When I was a kid we didn’t have a TV in the house. I did a lot of reading (every Spiderman comic book, among other middle-to-low brow stuff) which occasionally included the shiny set of Encyclopedia Americana (we couldn’t afford the Britannica model). One of my favorite items featured Bobby Fischer, wonder kid of the chess set. The entry featured the opening 12 moves of a game in which he pwned some Russky master.
I memorized those moves and used them every game I played as a young teenager. It was one helluva of opening despite the fact it often made absolutely no sense in game context, piercing dagger-like into the heart of my opponent. My middle and end games sadly had no similar style or panache. If I won, it was because of Bobby Fischer and his early-game devastation.
I haven’t played chess in years, and I really don’t have the kind of mind that masters chess, but the other night when he died, I wanted to forget all those creepy sad years, and pay tribute to the fire of his youth, and what he did for all of us on this side of the cold war…yeah, you ‘Red’ bastards might have beat us into space, but we got a kid that’ll whip your mental ass.
Goodbye, you crazy diamond.