The Tournament

You return to the window and the stars and the last blue of the day.

If you focus, you can hear it: Good luck. At the tournament you can see the first stars through the university hall windows or you can close your eyes and listen to the clatter of buttons and sticks and the ambient murmur of commentary and betting and sets beginning and ending. Good luck. Good games. 

You think these words are important. They are like the sunrise and sunset. Today you woke at six in the morning to get a ride across the city . Your driver asked you how long you've been playing and you said eight years. He looked at you with newfound curiosity. You saw the wheels turning in his eyes. He has been playing for a year and everybody in the region knows he is going to be top ten soon. Eventually, he could be the best. You have been top ten for years. You have never been the best. 

You can see him now across the hall, talking to the best. The top. The king. The winner. The winner even wins outside of your region, at the tournaments across the border and anywhere. He's friendly and it's easy for him to find a place to stay when he travels. Whoever hosts him gets lessons, just like he's teaching your driver right now, on the tiny television surrounded by onlookers who play the same character as him. 

You check the bracket. You're still waiting. You shift on your feet and sip your energy drink. There was a delay because somebody showed up late. The tournament organizer said if anybody was late, they'd be disqualified, so the tournament wouldn't end late. But here you are. It frustrates you to remember it. It's not the waiting. You would wait until the sun burned out. But it's bad for the scene. And without the scene, where would you be?

You remember when you first joined the scene years ago. Your mom drove you and gave you the five dollars you needed to enter. Everybody was older than you. Now they are all younger than you. They are starting school. They are finishing school. They are going back to school. You are taking a break from school. You have been for five years. 

At this point in the bracket, you are guaranteed fifth. If you win the next match, you'll get third. You are still waiting, but you will probably play the visitor, who has come from out of region. He has faster reaction times than you. But you think you could do it.

You have never been out of region. Cars fill up and slink across the border and people sleep on the floors of hotels drunk while the room spins above them. Everybody says it is good experience. Sometimes you even imagine asking to join, to split the gas and the hotel. But then you imagine all the people and the noise and the hours together in the car and sharing a bed and if there would even be a towel, and you think, no. That just wouldn't work. Really, you would play badly. 

You wander to the organizer and ask him if the remaining sets are best of three or best of five. It's best of five. Thank you. You return to the window and the stars and the last blue of the day and you pull up your matchup notes.

Hey man!

You turn. It is a new player. You saw him and his shaggy hair when they called the first matches, listening intently, worried he would miss his match. Other players kept playing friendlies, or were out smoking, or had to ask the organizer afterwards to repeat himself. But both you and the new player stood and listened and sought out your opponents. 

He plays the same character as you. He asks if he could play you. You think about it. You should review your notes. But he came to you. Not to the winner. He came to you. 

You beat him over and over. Every now and then he asks you for tips. You think. When I'm in the air, you can dash under me. Stop throwing out attacks, I'm just waiting and punishing. When I knock you down, I know you'll roll left. 

He asks you where you are in bracket. You say you expect to be called for winner's semis at any second. He says he is waiting in the first round of loser's. He says this is his first tournament and he doesn't want to lose without even taking a game. 

You tell him that it was a long time before you took a game off anybody. You can see the effect of telling him this. You are bad at understanding faces but even you can see something in him relax. 

Why do you play? he asks you.

You reply instantly. To be the best. Why do you play?

He replies instantly. To make friends!

You think about this for a very long time. The stars are now islands in perfect darkness. You picture how they are still there even in the day.

Your match is called. It is the visitor. You unplug your controller and your friend thanks you for all the tips. He wishes you good luck. His eyes are bright. He thinks you could win. 

You sit down next to the visitor. He and everybody around you smells of sweat, the sweat that comes from nerves. Your friend is standing behind you. After you and the visitor say good luck, your friend puts his hand on your shoulder and whispers: you've got this. His hand is warm.

Afterwards, you check the loser's side of bracket. Again you will wait for a while. The match replays in your head. You write down the three things you should have done differently and the three things you did well. 

You should now take your walk, to reset. You should find the livestream and rewind so you can review your mistakes and never do them again. 

Instead, you look for your friend. He is sitting down to his match, finally. He looks nervous. Something comes over you and you put your hand on his shoulder. He turns to look up at you. 

Don't think about winning, or your placement, or people. The game is just that screen. Just think inside that screen. He nods. He does not look at you. He looks at the screen. 

Afterwards, your friend will turn to you, sweat on his brow, and say, We did it! He will hug you and you will find his next opponent, together.