I laugh, picturing him. Because I had pictured him as this jocky, muscular guy.
“And catch this. His real name is Morris.”
“Morris?”
“No joke. He makes the nerds here look like Greek gods. On the other hand, his old man is supposed to be some high-tech billionaire. Maybe he can get him on Biggest Loser.”
We’re both laughing when DT coughs out one more piece of information. “And he just qualified for the main event.”
10.
The hotel has this big meeting room set up for gaming and it’s open all night. DT drags me down to where there must be a hundred players hanging, most of them drinking energy drinks and eating fast food. He nods towards a far corner where a tall girl with long blond hair is standing, watching the action on a laptop. “I’m trying to get a game with her later,” he says. “She said she played you in last year’s online qualifying.”
“Yeah? What’s her name?”
“Morgan, but she plays under RaiderRadar.”
I immediately recognize the name but would have never matched the two. Sometimes I try to imagine a face behind a screen name I’m playing. But “hot tall blond girl” just isn’t the first image that comes to mind.
DT wants me to go over and meet her but it’s already late and I tell DT I have to head up to the room and get some sleep. In bed, I’m a little too nervous to fall straight asleep. Thinking about the tournament and the prize money and how Dad will react. When he sort of reluctantly and absentmindedly asks, “How’d it go?” and I pull out a check for $30,000.
I don’t know what time DT came in because I was dead asleep and I barely hear my cell phone alarm at seven-thirty. The sunlight is painful when I step outside and I’m still groggy when I get to the convention center. They’ve got a big table with stale bagels and dry muffins and I try a bite of each before tossing them. The first round pairings are up on boards around the room and when they say “take your seats” I head to the one numbered 112. I quickly pull out my keyboard and mouse, plug in, and make sure they’re working and right where I want them. They call out five minutes, then count down and suddenly my computer screen lights up and I’m in the Gondwanaland map. But no opponent. After about ten minutes a ref comes by, writes something on his clipboard and tells me that I’ve won by default.
Later I hear that four guys rooming together stayed up most of the night gaming in the hotel and all of them slept through the first round. I shake my head when I hear that. Imagining traveling all the way to San Diego for the biggest tournament of the year and sleeping through it. Actually, one loss doesn’t eliminate you because it’s a mixer. Each round players are paired against others with similar records. After ten rounds, the top eight fight it out in single elimination. Final eighters all get some decent money, but the prize pool is really top heavy. The big money goes to first and second.
I win my second round pretty easily and during the break DT wanders into the hall and finds me working though some moves on my laptop. About a minute later so does the one person I’ve been hoping to avoid.
“Would you look at this,” comes this booming voice from behind my head. “No wonder I couldn’t find you. You’re such a puny wuss.”
When I turn my head there is a wall of human flesh behind my head. Before I can do anything DT jumps up and says, “Well fatso, I’m not.”
Stompazer laughs, this big theatrical laugh like a movie ogre.
“I don’t deal with noobs or stickmen,” he says. “And you’re both.”
Just then the tournament director announces that the pairings for round three are posted.
“I’m just waiting for my chance,” Stomp says, “I’m going to take you down.”
“Sure,” I say. “Just like last time.”
“Last time was a fluke!” He’s all red in the face and almost screaming. “Never happen again. Never!”
I stand up and head off to one of the pairing boards, trying to act like he’s not there. But truth is, he’s a truly creepy presence. Big and obnoxious like one of those giant trolls in a massive multi-player rpg that require a team of forty gamers to bring down.
11.
I start nervously, but sweep my next round and rack up another routine win in my fourth. I’m keeping my secret weapon under wraps until I need it. After lunch break we sit back down and I know I’m going to be paired against someone who is 4-0 or 3-1 at the least. The tournament director gets us all in our seats and I see I’m up against an older guy who is 4-0. He’s got a scraggly beard and stringy hair and looks like he hasn’t slept or bathed since the beginning of the year. Most guys, they’ll say something when they sit down across from you before ducking behind the monitors. This guy, who plays under the handle MilesBlue, says nothing.
“Round five will begin in three minutes,” the announcer says.
Miles comes out smoking and it’s a toss-up through midgame when I decide I can’t wait any longer and begin to sneak some miners up against the back of his main fortress. Then I suddenly stack them up and send a couple warriors over the top. A couple of minutes later the game is over. As we stand up the guy gives me a weird look.
“Sure would like to know how you pulled that off,” he says.
“Practice, practice, practice,” I say and offer him my hand. He declines the offer.
That makes me 5-0. For the final round of the day I’m surprised to get assigned one of the feature tables, even though I should have guessed. Only ten people are 5-0. It’s pretty exciting, playing in front of a crowd, your every move showing up on a twenty-foot screen. I know there’ll be no easy matches the rest of the way, and I recognize most of the guys at the top of the results list.
I used to watch Garrett and his teammates before high school games. Running the drills and slapping each other and just before the lineup was called, making this circle with their hands around each other’s shoulders. I realize I have my own rituals before a match, just like they did. I play with my mouse, moving it to the right, then left, than back again. My right leg gets the bouncies, and I like to rock in my chair. I go through all of this stuff, and do it again, because being on the feature table, it’s just that much more nerve wracking. I stop rocking my chair and focus on the screen as the game clock ticks down.
As the match gets underway I forget about the crowd and the projection of my game and just concentrate on trying to get the upper hand. Only when I pull my new maneuver and hear the combined gasp from the crowd do I remember where I am. The game winds down fast after that.
DT runs over to the roped area and gives me a huge high five.
“Man, you are hot!” he says.
I notice that a whole bunch of judges are congregating around a laptop at the judge’s table. I don’t think much about it. There’s always at least one player who appeals a game or complains that it was the equipment’s fault.
We hang out until they post the final results of day one. Only five of us are still undefeated. But I groan when I see that Stompazer is 5-1.
I figure if I go 2-2 or better on day two I’m guaranteed to make the final eight. That would put me just three matches from $30k.
DT and I head out to the same pizza place we found the night before. Despite being the first week of June, it’s surprising cool outside and the air smells of the ocean and grilled food from nearby restaurants. We talk Starfare nonstop. DT keeps telling me that I’m going to sweep the whole tourney undefeated. That there’s no defense for my new move. I try to be modest, but I’m not arguing. By the time we get back to the lobby I’m so beat I just want to collapse back in bed. DT says he’s going to