Bobby

Raised by Brooklyn’s concrete and steel, he grew an unwavering mind— independent, with no country behind, who shone alone, refusing to kneel. He didn't believe in psychology; he believed in good moves— walking over egos like hooves: smash them, make them squirm, no apology. Bobby, Bobby, chess is like life, and life is just a hobby. But Bobby, trust me, one cannot crush the lobby. Six–zero over Taimanov and Larsen, then, at the start of the top match, he arrived late; yet in Reykjavík there was a world order to break — and despite a loss and a forfeit, his strength did not worsen. He bounced back with Knight h5, switching off cameras and spectators, shaking Spassky’s throne and dictators— single-handedly, using his bishop as a knife. Bobby, Bobby, chess is like life and life is just a hobby. But Bobby, trust me, one cannot crush the lobby. He hated hypocrisy and lies, eating poisoned pawns for breakfast; eventually he decided to give up all ties and ventured into the Arctic tempest. He liked Raquel Welch, but his mind was too sharp for a peaceful end; isolation was his last best friend— he just wanted his soul to entrench. Bobby, Bobby, chess is like life, and life is just a hobby. But Bobby, trust me, one cannot crush the lobby.