With Errol Tiwari
The following story is inspired by an interview I had with Iceland’s Ambassa-dor to Guyana, His Excellency Hjalmar Hannesson. Ambassa-dor Hannesson presented his letters of credence to President Bharrat Jagdeo last Monday.
For centuries, Icelanders have had a great love for chess. Their devotion to the game is steeped in an ancient tradition dating back to the Norse kings of the twelfth- century.
Today, thirteenth-century historical sagas are still the favourites of Icelandic school children. They are found in most homes and abound in references to chess. In 1561, Gories Peerse tells a story of the masters of a house who do nothing for weeks in the wintertime but have their servants wait on them while they play chess interminably.
The lonely isolation of the long, dark, frozen winter evenings has helped chess to become the Icelandic farmer and fisherman’s favourite pastime. And today, Iceland is ranked among the top ten countries of the world in registered federation players in proportion to their national population of 320,000. Nothing significant happened in Icelandic chess for years until 1958 when the country got its first grandmaster, Fridrik Olafsson. Olafsson qualified for the coveted grandmaster title when he placed sixth at the 1958 Interzonal Tournament in Potoroz, Yugoslavia. In that tournament he scored a win against Bobby Fischer, who was 15 at the time, and who also qualified for the grandmaster title, thereby becoming the youngest grandmaster ever in the history of the game up to that point.
Icelanders became inspired by Olafsson’s singular achievement and chess, inevitably, became more popular. But it was 1972 that changed Icelandic chess forever, and by extension, changed the country forever. Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, was the city that was chosen as the locale for the world championship match between Boris Spassky and Bobby Fischer. Iceland had put up the third highest bid of US$125,000 to the governing body of world chess (FIDE) to host the match. Only Yugoslavia and Argentina had put up higher bids. After much negotiation and a frenzied inspection of credible venues, both players agreed to play in Iceland.
The match, before its start, was already being billed as the ‘Match of the Century.’ For a decade, even longer, Fischer, like another American original, Muhammad Ali, had boasted that he was the “greatest.” The entire chess world was eager to see if he could prove his claims, especially against such a formidable player as Spassky, the world champion and certainly himself one of the greatest by anyone’s standards.
Fischer’s quest for the title went beyond the circumscribed world of chessplayers. His charisma, his pure individualism, his extraordinary rise to the summit of his profession seized the interest of even non-players to such an extent that people who did not know what a pawn was, quickly learned the game to be better able to understand the artistic expression of the young genius from Brooklyn.
In July 1972, Iceland emerged from relative obscurity to something of celebrity nation status. For over two months, the attention of the world was focused on its capital. The match captured the imagination of the man in the street all over the globe; the quiet pushing of pawns on a chess board created a kind of interest in the game that had never been witnessed before. Words like Poisoned Pawn, Ruy Lopez, Queens Gambit, Alekhine’s Defence all entered the international consciousness. Everything that happened in Reykjavik became instant headline news, relegating politics, other sporting events, and economic matters to the inside pages of newspapers and magazines.
Hitherto unknown names in the media who covered the match, became famous. The evaluations of grandmasters like Olafsson, Larsen, Gligoric were front page stories. Gamblers were betting vast sums of money on each game and on each move made by Fischer and Spassky. Routines it seemed, had ground to a halt as people all over the world paid attention to what was happening in Reykjavik. Moves were being relayed over the wires and through the air by radio and television stations into living rooms everywhere. In Guyana we depended on the radio for the latest reports, and I can distinctly recall my grandfather sitting with his ears glued to the radio for information. He knew nothing of chess and referred to Spassky as “Pasky.” Fischer was this “mannish Yankee from America.” I wish I could have read this story to him. For my grandfather, and countless others, it was a war between America and the Soviet Union. As the match was ending in August 1972, President Forbes Burnham established the Guyana Chess Association.
For a delirious period of time, chess was front page news in any civilized part of the world. People watched in awe as two great players, two great nations tried to outmanoeuvre each other, tried to dominate each other and psychically destroy each other. It was no longer a chess match between two great players. It became an international incident, a struggle between two societies, a symbol of confrontation between East and West.
Both players denied any political implications. Spassky said: “I can only say that while seated at the chess board I am a chess player and not a politician.” And Fischer noted: “I am interested only in the best move.”
But the world ignored those remarks. America was facing Russia in the persons of the two players, and they were facing each other in the neutral country of Iceland. Iceland had become the centre of the world.
In fairness to Spassky, it was Fischer who had brought the match to fever pitch and made of it a thrilling drama that far transcended a mere chess match by being party to the most hysterical theatrics ever witnessed from a sporting competitor. He sensationalised the match by losing the first game and forfeiting the second because certain conditions of his were not met. He had never won a game from Spassky before, and yet he came from behind and convincingly smashed the world champion. Of such deeds are legends made. One journalist compared a win by Fischer to a Mozart symphony, so perfect was it in its execution.
According to Ambassador Hannesson, it was the match which stimulated the popularity of chess within the Icelandic school system. Chess is now a part of the school curriculum and chess teachers are paid to teach the game in much the same way as teachers of other subject areas. Special incentives are given to anyone who achieves the title of grandmaster. At the moment, Iceland has six grandmasters.
Iceland offered asylum to Fischer when he was searching for a country in which to reside. The Ambassador noted that Fischer had brought the country to unprecedented international prominence and this is why his government made him an Icelandic citizen by a special act of parliament. One can only be a citizen of Iceland if you were born in Iceland.
Members of the Icelandic Chess Federation today teach chess to the Eskimos in Greenland, an island about 200 miles from Iceland. Through exchanges in chess, the two countries have developed a bond of friendship and are expanding in other areas of mutual cooperation.
For the past thirty years, chess has climbed to the top of all sports in Iceland. The game is played by almost everyone in the country if only as a pastime. Citizens play the game during the cold winter evenings when little else could be done. It is the Ambassador’s favourite game.
Fischer lived his final three years quietly in Iceland. Today, he lies resting, by desire, in a churchyard in the country that he made famous. Iceland has become synonymous with chess all because of one great match.
‘The Match of the Century.’But it was more than that. It was the ‘Match of All Time.’
