One of my favorite stories involves an appearance by Bobby Fischer at the Chess and Checker Club of New York, a once-sprawling Times Square center where regulars and passers-by played and wagered on board games.
 
One evening, Fischer — the U.S. champion but young and penniless — showed up incognito, with his coat collar high and his hat drooping over his eyes.
 
“Psst, Frank,” he whispered to Frank Brady, his friend and future biographer, who happened to be standing near the entrance of the “flea house.”
 
Brady looked up in surprise and said, “Bobby, what are you doing here?”
 
Taken aback by the failure of his disguise, Fischer sheepishly explained, “I’m trying to get a few bucks to see a movie. Can you fix me up with a game?”
 
Brady turned and called across the room to owner John Fursa: “This fellow wants a game. Can you arrange it?”
 
Peering across the smoky space, Fursa responded, “Tell him no. He’s just a young kid; the hustlers here will eat him alive.”
 
Fischer turned and stamped out.
 
Brady then revealed the identity of the would-be player, and a universal groan ensued.
 
“Oh, my gosh,” one man said. “I would have paid hundreds of dollars just to sit across the chessboard from Bobby Fischer.”
 
 
Shelby Lyman is a Basic Chess Features columnist