In Real Life Read online

  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 clipboard and tells me that I’ve won by default.

  Later I hear that four guys rooming together stayed up most of the night gaming in the hotel and all of them slept through the first round. I shake my head when I hear that. Imagining traveling all the way to San Diego for the biggest tournament of the year and sleeping through it. Actually, one loss doesn’t eliminate you because it’s a mixer. Each round players are paired against others with similar records. After ten rounds, the top eight fight it out in single elimination. Final eighters all get some decent money, but the prize pool is really top heavy. The big money goes to first and second.

  I win my second round pretty easily and during the break DT wanders into the hall and finds me working though some moves on my laptop. About a minute later so does the one person I’ve been hoping to avoid.

  “Would you look at this,” comes this booming voice from behind my head. “No wonder I couldn’t find you. You’re such a puny wuss.”

  When I turn my head there is a wall of human flesh behind my head. Before I can do anything DT jumps up and says, “Well fatso, I’m not.”

  Stompazer laughs, this big theatrical laugh like a movie ogre.

  “I don’t deal with noobs or stickmen,” he says. “And you’re both.”

  Just then the tournament director announces that the pairings for round three are posted.

  “I’m just waiting for my chance,” Stomp says, “I’m going to take you down.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Just like last time.”

  “Last time was a fluke!” He’s all red in the face and almost screaming. “Never happen again. Never!”

  I stand up and head off to one of the pairing boards, trying to act like he’s not there. But truth is, he’s a truly creepy presence. Big and obnoxious like one of those giant trolls in a massive multi-player rpg that require a team of forty gamers to bring down.

  11.

  I start nervously, but sweep my next round and rack up another routine win in my fourth. I’m keeping my secret weapon under wraps until I need it. After lunch break we sit back down and I know I’m going to be paired against someone who is 4-0 or 3-1 at the least. The tournament director gets us all in our seats and I see I’m up against an older guy who is 4-0. He’s got a scraggly beard and stringy hair and looks like he hasn’t slept or bathed since the beginning of the year. Most guys, they’ll say something when they sit down across from you before ducking behind the monitors. This guy, who plays under the handle MilesBlue, says nothing.

  “Round five will begin in three minutes,” the announcer says.

  Miles comes out smoking and it’s a toss-up through midgame when I decide I can’t wait any longer and begin to sneak some miners up against the back of his main fortress. Then I suddenly stack them up and send a couple warriors over the top. A couple of minutes later the game is over. As we stand up the guy gives me a weird look.

  “Sure would like to know how you pulled that off,” he says.

  “Practice, practice, practice,” I say and offer him my hand. He declines the offer.

  That makes me 5-0. For the final round of the day I’m surprised to get assigned one of the feature tables, even though I should have guessed. Only ten people are 5-0. It’s pretty exciting, playing in front of a crowd, your every move showing up on a twenty-foot screen. I know there’ll be no easy matches the rest of the way, and I recognize most of the guys at the top of the results list.

  I used to watch Garrett and his teammates before high school games. Running the drills and slapping each other and just before the lineup was called, making this circle with their hands around each other’s shoulders. I realize I have my own rituals before a match, just like they did. I play with my m
ouse, moving it to the right, then left, than back again. My right leg gets the bouncies, and I like to rock in my chair. I go through all of this stuff, and do it again, because being on the feature table, it’s just that much more nerve wracking. I stop rocking my chair and focus on the screen as the game clock ticks down.

  As the match gets underway I forget about the crowd and the projection of my game and just concentrate on trying to get the upper hand. Only when I pull my new maneuver and hear the combined gasp from the crowd do I remember where I am. The game winds down fast after that.

  DT runs over to the roped area and gives me a huge high five.

  “Man, you are hot!” he says.

  I notice that a whole bunch of judges are congregating around a laptop at the judge’s table. I don’t think much about it. There’s always at least one player who appeals a game or complains that it was the equipment’s fault.

  We hang out until they post the final results of day one. Only five of us are still undefeated. But I groan when I see that Stompazer is 5-1.

  I figure if I go 2-2 or better on day two I’m guaranteed to make the final eight. That would put me just three matches from $30k.

  DT and I head out to the same pizza place we found the night before. Despite being the first week of June, it’s surprising cool outside and the air smells of the ocean and grilled food from nearby restaurants. We talk Starfare nonstop. DT keeps telling me that I’m going to sweep the whole tourney undefeated. That there’s no defense for my new move. I try to be modest, but I’m not arguing. By the time we get back to the lobby I’m so beat I just want to collapse back in bed. DT says he’s going to see if Morgan is hanging in the gaming room before heading up. I’m asleep within seconds of hitting the stack of oversized hotel pillows.

  12.

  It doesn’t take long, next morning, to figure something is up. Before the assignments come out they have all of the competitors gather in a big scrum in front of the judge’s table. The head referee clears his throat over the mike. Then he taps it and says, “Is this working?” We all shout for him to get on it with and he does.

  “After due consideration of yesterday’s match play the judges and Starfare’s software team have decided that a minor patch will be in effect for today’s matches. This will be transparent to most of you, affecting only an anomaly in an unintended use of miners.”

  I feel something falling from my chest toward my shoes.

  “However, we have determined that nothing illegal or unethical was involved in the use of this bug and all matches from yesterday will stand.”

  I feel like everyone is staring at me.

  As we disperse and wait for first round pairings I keep telling myself that it’s no big deal, that I can still match up even with anyone in the field. And that I don’t have to win every match to make the final eight.

  But I never quite get back my equilibrium and sleepwalk through my first two matches, losing both of them. DT shows up around then and sits me down and gives me a real cussing out. I guess it helps because I win a close match in round three. With one match left, DT and I run through the possibilities and after doing the math about ten times conclude that a win gets me in for sure and that a draw would put me into a tiebreaker with two or three other players. The tiebreak goes to minutes played which would be a give-me, with all the quick games I played on day one.

  Final round I get paired with another 7-2 player and as we get set up to play I explain to him that we can both make the final eight if we agree to a draw. But if we play, only the winner will make it. Actually, I don’t tell my opponent that it will go to a tiebreak and it all depends on how fast he won his matches. I guess he’s a little afraid to play me because he quickly agrees to a draw. We call a judge over 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 fo
r 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.