Mumbai: Boris Spassky, the 10th World Chess Champion whose 1972 clash with Bobby Fischer became a defining tableau of Cold War rivalry, has died at 88 in Russia.
A luminous mind and a paradoxical soul, Spassky transcended the chessboard to embody grace, intellect, and the quiet resilience of a man who found freedom in surrender. Born in Leningrad in 1937, Spassky’s life mirrored the tumult of his century. Evacuated during the WWII siege of his city, he discovered chess on a train ride to safety—a serendipitous spark that ignited a lifelong romance. By age 10, he defeated reigning Soviet champion Mikhail Botvinnik in a simultaneous exhibition, foreshadowing a career steeped in brilliance.
His ascent was methodical yet poetic: world junior champion at 18, grandmaster at 19, and Soviet champion by 22. But it was his 1969 dethroning of Tigran Petrosian, after two grueling title matches, that crowned him chess’s sovereign. Spassky’s reign, however, was immortalized not by his triumphs but by a loss. The 1972 Reykjavik match against Bobby Fischer—a geopolitical spectacle dubbed The Match of the Century—transfixed millions, pitting Soviet discipline against American audacity.
Fischer’s victory ended 24 years of Soviet chess dominance, yet Spassky greeted defeat with unexpected relief. “I breathed freely,” he later reflected. “A colossal burden lifted.” His applause for Fischer’s sixth-game masterpiece epitomized sportsmanship, a gesture that disarmed Cold War tensions and revealed a man unshackled by dogma. Boris Spassky was one of those rare figures in the chess world who brought both mystery and mastery to every game he played. Often regarded as a stoic strategist, his demeanor was one of profound calm—so much so that Bobby Fischer, his famous rival during their legendary 1972 World Chess Championship, quipped, “Spassky sits at the board with the same dead expression whether he’s mating or being mated.”
To Fischer, whose volatile nature often brought fire and fury to his matches, Spassky’s calm was unnerving. Fischer, with his bouts of paranoia, would at times be caught in a mental chess match even outside the confines of the game. Spassky’s poker face was not just a physical trait—it was his approach to life, particularly chess.
A game of absolute precision, where each move might be the difference between victory and defeat, was for him not a matter of grand gestures but one of quiet intensity. Chess, for Spassky, was a river: fluid, eternal, and deeply personal. “I’m already in it,” he mused, likening the game to art and music—a passion that “seeps into you.” His style defied categorization. Universally adaptable, he wielded openings as varied as the King’s Gambit and the Tarrasch Defense with equal ferocity.
Garry Kasparov hailed his “diffuse and misty” genius, a blend of attacking flair and psychological fortitude. Spassky’s games were not mere contests but narratives, each move a stanza in an epic poem. Beyond the board, Spassky was a study in contrasts. A freethinker in a regimented era, he rejected Communist orthodoxy, wryly quipping that his divorces felt like “participation in a war.” Exiled to Paris in 1976, he became a French citizen yet retained an émigré’s melancholy, eventually returning to Moscow in 2012. “Laziness and faith in luck,” he joked, were his Russian flaws—traits that belied a steely resolve.
Even in later years, battling strokes and fading health, he remained chess’s elder statesman, mentoring generations with wit and wisdom. His friendship with Fischer, improbably warm after their storied duel, underscored Spassky’s humanity. They debated openings over phone calls, shared laughter, and in 1992, staged a nostalgic rematch in war-torn Yugoslavia. Fischer’s “tragic fate” haunted Spassky, yet their bond endured, a testament to mutual respect transcending rivalry.
As tributes pour in—from Russian President Vladimir Putin to grandmaster Yasser Seirawan— the chess world mourns a luminary. Spassky’s games will endure as masterclasses in creativity; his life, a reminder that true greatness lies not in victory, but in how one plays the game. In the river of chess, Boris Spassky did not merely stand on the shore. He flowed with it, forever part of its current.
