandolfini : Forget the certificate. Josh Waitzkin : Why? Bruce Pandolfini : I don't know. Bruce Pandolfini : I don't care.

Josh Waitzkin : I want the certificate. Bruce Pandolfini : [sighs] You want the certificate. You have to have the certificate. Bruce Pandolfini : You won't move until you get the certificate. Bruce Pandolfini : Fine. You win. Bruce Pandolfini : Here's your certificate. Josh Waitzkin : [takes it]. Bruce Pandolfini : Fill it out.

It doesn't mean anything. It's just a piece of paper. It's a xerox of a piece of paper. Do you want another one. Bruce Pandolfini : Do you want 10? Bruce Pandolfini : Do you want 20? Bruce Pandolfini : 30? I've got a whole briefcase full of them. They don't mean anything, though. Bonnie : [entering the room]. Bruce Pandolfini : They mean nothing. Bonnie : Get out of my house. Bruce Pandolfini : [sits there grimly a moment and then collects the certificates and prepares to leave].

Bonnie : [goes over to comfort Josh]. Bruce Pandolfini : [while getting coat on] To put a child in a position to care about winning and not to prepare him is wrong. Bruce Pandolfini : [leaves]. Bonnie : [comforts Josh]. Josh Waitzkin : [about Bobby Fischer] In the days before the event, the whole world wondered if he would show up.

Plane after plane waited on the runway, while he napped, took walks, and ate sandwiches. Look what they do for golf: thirty thousand dollars for a tournament is nothing. But for chess they give a thousand or two and they think it's a big deal. The tournament has to be named after them, everybody has to bow down to them, play when they want, everything for a couple thousand dollars which is nothing to them anyhow.

They take it off their income tax. These people are cheap. It's the fault of the chess players themselves. I don't know what they used to be, but now they're not the most gentlemanly group. When it was a game played by the aristocrats it had more like you know dignity to it. When they used to have the clubs, like no women were allowed and everybody went in dressed in a suit, a tie, like gentlemen, you know.

Now, kids come running in their sneakers. Even in the best chess club-and they got women in there. It's a social place and people are making noise, it's a madhouse. I don't have to show anybody my games just because they're a big shot! All my games are real. There was open collusion between the Russian players.

They agreed ahead of time to draw the games they played against each other. Every time they drew they gave each other half a point. The Russians have held my title for ten years and they're going to be in for it when I win the Championship. They're going to have to wait and play under my conditions. They have nothing on me, those guys. They can't even touch me. Some people rate them better than me. That really bugs me. They think that no Americans play chess.

When I meet those Russian Patzer I'll put them in their place. I usually never stay at the board after a game. Especially against Spassky. I made a dumb suggestion and he refuted it instantly! I know I'm going to have to play him some day and it was really stupid to look like such a jerk in front of him. I think I'll send him a telegram. Congratulations on winning the right to meet me for the championship. The world knows I'm the best. You don't need a match to prove it. If you lose, you're nothing.

I'm going to win, though. It's good for the match that Spassky has a plus score against me. We've met five times. He's won three times and we've drawn twice. But I'm a stronger player and a long match favors me. First of all, I'll make a tour of the whole world, giving exhibitions. I'll charge unprecedented prices. I'll set new standards. I'll make them pay thousands. Then I'll come home on a luxury liner.

I'll have a tuxedo made for me in England to wear to dinner. When I come home I'll write a couple chess books and start to reorganize the whole game. I'll have my own club. The Bobby Fischer Fischer Chess Club. It'll be class. Tournaments in full dress. No bums in there. You're gonna have to be over eighteen to get in, unless like you have special permission because you have like special talent. It'll be in a part of the city that's still decent, like the Upper East Side.

And I'll hold big international tournaments in my club with big cash prizes. And I'm going to kick all the millionaires out of chess unless they kick in more money. Then I'll buy a car so I don't have to take the subway any more. That subway makes me sick. It'll be a Mercedes-Benz. Better, a Rolls Royce, one of those fifty-thousand-dollar custom jobs, made to my own measure. Maybe I'll buy one of those jets they advertise for businessmen.

And a yacht. Flynn had a yacht. Then I'll have some more suits made. I'd like to be one of the Ten Best-dressed Men. That would really be something. I read that Duke Snyder made the list.

Then I'll build me a house. I don't know where but it won't be in Greenwich Village. They're all dirty, filthy animals down there. Maybe I'll build it in Hong Kong. Everybody who's been there says it's great. Art Linkletter said so on the radio. And they've got suits there, beauties, for only twenty dollars. Or maybe I'll build it in Beverly Hills. The people there are sort of square, but like the climate is nice and it's close to Vegas, Mexico, Hawaii, and those places. I got strong ideas about my house.

I'm going to hire the best architect and have him build it in the shape of a rook. Yeah, that's for me. Spiral staircases, parapets, everything. I want to live the rest of my life in a house built exactly like a rook. I'll give players a chance to beat me. I'll play a lot, stake matches.

