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. And weighs about three-hundred pounds.”
“Stompazer weighs three-hundred pounds?”
“At least. He stomps you, you’re dead. Of course, he’d have to catch you. So don’t worry. The guy can hardly get up a flight of stairs.”
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
