AThe Baltimore Sun Baltimore, Maryland Monday, December 27, 1971 - Page 5
Bobby vs. Boris For King of Chess by Dean Mills, Moscow Bureau of The Sun
Moscow — “Who can guess,” said the amiable coat check woman [Pause. Smile.] “But Fischer is a strong contender.”
“Fischer is an exceptionally dangerous rival,” says Tigran Petrosian, one of the Soviet Union's 30 odd grand-masters.
In the colonnaded pre-revolutionary palace which serves as the USSR's central chess club, the unthinkable has suddenly become cruelly possible; the world chess title, for nearly a quarter century a Soviet fixture, may slip away.
Since 1948 the internationality of the title had been purely theoretical: even the challengers were all Soviet citizens.
Robert Fischer, the child prodigy who became American champion at the age of 14 finally changed that this year by defeating Tigran Petrosian, the Soviet Armenian who was runner-up and former champion.
Razzle-Dazzle Expected
The Fischer meeting with champion Boris Spassky, scheduled sometime late next spring, is a tantalizing prospect for many Soviet fans, who expect Mr. Fischer to inject some badly needed razzle-dazzle into the game.
For the Soviet chess establishment, the novelty of the situation is unsettling, but not entirely without positive benefits.
“The phenomenon of such a match,” says Viktor Baturinsky, the club director, “obviously creates a greater interest in chess as a whole just as, we hear Mr. Fischer's success has stimulated interest in chess in the United States. Of course everyone knows whose side we'll be on.”
Soviet Chances Seen
At their most optimistic, Soviet chess experts estimate Mr. Spassky's chances of holding on to the title for the Soviet Union at no better than even. Mr. Averbach thinks that Mr. Spassky out-psyched, rather than outplayed, Mr. Fischer when he beat him during team competition in West Germany in 1968.
Mr. Fischer, who tends toward a bombastic game alien to the dry, modern-day Russian school, tried so hard to win that he lost where he could have drawn, Mr. Averback says. Mr. Spassky, as even-tempered and cool as Mr. Fischer is unpredictable and temperamental, calmly took his draws where he could get them — and won the match.
“It was,” says Mr. Averbach, “a fight of personalities, not chess.” If Mr. Fischer keeps an even psychological keel the next time, Mr. Spassky faces some dangerous liabilities.
The Fischer tempo, for one thing, can rattle Soviet players used to more deliberate play. Mr. Petrosian, writing on his defeat in a Soviet sports monthly, singles that out as the main problem. Mr. Spassky would have his best chance in long, cautious games, he argues.
“The tempo of Fischer differs from the tempo of other chess players,” says Mr. Averbach, who considers it the great psychological advantage for Mr. Fischer. “After a while you can get the feeling you're playing not a man but a computer.”
There is also a widespread feeling that Mr. Spassky shows no signs so far of being up for the match. Russians point nervously to the history of past champions who relaxed once they had the title and could not overcome the motivational disadvantage of looking down instead of up.
Spassky Held Lazy
Some Americans say more bluntly that Mr. Spassky has gotten lazy. They cite his miniscule output of chess articles and appearances on the lecture circuit—and his lackluster performances in several recent tournaments.
“Spassky hasn't worked in a tournament in a long white,”one Russian fan said last week at the Alekhine International Memorial tournament here—where he took a disappointing tie for sixth place.
Chess officials are more tactful, but just as worried. Mr. Spassky, Mr. Baturinsky said in an interview the other day, is a chess player with great natural talents.
Mr. Fischer, he added, is also a chess player with great natural talents—“and a fanatical devotion to chess and a great capacity for work.”
Mr. Spassky categorically refuses to talk about his training plans for the coming match. But if he follows past patterns, he will soon begin six hours a day of studying Fischer's games, sparring with training partners, and perhaps devising original strategies of his own.
Physical Fitness Program
He will also step up his physical fitness program—considered crucial by most players, who find the five-hour marathons of championship play as physical as well as mental trials.
Mr. Spassky, now 34, was a fair competitor in track during his days as a journalism student at Leningrad State University, and he keeps trim now by swimming and skiing.
At the Alekhine Tournament, Mr. Spassky's trouble was precisely a lack of training, one Soviet expert confided. A Russian fan standing nearby interjected: “He couldn't think about the tournament at all, because he's always thinking about Fischer.”
Champion Worried
In a short interview after the tournament, Mr. Spassky sounded like a worried champion, despite his calm, polite English, delivered as a monotone as quiet as his style of play.
He could not answer “at the moment” why he did so badly in the tournament. “I should work very much on my chess. I have many problems at the moment.”
His respect for Mr. Fischer is obvious. He expected the Petrosian defeat, he said. “After the game number 5, I understood that Petrosian was several times in time-trouble, time pressure. I think it gave a big advantage for Bobby Fischer.”
He admires the Fischer style because of its “pureness, how to say, purity, yes. And very logical.”
He refuses to believe a Life magazine report that Mr. Fischer was miffed over not getting a phone call of congratulations from Mr. Spassky after the victory.
“Makes no difference”
“You know that my attitude is equal to everybody. To Petrosian, to Fischer, and so it makes no difference.
“I am still,” he said, “a king.”
A good-looking man of medium height, with wavy brown hair and green eyes, he wore a typically Soviet black suit and conservative tie. The fans crowded around, listening intently autographable papers held at the ready.
They pounced when Mr. Spassky politely closed the conversation, and he patiently autographed everything thrust before him.
Downstairs, as he paused in the lobby of the chess club to adjust his muskrat hat, he ran into an old master, a man who had been a referee at the first tournament in which Mr. Spassky played, as a 10-year-old in Leningrad.
He greeted the old man warmly and was asked how he felt. “Fine,” the champ said, with no conviction, “everything's in order.”
