Hey good lookin', come here often?If you haven't read Dick Cavett's essay/obituary about chess great Bobby Fischer, published yesterday in his Times blog, go there now. (Or rather, go there after you've read every scintillating word of this blog.)
Cavett tells a poignant story about being one of the only people ever to show the world a relaxed, almost jocular side of the notoriously intense and prickly Fischer. Fisher appeared three times on Cavett's show, both just before and just after his legendary match with Boris Spassky in '72. Cavett's account of that time is very moving--I can't do it justice describing it here, just go read it.
On the video clip of Fischer's first appearance, you see a young man who is clearly brilliant, clearly dead serious about his vocation. But behind those eyes you catch a glimmer of humor and even a bit of longing for a chance to step away from his obligations as the world's greatest chess player. To my untrained eye, there's no hint of the raving, paranoid self-hating wack job who came later. In that clip, you almost see a 25-year-old guy like any other. Almost.
What I didn't expect to see is this: In his heyday, Bobby Fischer was a stone fox. I always assumed he was your garden-variety greasy nerd, straight from central casting. But oh, no no. In the Cavett clip he's tall. Broad-shouldered. Wavy hair. Soulful eyes. Full lips. Excuse me, I need to go fan myself.
What can I say, I'm a sucker for tall handsome guys with an IQ of 200.
I feel completely weird crushing out on someone who, in later years, resembled that homeless guy ranting loudly to himself up and down Market Street. In other words, it wouldn't have worked out between us. But if I were an 18-year-old girl in 1971, for two and a half minutes it would have been magic.
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