“Darren! Can you believe this? Isn’t that insane?” I said, elbowing him and pointing to the live, projected bracket on a screen at the center of the convention hall.
“I’m not sure why you sound so excited and happy. Don’t you remember what happened back in New York? He kicked Amaya’s ass right away. The guy is good, Gordie. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
I froze for a moment. “Uh, yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m just feeling a little starstruck, I think. Aw damn. I just thought about the crowd. You think a lot of people will be watching?”
“Yeah, of course, I do. He’s like a top-eight regular, not to mention this is the part where the wall comes up, and both sides join, and everyone plays on the main stage.”
He was right. All eyes were going to be on us. Thousands of people were going to watch. My hands started sweating and shaking. My whole body felt like it had lava swirling through it. Fifteen minutes passed, and I was already due for my next match. The moderators and event staff wasted no time in taking down the wall.
“Can the top 32 active tournament players please make their way to the first two rows in front of the stage?” the arena announcement said.
My heart jolted around like a rabid animal in a cage. I could feel every pulse-like thunder. I joined the tiny migration of players that took up the first two rows. Some of them fist-bumped and greeted each other like it was a secret club, but I walked alone.
“You should sit next to me,” Amaya said, walking right behind me.
The loud thud of my heart came to a fade. “Y-yeah. Uh-uh-course.” We made our way to two seats on the end, and Amaya chuckled at me.
“Gordie, settle down. It’s no big deal. You have no color in your face.”
“I’m good. I’m fine.”
Amaya reached her arm over my shoulder like a guy does with his date at the movie theater. “You got this, okay?”
The audience went to their seats, and once they settled, the lights dimmed, but the stage shined. The commentators started introducing the top 32 bracket. When my name was called out, goosebumps coated my body.
“GordieHoward is going up against 75K! An unknown name who has been playing remarkably well at today’s tournament is going up against a veteran that performed similarly to his record during the New York tournament this past summer. Let’s bring them both up now!”
There was no fancy light show or any animation on a Jumbotron. I trudged up the stage, and 75K swaggered. Passing by the commentators’ booth for the Livestream, I eavesdropped on Tommy Gotobed as he yucked it up with his partner.
“Listen, Alex, Gordie Howard is an excellent player who has been flirting with the top 64 for a while these past few years. I wonder if he’s playing with the thoughts of his brother Michael who played his last tournament here four years ago.”
Those words echoed on infinite repeat in my head. Then the memory of what happened four years ago played on a loop. My limb trembling turned into tremors. My legs walked like stilts filled with lead.
On stage, I jammed my controller port into the system after missing a few attempts while 75 K’s controller glided right in.
“Hey man, good luck,” 75K said, reaching out his hand.
“Uh, oh, yeah, uh, you too.” My hand twitched like a fish out of water in his grasp.
The moderator’s voice fuzzed out as he was talking to us. My head rushed with blood, muffling all sound while making every motion move slower. When I selected my character and the stage was chosen, my hands were out of sync with my brain. My fingers were stabbing the buttons instead of tapping them. Gratuitous sweat covered every nook and cranny of the controller.
“Game one, 75K!” the moderator shouted.
“Wow, folks, 75K breezed through that match. I’m not sure if GordieHoward is fully with it. He’s jittering and fumbling with his controller,” I heard Alex, the commentator in the distance.
It’s okay. No one is watching me. It’s just me and 75K here alone. There’s a little magical border behind the two of us, and only we can see what’s going on. The barrier will disappear if I turn around and look at the crowd. Better keep my head forward so 75K and I can handle our business privately. Yeah. That’s it, no one else can see.
“Uh, you get to pick the next stage,” 75K said.
“Right! Ha, you’re right,” I blurted. My armpits felt like sprinkler systems going haywire. The Star’s Edge is where we’ll play. I’ve been having good luck with it all—
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“Game 2, 75K!” The moderator shouted, and my heart sank.
The magical barrier that blocked me from the crowd was no longer going to be there. I was going to turn around, and everyone would see me.
“Good game, man.” 75K went for another handshake which my brain processed as an attack, but then I obliged after a moment of hesitation.
“You too,” I said and hightailed it off the stage before anyone could ask me questions or talk to me. Or before I started coughing up splashes of blood and got taken to the hospital.
You’re a pile of trash, Gordie. You don’t have the mental capacity for this. Do you want to make it to the big dance? Because you’re certainly not going to get there at this rate. Darren would have done better than you. Now, if Amaya gets bumped (which has happened before), you threw away your team’s only other shot at getting to Miami. Way to be a reliable—
“Gordie!” Darren cried out from the middle of the walkway, stopping me from exiting the arena. “I would ask if you’re okay, but judging by the tears, I’ll take that as a no. Tell me what I can do, although I gotta support Amaya and watch her match.”
“I-I-I juh-just need to g-go for a walk,” I said.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with, I just gotta go.” I pushed past him, stormed out of the convention center, and trucked along the sidewalk.
