After the game I stop and think about what I’ve just discovered. If players were unaware of this move, they’d never try to defend it and I could turn any game around in just a few minutes. It was like when the U.S. was the only country with the atomic bomb—I could rule at will.
The only person I even mention it to is DTerra, and I don’t go into the details. He’s talked his dad into letting him fly out for Nationals, getting in the night before I do to play the grinder. It will be nice to have someone to hang out with—and rooting for me.
When I finally get to bed the night before my trip I’m still wired from the frantic practice games. I stare at the ceiling, where a break in my curtains produces a little bar of light from a street lamp. It looks like an arrow, pointing towards my door, the hallway, the future.
“Hey Brit,” I whisper. She turns around in the chair in front of me, her hair spinning across her face.
“Maybe you heard—I just won this big tournament and $30,000 and need to celebrate. I’m thinking of dinner at The American Club, maybe scalp some front row seats for Lady GaGa.”
Her jaw drops and now it’s her who’s stuttering.
“I’m going to rent a stretch limo—should we get the Escalade or the Hummer?”
8.
Dad dropped me off at the airport. The whole way he was on his cell, some heated business discussion about the proper way to allocate costs to projects or something. While I’m getting my bag out of the trunk he pulls the phone from his ear and shouts, “Call me when your plane lands.”
While I’m waiting for the boarding call my cell rings. It’s Mom. She says she can’t believe I’m old enough to be jetting across the country by myself. That it was just yesterday that we were sitting at the kitchen table, playing board games.
“You remember Chutes & Ladders?” she asks. I say I do.
“I should have known, even back then, about you and games. Every day you’d beg me to get out a board game or a deck of cards. And you weren’t even in school yet. In kindergarten you could read every Monopoly Chance card. And I’d have to explain what a ‘bank error’ or ‘beauty contest’ was.”
“And then there was the time at the pediatrician’s? You’re four years old, sitting on the floor with one of those really complex wooden 3D puzzles that you have to make into a ball? So we’re sitting there, and the doctor keeps losing his place, distracted by you down on the floor, where you’re working with all the wooden shapes. So finally I say, ‘He really likes puzzles.’ And the doctor nods and says, ‘I see that, but honestly I’ve never seen anyone solve it before.’ And sure enough I glance down and you’re putting the final piece into the ball.”
Then they call my boarding group. Mom says she’ll call me later, to make sure I got in OK.
I’ve got a bunch of saved games on my laptop and I spend the flight going over these. Surprise bonus: they hand out warm chocolate chip cookies and the flight attendant, who looks a lot like that actress from CSI, gives me extras.
The hotel turns out to be really nice, right down the street from the convention center where the tournament is being held. I have a room on the eleventh floor which looks out across the city and part of the ocean, where I can see the front end of an aircraft carrier. My room number is 1123, which is easy to remember—the first two digits add up to the third and the middle two digits add up to the fourth. I try to call DTerra on his cell but get voice mail. That’s a good sign. Probably still in the qualies.
He got a room for one night and then is moving into mine to save money. I’m so anxious to find him and so nervous about the tournament that I don’t really think about how cool the view is, or how blue and sparkly the ocean looks. I throw my bag on the bed, pop my iPod earbuds in and head over to the tournament site to find out a little more about that $30,000.
They really didn’t need to put up all the huge “STARFARE” banners at the entrance to the convention center. All you have to do is follow the flow of black T-shirts, computer backpacks and bad complexions. They’re coming from all directions and funneling through a set of giant glass doors in the side of a white concrete building that is so long and tall it looks like it could have been built to keep out the barbarians on the other side. As I get closer to the doors and pick up my pace I feel taller and lighter.
As I climb the final steps into the center I’m behind a group of three guys and a girl, all in T-shirts with their Starfare screen names on their backs. I catch “Gforce22,” “HelterSkelter” and “GamerzG!rl.” I don’t recognize any of their gamer names. But then only about half of the people there are actually playing in Nationals. On top of the last chance grinder there are at least twenty sidebar tournaments and a lot of people show up just to play in the side events and watch their heroes. The thing is, if they knew who I was they’d probably all stop and stare and start whispering. This realization has a strange effect on me. Back home, at school, I’m lost in the crowd. Here, when people start connecting me to my screen name, I’ll be like one of North High’s celebrities. Like Garrett.
9.
The convention hall is actually a cool place. They keep it kind of dark, so that floor is lit with the glow from the hundreds of monitors set up on row after row of tables. Up front they have four feature tables facing a huge area of seating with giant projection screens above the players so the crowd can watch the matches in real time. Around the perimeter of the room are about fifty different vendors selling everything from gaming mouses to comic books based on Starfare.
One corner of the computer area is roped off and about twenty players are pounding on their keyboards, working to take one of the eight spots open for grinders. I wander over but can’t tell if DTerra is still there. It’s kind of dark and I’ve only seen a couple of pictures of him.
So I check in at the desk for “Players A-G” and get a bag of stuff and a card with my real name and screen name which hangs over my head on a red cord. My screen name is printed in big bold letters and I get stopped a half-dozen times as I wander back to the qualie area. I’m hanging around the roped area, looking at all the players when I hear someone behind me saying, “Holy shit, there goes ActionSeth!” I resist the urge to turn and stare back.
I’m leaning over the ropes, trying to get a better look at a guy who might be DTerra when someone pokes me on the shoulder.
“Hey champ.”
I turn and recognize him right away from his Facebook pictures.
“Jeez,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a giant?” He’s at least six-five.
“Same reason you didn’t say you were a midget.”
“If my brother was as tall as you, he’d be in the NBA.”
Then we’re talking a mile a minute and I find out that he got knocked out one round earlier.
“You’d laughed if you’d seen it,” DT says. “I played it like a real noob.”
We decide to wander outside and try to find a decent pizza place. As I squint into the sunlight DT stops and says in a serious voice, “You run into you-know-who yet?”
“Who?”
“Guess. He’s obnoxious. Hates your guts.