W390 Week 10: The Gathering

Last weekend I traveled to a strange land deep in the bowels of Indianapolis. Much like the fabled City of Ember, it was a place where the sun and wind could not reach; where the light and the air were powered by electricity. This was the Gathering Place and the Gatherers, while they could be described as homo-sapiens, were not exactly human. Self-described Mages, a stranger might see them rather as cultists in some strange church, but be that as it may, the Gatherers see it as the temple of epic adventure and intense competition.

The temple does not exist in one place. It cannot be constrained by the limitations of space and time. It exists in many places across the globe, calling the Gatherers with promises of fame and riches. Some are called to the temple to arbitrate the battles, to assure that the Gatherers adhere to the strict rules of combat. I am called to facilitate these epic match-ups, adding Gatherers to the lists like knights in a tournament and recording their successes or, more often, failures in the tome of history of the combatants. These combats do not require swords or horses in the traditional sense. They require playing cards. That's right...collectible playing cards. The only armor the mage needs, aside of a fresh coat of deodorant and a clean pair of undies, are protective plastic sleeves for a deck of cards painstakingly built from hundreds of little "booster packs" at a costs ranging from hundreds to thousands of dollars. This is Magic: The Gathering Grand Prix Indianapolis at Lucas Oil Stadium.

After the lists are populated, the warriors are matched and the game begins. The mental mettle of each competitor is tested. They must concentrate, watching their cards, praying for the right combinations, all the while waiting for their opponent to slip up. Each match is a battle of wits that also requires the blessing of luck. As the cards are laid, the breath quickens, the expletives or little cheers of triumph sometimes slip out, in a mutter, but the game is quiet and quick with the occasional cries of, "Judge!" when a dispute about the rules arises. As the winners and losers are determined, the losers nurse their wounds at the dealers table buying more cards with the hope of faring better at the next Gathering or they swallow their pride with nachos and Mt. Dew from the snack bar.

The winners make their way to the final match-up with cash and glory on the line. They are mentally tired, hungry and sometimes they really have to go to the bathroom. None of these ailments can be allowed to overcome their concentration if they hope to win. Indeed, the intensity of the final match, after a field of 1,200 has been reduced to just two, often provides enough adrenaline to drown out most physical needs. For in the end, there can be only one and that One, the champion gets a trophy and a bag of gold (actually a big cardboard check)and the glory of being the best... if only until the next tournament. Sadly, Magic is a fickle mistress and next weekend, somewhere in the world she will crown a new champion after the sacrifice of many.

At the end of the tournament, I leave the temple, relieved that it's over but glad to have been a part of the carnage. I sleep well that night, but it's not long before I'm looking for the Gathering Place again, hoping to be a part of it. It's hard to resist the call