Not like the Russians. They win the championship and then hide for three years. Every few months, anyway twice a year, I'd like to get up a purse and meet a challenger. It's good for the game, keeps up interest in chess, and it's good for the bank account. I want to get some money together. Like take professional football.

All these athletes making hundreds of thousands of dollars. Contracts, endorsements. If there's room for all of them, there ought to be room for one of me. I mean, after all, I'm a great goodwill ambassador for the United States! Besides, I want money so I can tell some people I don't like to go In Yugoslavia no matter how much you hustle you're not going to get rich, so you might as well play chess.

I object to being called a chess genius, because I consider myself to be an all around genius, who just happens to play chess, which is rather different. A piece of garbage like Kasparov might be called a chess genius, but he is like an idiot savant, outside of chess he knows nothing. Karpov, Kasparov, Korchnoi have absolutely destroyed chess by their immoral, unethical, prearranged games.

These guys are really the lowest dogs around. Maybe I should publish the book. The world is coming to an end anyway! Of course the book has mistakes, but I can correct them myself. They changed my things on purpose. I read a book lately by Nietzsche and he says religion is just to dull the senses of the people. I agree. I had some personal problems, and I started listening to a lot of radio ministers.

I listened every Sunday all day, flipping the dial up and back. So, I heard just about every guy on Sunday. And then I heard Mr. Armstrong, and I said, "Ah, God has finally shown me the one, I guess. Well, I kind of split my life into two pieces.

One was where my chess career lies. There, I kept my sanity, so to speak, and my logic. And the other was my religious life. I tried to apply what I learned in the church to my chess career too. But I still was studying chess.

I wasn't just "trusting in God" to give me the moves. And I'm not interested in getting my money back. I'm trying to protect others. I just want to make sure that nobody gets ripped off mentally.

It wasn't like I just didn't help my mom. I didn't do anything for myself either. You know I don't even have a car. I got ten maybe. But still what I'm saying is that that is still not a lot of money spent on me considering all the money I made.

It wasn't like I was living high on the hog and neglecting my mom, but she's living real poor in a crummy apartment in England. She doesn't even have a bathroom. I just saw her a few months ago. I have to help my mom now. She's an old woman. She could soon be gone and here I was giving money so that Rader and these guys can have their parties in Beverly Hills. This whole thing is so sick. They cleaned my pockets out frankly.

I have some money left, but not that much. I've got some assets. It's amazing they didn't get everything. Now my only income is a few royalty checks from my books. I was really very foolish, but I thought I was doing what I had to do. When I sent those checks off, I really didn't have the slightest qualms, no regrets, not the slightest. I don't really regret it that much, to tell you the truth, even now.

You know, I was half out of my head-stoned almost. Church members shouldn't let themselves be confused. They begin not trusting in their own judgment, and then they're finished. That's a terrible, terrible thing. First, they get conducted in with a nice sweet program, no money, everything free, free, free.

And then they get sucked in, and suddenly a few lies get mixed in. They are told that their human nature is wicked and these nice people who gave them all these things wouldn't be lying to them, would they? And then I think once you start distrusting your own mind you're finished. From there you just get more and more confused. Once you think that your own mind is not your friend any more-your own conscience and your own mind is not your friend-then I think you are on your way to insanity.

You have been stripped bare. All your defenses are gone. Our mind is all we've got. Not that it won't lead us astray sometimes, but we still have to analyze things out within ourselves. They're all weak, all women. They're stupid compared to men. They shouldn't play chess, you know. They're like beginners. They lose every single game against a man. There isn't a woman player in the world I can't give knight-odds to and still beat.

Fischer is Fischer, but a horse is a horse. He exchanges them, and the bad pieces remain with his opponents. Even when I was ahead I knew I was going to lose.

It is a question if you survive. One of the best ever. Like Lasker, Fischer has raised chess to new financial heights despite frequent retreats from serious play. And, like Capablanca, Fischer is recognized by millions of non-players and has won the game many new enthusiasts. At the board he radiates danger, and even the strongest opponents tend to freeze, like rabbits when they smell a panther.

Even his weaknesses are dangerous. As white, his opening game is predictable - you can make plans against it - but so strong that your plans almost never work.

In the middle game his precision and invention are fabulous, and in the end game you simply cannot beat him. What a player like that does have are absolutely strong spots, so you surely don't want him to utilize his strengths, because then your chances decrease to zero. It's not surprising - chess being as complicated as it is - that Fischer had the greatest problems with positions, which were unclear in an unthematic way.

When in effect everything just depended on accurate calculation. In those kinds of positions, he is still better than me of course, but the difference is not that great anymore, because it's just extremely difficult for both of us. The chance that he will make an error increases, whereas in a thematic or technical position he will just play perfectly from beginning to end and your chances of surviving are zero.

When I analyzed with him he would say: "I kill him if I get this position. Even if he's in bad shape, there must be tension. This is the essence of his chess style. And that's the difference between him and Reshevsky. Sammy can defend a passive position. His opponents would see where he was going but were powerless to stop him. I like to say that Bobby Fischer was the greatest Russian player ever.