There was no direction, no clear-cut plan, but I didn’t need one. My head needed to be cleared. The memories of Michael had me in an emotional headlock.
After moping around for two blocks, the whimpering started to fade, but then it came back and faded again, like an eighteen-minute psychedelic rock song. Repeating the scene of Michael coughing his lungs out on stage for the millionth time, I remembered that Amaya was there. She witnessed it happen and even offered her hand to help.
Amaya is a good friend.
Holy shit, Amaya is playing right now in the arena, and no one is there to support her except for Darren.
I raced back to the convention center. Blew past the doors and the registration tables and joined the back of the audience at full speed.
Anyone could have guessed what the finals were going to be.
Amaya vs. Dayzees for the hundred thousandth time.
Doesn’t anyone get sick of this?
But this time, Dayzees was the one who was in the losers bracket. Amaya had the advantage and only needed to win one set, but they went to three sets.
“And your Chicago tournament champion is yet again the number one player in the world, Dayzees!” The crowd clapped, but they didn’t cheer. No shrieks, no whistles, and no high pitch noises. Just the white noise of stock applause you could find in the bargain bin at an audio library. Their energy resonated with me, but I couldn’t help but crack the widest and tightest grin my face could form. We’re going to Miami.
On that Saturday night of Amaya’s second-place triumph, Darren and I went back to her place, and Wyatt met up with us at the front of the building. As soon as he heard Amaya was in the top eight, he had Darren’s mom drop him off on her way to work. Although he couldn’t get in her place, he ended up streaming the event in a coffee shop on his phone.
“Whatcha got in that bag?” Darren asked.
Wyatt gripped the brown paper bag, making my heart trip up a few beats.
“Relax, I thought we’d celebrate, but since I can’t drink champagne, I got something else,” Wyatt revealed half of the bottle through the bag. “Sparkling cider.” he winked, and the three of us howled with relief.
“I was worried for a moment.” Amaya chuckled. “Let’s go inside. I have an announcement I want to make to you guys!” We raced through the lobby and went up the elevator to Amaya’s floor.
Establishing our seats in the living room, the three of us gawked up at Amaya, awaiting her announcement like a pack of dogs politely begging for a treat.
“You guys can chill out. Even though we still have the doubles tournament tomorrow, I just wanted to talk briefly. I made second place today, which is nothing too unusual, and it’s starting to feel like a failure because I just can’t climb that mountain of beating Dayzees. But I digress; we’re coming up on the one-year anniversary of our friendship. I can’t believe how fast time flies, but I’m excited because I used to feel like I was just seen as Dayzees’s tourney player or partner. Now?” Her smile, which she was trying to hide, expanded from ear to ear. “Now I’m the one that is a force to be reckoned with. I can stand on my own without his help, and even though some media people might say I live in his shadow, I’m gunning for the crown. I think today, after he lost his set against 75K and was forced to the loser’s bracket, I think he was scared.
“And I’m just thrilled because that means with me getting in second place, I’ll get my invite to go to Miami, and I’m going to take you three as my partners. Wyatt,” she gazed at him. “We’re going to get you in. When they ask me to make the announcement for my teammates, which can be anytime from this Monday until a week before the tournament, I will establish the three of you as my partners. Wyatt, you’re going to get rejected, probably the first-ever person to get declined, but it’s okay because I’m going to make it public that I tried to add you, but they wouldn’t allow it, even though you have been doing everything in your power to live a life of sobriety.
“And then if we need to start a hashtag or rally support from social media, we’ll do that too, but dammit guys, it’s been a wonderful stretch of months since we’ve all met and become friends. We’re going to go to Miami, and we’re going to be world champions!” Amaya screamed.
Wyatt was shaking the bottle he brought like a vintage clothes dryer and rushed into the kitchen and popped the bottle like it was New Year’s Eve. “Hell yeah, Amaya! Who wants some sparkling cider?”
The three of us crowded into the kitchen with Wyatt, grabbed a handful of tiny glasses, and poured ourselves a sparkling cider. Chuckling together, Darren started singing “Danke Schoen” by Wayne Newton.
“…I recall, a Central Park in fall,” Darren went on with deep vibrato.
“Darren, we’re going to Miami, not New York,” Amaya said, with one edge of her lip curled up.
“But!” Wyatt interjected. “It’s in Ferris Bueller’s day off, and we are in downtown Chicago, baby!” He gulped a whole glass of his sparkling apple cider.
“I can’t wait!” I shouted, shaking Darren with one hand and Wyatt with my other. “You two still have to play the doubles tournament tomorrow, though. The battle isn’t over. The two of you need to conquer that mountain still.”
Amaya fully grinned at Darren. “Whattya say, partner, you ready for tomorrow?”
“Definitely.”
“The wise-ass, old man lookin’ ass, sage.” Wyatt scrambled Darren’s hair with his free hand, and the four of us cracked up like a bunch of kids experimenting with swear words for the first time.