A Prodigy In Pieces

A boy and board in Brooklyn bedeviled by the breath of baroque battles bemused with a belligerent brain beauty and befriended by battlefield bravado, the chessmen championed his ego wickedly warring to a visionary's voodoo, those soldiers of black and white instrumentality would be the boy's unfailing family never gainsaying his genius, an army of absolute loyalty, they will conceal his swindle, prompt the pitfall accept the sacrifice, pushing panic and pungent pall cornering the broken king, forcing a psyche crawl, discovering a chess set at age six Bobby learned the lines and logic tricks teaching himself the game's romanesque rudiments kindling kinship with kings in their catacombs of collected tomes, cracking their bones admiring their thrones, competing in clubs in sweaters and corduroys against polished professionals with refined resumes Fischer would find the pin of their personalities compell them to comply to his surely tempo create a division between vagabond and virtuoso and teach the meaning of wonderful woe, he would have his own U.S. crown by 14, be recognized as an International Master at 15 and exited earnestly from high school at 16 because, well, why stall spectacular talent, after a decade of ravaging every opponent and publishing several books like a chess poet the World Title was waiting to test his manners, Bobby's nemesis, the Soviet saboteurs had one of their pawn ponies on the podium for 24 years, since childhood the Communists had wrought to undermine the upgrowth of this American upstart he was an imperial demon with a maverick heart, the unholy Soviet charade was in peril their image, their nonsense, their ill will, jealous of his messianic thrill, Iceland, summer of 1972, an epic on the rocks, a global audience geared for heady shocks politicians, pop stars and proteges following Fischer the fox deep into the forest fire of his tortured fortune, from his Mother he learned how to haggle forlorn as Challenger his choice of attack would be crisis and steel horn, he threatened the Federation with absence if the prize money wasn't increased at once! by match time the purse doubled from donations anonymous, Spassky Vs. Fischer, U.S.A. Vs. U.S.S.R., freedom versus communism, the match, best of 24, the victor, Independence or Collectivism, in game One Fischer choked on classic chess catechism forgot his lines and suffered like a school boy, the world was dumbfounded, was the loss a ploy, for game Two Bobby was a no show, perhaps a broken toy, the forfeit gave Spassky a daunting two point lead, Fischer, insisting that cameras interfered with his head and that audience din was a dread said he'd abandon the battle if his demands weren't met on the double! even Henry Kissinger pleaded for no more trouble, like a divine pariah he returned for the third game possessed with a prodigious flame, discipline and intuition put Spassky on heels of shame Fischer took the third game like an unbothered boss while the Russian would struggle with loss after loss, henceforth the abrassive American played with godly gloss winning six more times with eleven intimidating draws, Boris Spassky and the Soviet machine were beleaguered by flaws and conquered single handedly by a boy born for chess wars, when Bobby died in 2008 he was an undefeated Grandmaster, unparalleled great, he declined millions of dollars from the corporate plate, living reclusively, paranoia and anger shrouding him, ironically, he defeated the United States with true American vim two superpowers beat, by one man, what would Death do with him - J.A.B.