New Fears

note: This was a piece I published for MAJORZine, a Smash-themed Zine curated and created by @Marceux and @epengu (Twitter handles). To see the whole piece, go to https://issuu.com/majorzine/docs/major_vol_2

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Back in the day, the local consisted mainly of players, houses, and free venues. At the expense of some convenience and with the inclusion of some body odor, grassroots tournaments packed smashers in.

We had been sitting down playing at a set up for about an hour. The matches weren't one-sided at all; they were close enough to be interesting. As different interactions played out, we discussed them and had a laugh.

At one point he smiled. "Dude we should play some more. Your reads are really good."

Being an under-confident, new player, I felt myself blushing, appreciating the compliment. It seemed genuine.

“Thanks dude,” I said, beaming. “You too.”

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Round 1 bracket is a double 3 stock.

It is Smash, 2017. Computers purr asynchronously to the Gamecube controllers clacking in the background as we both bump hands and unplug our controllers from the setup. Players worm their way around the venue, eager to play and improve and escape. The tournament organizer announced a match between a new-school, thought-out tag and lloD. I maneuver my way towards the desk and checked who I had to play next.

Round 2 of bracket is slightly different. I remember his tag because we've talked before. We exchange some banter. I give some tips. He makes a statement about my playstyle, and says something about playing more.

Seemingly cordial statements are no longer just taken at face value. A compliment now has to compete with the thousands of assertions I made or heard about my playstyle.

I respond with something non-committal. And I subconsciously acknowledge that my skill, my persona, and my personality are all different attributes that people can mesh with. As much as I can enjoy talking to new players, it can be taxing to not know the true nature of a relationship.

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My finger lingers on the send button. It seems silly to think about something so much.

It’s controversial. Teams don’t like controversy. It can put a damper on their brand.

What seems to be even worse is feeling like people don’t care.

I remembered that expressing something controversial to the community seems to get lost in the tides.

I remembered feeling that my voice didn’t matter. The never-ending feeling of my voice being unwanted in my own community lingered.

The tweet gets saved to drafts.

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A mob of players have their eyes glued to a large projector screen in a Texas Convention center, screaming their minds out, while thousands watch the match in the seemingly separate, online Twitch realm. Had anyone told me videogames would reach this level, I would have thought they were joking.

As the match gets closer, my adrenaline levels spike. My mind enters flow state as the inputs I’ve done thousands of times become easier. The emotional rollercoaster is unparalleled; it is a sheer joy to compete in something you enjoy.

In a vacuum, that is. Tournaments are rarely a test of true skill. There are many other factors at play.

Between stocks, I try to manage my performance anxiety. Something that almost every competitor has, but rarely brings up. I breathe in three seconds. Breathe out four.

Through the cheers and jeers of competitors I hear something personal being yelled at me. A statement engineered to get under my skin.

For a brief second, I’m no longer a competitor. I’m a human. I’m vulnerable.

And then I lose a stock for it.

“Focus on the game. Don’t lose focus,” I tell myself.

My anxious thoughts gradually fade out, my hyperfocus returns, and for a brief moment, the negatives don’t mean as much anymore.