In Real Life Read online

  “OK.”

  I’m still playing the spoon through the leftover milk.

  “And, Seth?”

  I look up and nod.

  “I did a little checking today and booked the Chicago tickets for Garrett. Had to use double points, so I hope you appreciate it.”

  “Thanks Dad,” I say. And I mean it.

  36.

  As Garrett and I walk out of the security area at O’Hare there’s a guy with a goofy black hat and a sign with my name on it. Garrett has an NDS duffle and I just have my backpack but the guy insists on carrying them both.

  Garrett looks at me as we walk away, arching his eyebrows. I can imagine him saying, “This is the life.” At the end of the terminal the driver leads us outside into what smells like a cloud of heated car exhaust. Then he pops the back door of an idling, big black Lincoln and we settle back into the cool leather.

  Garrett punches me on the shoulder as we pull away and whispers, “I like these Korean guys already.”

  On the drive to the airport and on the flight Garrett had asked about a thousand questions about pro-gaming and the Anacondas. Which made me feel pretty stupid, because I could only answer about one out of ten. But I figured I’d find out a lot more once we got to the hotel and I hooked up with the Koreans.

  Just thinking about playing with these guys produced a nervous rush. I’d been digging up as many of their games as were archived, and there were plenty. Almost every major tournament had at least one of the Anacondas in the final four. Every one of their top guys looked awesome.

  One of the things Garrett had peppered me on was what made these guys so good. I had a hard time putting my finger on it. I finally told Garrett that it was like the difference between a good high school basketball player and a good college player. It’s not that they do one thing better. They do everything better.

  As we drive out of the airport Garrett has his iPhone out and looks like he’s got a few hours of texting to catch up on. So I stare out the window and watch the people in the cars that are stuck next to ours. I had thought Kansas City had crappy traffic but I couldn’t believe how bad it was from the airport the entire way downtown. The only things moving faster than twenty-five miles an hour were the trains going by and the guys on motorcycles flashing past between lanes.

  Garrett seems to know exactly what to do when we finally get to the hotel, leading us through a giant revolving door and up an escalator. This black-haired girl with a name tag that says “Katya” and an accent greets us at the front desk. In about thirty seconds Garrett is chatting with her like they’re old friends. I have no idea how he does it. She says there’s a package for a Mr. Seth Gordon and Garrett nods towards me.

  “That’s for my kid brother. He’s the guest of honor here.”

  I can tell from her look that she thinks he’s kidding. Just like everyone since I can remember. She just assumes it’s all about Garrett.

  When she leaves to get the package Garrett turns to me and says, “I’m getting happier by the minute that you talked me into this trip. I think I’m in love.”

  “Again?” I say. Garrett rolls his eyes.

  Katya gives me a brown envelope and while I’m opening it Garrett leans over the counter and is saying something softly to her. I’m guessing he’s getting her personal phone number.

  I take out a letter and read the instructions. Basically they say, get unpacked and settled. (I’m thinking, throw my backpack on the bed.) Then call this number.

  I pull Garrett away from the desk and we head to the elevators. On the way up to the twenty-second floor Garrett says “I may need the room later.”

  “You wish,” I say.

  “No you wish,” he responds.

  By the time I’m ready to dial the number Garrett is already sprawled on one of the beds. He’s got a beer out of the little refrigerator under the flat screen TV and has a Cubs game on.

  When I call the number it’s picked up on the first ring.

  “Coach Yeong.”

  I tell him I’m all checked in and he says, “Good, good. You come to lobby in thirty minutes. Meet players. Then come. We have exhibition at Game Emporium.”

  “Great.”

  I tell Garrett that I’m going to some sort of exhibition and he grunts and then shouts, “Holy crap, I can’t believe he swung at that sucker pitch!”

  I don’t have any patience for baseball so I grab my backpack and head out the door. If I was with Mom, she’d be asking all these questions about where I was going and when I’d be back. She’d have to tell me to check in before I went anywhere else. And when we were going to dinner. And where. Because we’d need reservations.

  Garrett just grunts and waves a beer bottle. So much better.

  I find a spot to sit in the corner of the lobby, wondering if I would be able to recognize the Koreans from their web pics. And what I’d do if I miss them. And what I’m supposed to say if I don’t.

  Then I see them come out of the elevator banks. Four young Korean guys in bright green, shiny shirts with a dramatically drawn red snake curling around their chests. An older man, maybe thirty or so, leading the way.

  I head in their direction.

  “Mr. Seth Gordon!” the coach calls out to me when I’m halfway across the lobby. I feel like everyone in the hotel has stopped to stare at me. Watching him half run in my direction and grab my hand, shaking it aggressively.

  “So happy to meet you. Come, you meet team!”

  We all shake hands. I’m immediately confused about who is who. They all look sort of the same in their identical shirts, same haircuts. But I get the impression that none of them are as happy to meet me as their coach.

  I follow them out to the front of the hotel. A stretch limo is waiting. The coach gets in the front and the five of us climb in back. There are two large seats facing each other. I end up at the far end of the one facing backwards.

