I didn't come to lose
That's my attitude when I go into any game (or any activity, really). I don't necessarily expect to win. In fact, when I woke up that morning, with the one guy near my level and age, Jonathon Lockwood, gone home to focus on his work, and the old salts wearing their lucky shirts from decades gone by, I was mentally bracing myself for a repeat of the tiddly-beatdown I took the prior day. But I never go into a game to lose. Or even to win. I go to play my best. For what it's worth, my best was way better this day. But as those 80's glam rock icons twisted Sister once said, "If that's your best, your best won't do."
My first match was with Dave Lockwood, the gruff father with intensity in his play. His "intensity" today was blunted by some sort of migraine headache. Or aneurysm. Or something. I doubt anxiety towards playing me was the cause. In between his grunts, clenching his temples in one hand, and wearily rising and falling form a cheap metal chair in the room, he still managed to hand me a 6-1 beating in the end. And after I got chocolate and sliced tomatoes and cold water for him! I guess bribes aren't gonna work in this league.
Editorial note: Most head-aches are brought on by stress, dehydration, and malnutrition. Tomatoes are an ideal pick-me-up in many regards, as is chocolate, at least short-term.
Under Pressure
During Day 1's action John was hemming and hawing about this shot he had to make. He went back and forth, preparing to make the shot, walking away, breathing, commenting, returning, and repeating. I wondered what his deal was. Then I got slapped across the face with the hideous truth; we take this game far too seriously.
I was one shot away from winning my first game, 4-3, against Rick Tucker. A single squop at about 2-3 inches is all I had to do. It was a shot I had made many times that weekend. The entire room is watching the game, and everyone, including Rick himself, is silently hoping I tag this shot. I'm back and forth, trying to relax. Then I walk up, lean in, and prepare to make the shot like it's any other shot in any other game at any other time.
I flick.
And fall short.
3-4. Loss.
Let me tell you, chucking a squidger across the room isn't as dramatic as you want it to be, but it conveys the right amount of frustration to the people in the room who know what a squidger is. I never got that close to a win again. But to know that I could've won, that was a decent enough feeling. It was said by a few people that I had a much better grasp of the game, its tactics and technique, than anyone else who had played as long as I had.
Everything New Is Old Again
After the tournament there was enough time for a quick doubles match before everyone said their good-byes and headed home. The match was a doubles game between Bob, Larry, Dave and Ferd. For those keeping score, that's about 200 years of Tiddlywinks experience. Even cutting out one's formative development years, it comes out to about 120 years of these people playing winks. And while they're playing, someone gets the idea to flick on Larry's old sound system for some mood music. And what do you think of when 'Mood' and 'Music' come together?
The best of The Moody Blues, of course.
Try to put yourself in my shoes for a second while I paint a picture: 4 of the oldest friends playing a game together for so long that to beat it you have to go into such childhood fare as Marbles or Piss Sword Fight (or whatever you guys called it). 200 years worth of old men, huddled around a table, chatting about the olden days of winks, while Knights in White Satin is playing. The whole thing was surreal, sad and glorious at the same time. It was the perfect way to end the tournament.
Of course, JetBlue has a way of fucking up a climactic ending. I'll get to that in the final post.
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