and then get to sit down and relax and wait for the final eight announcement. I never know what to do, waiting. Luckily DT is there to distract me and we watch a bunch of goofy videos he’s got bookmarked on his laptop.
When they announce the final eight I’m actually relieved that my last opponent is there with me. He would have been so pissed off if he had lost the tiebreak.
Within a few minutes the eight of us take our places at the featured tables. I look out over the convention floor. Every seat is taken. Across the table I’m surprised to see the same bearded guy I beat in round five.
“This time, straight up,” he says.
“OK with me,” I respond.
But it’s not OK. Maybe it’s nerves, maybe it’s the look the guy gave me before the game. Like when he wasn’t playing Starfare he might have a hobby dismembering smart-ass teenagers.
I start slow and although he can’t quite put me away, he keeps his edge right up until the clock runs out. Just like that, I’m out. I can’t even stand waiting around to see who does win. I pick up my $2,000 check from the judge’s table during the break before the final four. I stare at it for a while, thinking that it’s a lot of money. And that it’s not. I mean, I couldn’t exactly whip it out and show it to Brit.
“And what’s that?” she asks.
“It’s money I won playing a computer game.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding with understanding. “Nerd money. That’s very nice, Seth. Thanks for sharing. Got to go—I’m supposed to meet this hunky guy from the football team after school. We’re going to go make out for a couple hours.”
Besides, final eight. So weak. That’s not what I came here for.
I fold it into my pocket and head back the table where DT is watching our stuff. We’re about to head out when a moving mountain steps in front of us.
“Heading home, putz?” Stompazer says. “Are you crying? Looks like you’re crying.”
DT and I split up, to head around him. But it’s not a small detour.
“Maybe I’ll spend some of my $30k to come out to Kansas and kick your butt in person.”
We continue to head for the door, to the sound of his big, deep, infuriating laugh.
DT and I get an early flight, check out of the hotel and take a cab to the airport where we’ve both got to wait hours for our flights.
I’m just sitting there, leaning over, staring at the floor and moping when my cell rings. I check and see it’s my brother.
“Hey,” I say.
“So how are you doing?”
I tell him I lost. And he says something about Dad wanting to bet him that I’d come home empty-handed.
“Not exactly empty,” I say. “I won $2,000.”
“Holy crap, that’s great! I should have taken that bet…and how come you haven’t been taking Mom’s calls? She’s called me three times, wondering if I’ve heard from you.”
It’s true that I got her voice mails, but I had to keep the phone off during the tournament and she was calling from some sort of public phone and didn’t leave a callback number.
“I might as well warn you,” Garrett says. “I think Mom’s really off the deep end with this Institute she’s attending. I’ve done a little Internet searching and I’m not sure what to make of them. I mean, they don’t seem like a cult. Not like the really nutty ones, who are waiting for visitors from space or the end of the world on a certain date. They’ve actually got an accredited university where they seem to be studying a lot of mystical crap. Like trying to figure out how these Indian holy men can slow down their heart rates to like fifteen beats a minute. Anyway, she’s pretty nuts about it. If she calls, you’ll get an earful.”
I ask him when he’ll be back home and he sort of sighs and says that he already told me that he was staying for the summer to work the school’s basketball camps.
“I’ll be back for a couple of weeks before practice starts.” Then he tells me to pay attention at school—that I’d like college and I should stop screwing around and get some decent grades. “You might even think about coming here,” he adds. “Three girls for every two guys. Even a computer nerd might have a shot of hooking up.”
Yeah, I might as well accept it, shoot for being just another anonymous college kid. DT and I head over to an airport sandwich place and we do a replay of the tournament. He tells me that it was a great show, even if I didn’t win. But it’s not true. If I want to make it as a pro, I have to be able to dominate crappy Americans like the guys at Nationals.
13.
Before the divorce, if Garrett’s sixteen-and-under AAU basketball team had gotten deep into one of the big national tournaments you can bet the whole family would be there to cheer and greet him. Instead I pick up a voicemail when I get off the plane from Dad telling me to grab a cab.
Naturally, I have no idea where you go to pick up a taxi and end up wandering all the way down to the wrong end of the terminal. I reverse course and in the meantime a jumbo jet full of Japanese tourists has landed and picked up their luggage and I have to wait in line an hour to get a cab. There’s a couple of Japanese teenage girls in front of me with their parents and they keep looking at me and whispering and giggling, covering their mouths when they laugh. I’m thinking I got some sort of goober hanging from my nose or unzipped pants. I can’t say I’m sorry when they get stuffed into the back of a Lincoln.
I almost choke when I have to pay $65 to the cab driver. That leaves me about two bucks. Inside the condo is dark and smells of cigarette smoke with a hint of overripe garbage. Dad’s left a note on the kitchen table next to a $20 bill telling me to order something to eat if I’m hungry. “Stick around,” he writes at the end. “We need to talk.”
Naturally I’m thinking something about school, but my midterm grades had arrived a long time ago and I was passing everything and it’s too early for final grades.
It must be close to midnight when I hear the garage door. I know I should be working on my game, but I couldn’t resist looking at the results from Nationals. Stompazer got all the way to finals, spilt the first two games and lost a close one in the decider to the guy who beat me, MilesBlue. Stomp took home $12,000. I’m too depressed by that news to do anything but just veg out. So I’m watching the Seinfeld where George gets a job with the Yankees and orders wool uniforms which naturally drive the players crazy.
“Seth,” Dad says as he throws himself onto the couch next to me. To tell the truth, he doesn’t look great. Hasn’t shaved, hair mussed, oozing the smell of smoke and booze.
“Mom sold the house.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I didn’t believe it at first either. Apparently she and that goofball with the ponytail—what’s his name?”
“Martin.”
“Yeah, Martin. Anyway, they’ve decided to move into this Institute in California