  They’re all talking a mile-a-minute in Korean. Ignoring me, which is fine. I’m looking out the window at downtown Chicago. We go over a river, past what looks like a tourist boat. Head down a couple of blocks busy with pedestrians and then turn right. Soon we’re on an expressway, Lake Michigan on the far side of the car.

  After about ten minutes I feel someone tapping on my knee. I turn away from the window and all four of the Korean pros are looking at me. The one directly across from me says something that sounds like English, but I shake my head. He tries again.

  “You,” he is saying, then pointing at the other three. “You help?”

  “Help,” I say. “Sure. With what?”

  “American girl,” the guy says, and all of them laugh. “Very sexy. American girl.”

  I shake my head.

  The four of them lean together and start talking again.

  This time it’s the guy next to me who talks. “You help, we meet, very sexy American girl?”

  “You want me to help you meet American girls?” I say, thinking, hey, I’ve got enough trouble as it is. But they all nod and start jabbering again.

  “Well,” I say. “I really don’t know any girls in Chicago.”

  This starts another conversation. The result must not be in my favor because they all dig out some new 3DS model that I don’t recognize and ignore me the rest of the ride.

  37.

  It takes about twenty minutes to get to the Game Emporium. It’s a huge box store, size of a Wal-Mart. About a hundred kids are gathered out front, jumping and cheering as we get out of the limo.

  The Anaconda guys walk slowly through the crowd, bowing, shaking hands, signing autographs. No one pays me any attention. When we get inside the store a couple guys in red Game Emporium shirts run up and get all excited. More bowing and shaking hands. Then they lead us through the store to the back where they’ve set up hund
reds of folding chairs in front of two giant projector screens. In front of the screens, on a raised platform, are four gaming stations, two facing two.

  The kids from outside are streaming into the area, grabbing seats and waving for their parents to catch up and join them.

  Coach Yeong says something in Korean and I follow him and the team back behind the screens. We gather around him in a sort of huddle as he holds out a plastic cup with little pieces of paper in it. Each of the players takes one from the cup. Yeong looks at me.

  “You too Seth Gordon.”

  I take a number and look at it. It has the number four.

  Yeong reaches over and takes it from my hand. The other four players show their numbers to him.

  “Very good. Very good.” He says, and then talks for a couple minutes in Korean. Then everyone bows and I watch three of the players step onto the podium and begin to get settled behind the waiting computer screens.

  “Go, you go!”

  I look at Yeong. Dreading the epic fail I see coming.

  “You number four. You play Tae-Uk.”

  I shake my head.

  “No thanks. I’ll just watch this time,” I mutter.

  Coach Yeong scowls and shakes his head.

  “We bring you all the way here. To Chicago. To play. You play!”

  He takes a step towards me and for some reason I think he might be getting ready to hit me so I scramble up on the podium and take the empty seat. I can feel the sweat under my arms. I hate it when guys get those big dark sweat circles under their arms. I realize I’m about to be one of those guys.

  As I sit down, adjust the mouse, I nod to Tae-Uk across from me. He sees me but makes no gesture. I try not to think about the hours I had spent reviewing his win in the finals of one of last year’s pro events. He had absolutely owned Joon Hyeok Yim, who had once won six pro tournaments in a row and is considered a Starfare god. OMG, I think, I’m about to get royally owned. In front of an audience.

  When I glance out across the murmuring crowd I see that almost all the seats are taken. Then the lights go dim and they roll a Starfare promo tape. Without warning the Starfare starter screen for Gondwanaland pops up on my screen and the audience is cheering and I glance up and see that my computer screen is now being projected above me. At least if I’m going to get owned, it will be on one of my favorite maps.

  Coach Yeong steps out to a microphone and I’m too nervous to listen to all that he’s saying but I start when I hear my name. I glance over and he’s reading from a script.

  “We are pleased to introduce one of America’s most promising young players, playing out of Overland Park, Kansas. Among the top ten American players, and rising rapidly, Mr. Gordon had a deep run at this year’s Nationals. Please give a round of applause to ActionSeth, Mr. Seth Gordon!”

  Then the lights go down another notch and the cheers start again and with a flash the screen lights up and we’re underway.

  All I’m thinking is please, please don’t let me be humiliated in something like five minutes. Then the action is immediate and frantic and I’m not thinking about the crowd or getting embarrassed. I’m just clicking and punching the keyboard as fast as I can. It’s like back when Mom made me take piano lessons and I thought I’d learned my little piece. Then the teacher, this smiling, evil old woman with hair the color of ashes, would lean over and set the metronome to a pace about three times faster than I’d been practicing. I can’t believe the speed that Tae-Uk is setting. At the same time, I can feel my own speed rising, the way a biker can be pulled along in the draft of a rider just in front. I’m not winning, but it sure feels like I’m playing the best of my life.

  When Tae-Uk finally wraps up his victory I’m completely drained. Only then do I hear the cheers again. He stands up and seems to be waiting for me to do the same. When I rise, he bows, and I try to imitate the same move. When I glance at the other big screen I see the other two Korean pros are in the endgame, which makes me feel better. Because I couldn’t judge how long my game had taken. But it must have been decent. The other game finishes just a few minutes later and the lights come up. Coach Yeong has us all stand in front of the crowd and bow. The fourth Korean player joins us and following directions from Yeong they sit back down in the player seats and with another cheer, the lights dim for a second round.

