A moment with a legend: My first meeting with Boris Spassky

It was a gray September morning in Moscow, the sky weighed down with heavy clouds. I was just settling into my day when the phone rang, piercing the quiet. It was my friend Smetana, an old comrade from our shared days of blitz tournaments. "Jani," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice, "how would you like to attend the opening of the Tal Memorial?"

I laughed, taken off guard. "But how? I’m not exactly on the guest list."

"Leave that to me," he replied, a familiar, reassuring tone in his voice. "I’ve got two invitations. You’re coming with me."

A warm thrill ran through me. The Tal Memorial was known as one of the strongest tournaments in the world, attracting the best players each year. This year, nearly all the giants of the chess world were attending, save for Carlsen and Karjakin. The chance to be there felt like a privilege, an invitation into a rarefied realm where the beauty of the game I loved would be celebrated by legends. I finished up my work at the embassy early, returned home, and waited eagerly for the evening.

The tournament venue was the Museum of Russian Impressionism, a fitting place for a tournament celebrating the intricate and expressive artistry of chess. As we entered, I could feel the charged atmosphere. The blitz tournament was underway, and it would decide the player rankings for the main event—first place becoming player number one, and so on, down to tenth. There was a quiet intensity, the crackling thrill of possibility as each move was played.

Then, suddenly, I noticed a shift in the room. People were hastily gathering their things and moving toward the door. Confused, I nudged Vladimir. "Is there a fire or something?"

"No," he replied with a grin, "it’s Spassky! He just arrived. Come on, let’s go!"

A spark ran through me. Boris Spassky! The 10th World Chess Champion, a name that had lived in my imagination since I was a boy in Macedonia. I followed Vladimir across the room, and soon we reached the crowded hall where Spassky stood like a magnet drawing everyone near. People surged forward, eager to catch a glimpse, to exchange a few words, or to take a photo with him. The man who once stood against Fischer in that iconic 1972 World Championship match, “The Match of the Century,” was right in front of me, and I felt a boyish thrill, a sudden surge of awe.

Vladimir, not one to give up, took my hand firmly and whispered, "Stay close. The ambassador needs to meet Spassky!" He deftly navigated us through the crowd, weaving past admirers with soft apologies, as I watched, amazed.

And then, as if by some miracle, we were there. I was face to face with my childhood hero. Spassky greeted us warmly, a gentleman through and through. Vladimir introduced me, and I found myself telling him of his lasting legacy in Macedonia, of the fans who still revere his name, the memories that endure even after all these years. Spassky smiled—a gentle, understanding smile—and began to speak fondly of old friends from the Yugoslavian chess community, names like Gligoric, Matanovic, Ivkov. He spoke of the historic matches between the USSR and Yugoslavia, and as he spoke, time seemed to slow down, the present moment rippling into memories of a world where the stakes and the rivalries felt larger than life.

With one last handshake and a heartfelt farewell, I left him to his waiting admirers, the crowd only growing larger behind us. I walked away from the room awash with nostalgia, feeling a bittersweet ache. Somewhere in the midst of our brief encounter, I had been transported back to my youth, to those endless debates with my friends over who would triumph: Spassky or Fischer. Who was the true master? Who would carve their name in history?

In the end, both of them did. Both became legends in their own ways. Yet, as I left the Museum of Russian Impressionism that evening, the memory of Spassky’s calm, reflective smile lingered with me. Legends are woven into history, but they live on in the hearts of those who remember, who debate, and who once dreamed of following in their footsteps. For me, this moment was a bridge to a cherished past, a reminder of my childhood idol, and a brush with greatness I would carry forever.