  I follow Yeong behind the screens and he shakes my hand.

  “Very good show,” he say. “Very, very good for American.”

  I say thank you, although I’m not sure that wasn’t partly an insult.

  I slink away and stand to the side of the room, watching the games in progress. The action is simply amazing. It makes me wonder if Tae-Uk had been slumming a bit, just to keep me in the game. I’ll probably never know, since it was clear that our communication was going to be limited to sound bites like “sexy American girls.” Or maybe I’m better than I thought.

  Afterwards we drive to a sandwich place where Yeong tries to include me in the conversation. And mostly fails. I don’t eat much.

  Then we drive about a half hour to another Game Emporium in some other suburb and do the whole thing again. This time I get to play a different pro in the second game and I’m pretty proud of the fight I put up. Of course, I lose.

  The way back, the guys are more relaxed, laughing as they play their 3DSs, sharing little 3DS achievements. No one offers to share with me. I’m actually relieved. I like looking out at the cars next to us as people try to look through the limo’s tinted glass, imagining we might be politicians or rock stars. Or, I imagine, if we were in Korea, pro gamers.

  Back at the hotel Yeong tells me to meet him and the team in the lobby at seven o’clock for dinner. Garrett is out when I get to the room and I flop onto the bed and check the time. One hour to relax. I flip through the channels about a thousand times until it’s almost seven.

  I figure we’ll probably go to some Korean restaurant, which is a worry. I have no idea what Korean food is like, but I probably would hate it. Yeong seems happy to see me, but the four guys, still wearing their bright green Anaconda shirts, ignore me. We head outside. It’s still hot out, but not Kansas City hot. There’s a breeze coming from the lake, where I can see dozens of sail boats, and off in the distance a peer, where a ferris wheel is already lit up for the night. We walk down the hill to Michigan Avenue and turn left. I’ve never been to Chicago before but there sure are a lot more people walking around than I’m used to. A lot of them staring at us as they walk by. I guess they’re not used to seeing a bunch of Koreans in red and green snake shirts.

  After about ten minutes I’m relieved when we walk into a place called Italian Kitchen. Because I’m starved. We get seated at two adjacent tables—the four players across from us, and the coach and me across from each other at a booth.

  At first he doesn’t say anything, head hidden behind the big menu. Just studying it like it was a puzzle. Finally he lowers the menu and says, “Italian restaurants, my favorite. You?”

  “Oh yeah. I actually work in one.”

  “You work?” Yeong seems troubled by this information. “How is this possible with your training?”

  “I know,” I reply. “My parents make me. Otherwise I’m with you entirely.”

  “So, you go to school. You work. And still you play very good. Very interesting. Very interesting.”

  Then he’s looking back at the menu and pointing.

  “So Mr. Seth Gordon, Italian Restaurant worker. You can have this knowledge. What is this, this manicotti? We not have in Korea.”

  I’ve heard of it, but damned if I can remember what it looks like. So now I look like a complete idiot.

  “Actually, Coach Yeong. The place I work, we specialize in pizza.”

  “Oh, pizza. Very delicious here in America. But maybe makes American large? I see so many large Americans.�
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  So right there I decide I better go with pasta. Which turns out to be delicious.

  As we eat Yeong asks me a bunch of questions. Hard to answer, when you’re trying to lasso a giant string of spaghetti. And not get it all over your shirt.

  I answer as best I can and after a few minutes Yeong starts telling me about his team and how hard they work to be the best in the world. They have the best training facilities, the pick of the top talent.

  “Every little boy in Korea. He only wishes to someday be a Team Anaconda.”

  Sounds right to me. When we get back to the hotel Coach Yeong asks me to follow him into the elevator. On the twentieth floor the players head down past us as Yeong opens his door.

  “Come, I want you to see.”

  Inside Yeong sits down at a table with a couple of laptops. He points to a chair next to him and I sit down. Watching him open a Starfare screen and tap out a few commands. A game starts playing. I blink a couple times, because it’s a replay of the first game I played that afternoon at the Game Emporium.

  We watch for about a minute and Yeong pauses.

  “Here,” he says pointing at a spot where my miners are working. “Here you make first problem. You start your mining here,” and he points to the center of the deposit. “In Korea, we study very carefully. Five percent faster to start here.” And he points to the edge. “You start here and move this way.” His finger goes in a circle and then goes around again and again in smaller circles. “What you call this way?”

  “Spiral?”

  “Yes, yes. Spiral. Much better this way.”

  Then he starts the game up and after about thirty seconds he stops and shows me another mistake, and a minute later another one. Not really mistakes. But I can see that he knows better ways, ways to increase your power a bit faster, a bit more efficiently. I can see how this stuff adds up. And what gets me excited is that everything he says seems absolutely obvious once he points it out. Some of it I could do tomorrow. And some of it, like how many clicks I’m making per second with my left hand on the keyboard, well, that might take a lot of practice.