Yesterday, I told tale of my Second Grand Prix. I placed fourth, winning the allotted prize for my finish plus the cash bonanza that accompanies the title of Highest Placed Amateur. My Constructed ranking gained almost 300 points overnight and I was able to treat my friends in Team Leeds to a slap-up Chinese meal.
But most importantly… I was qualified for the Pro Tour!
Since those early games in the Headingley Community Centre, playing mono-Green beatdown homebrews against tuned (and proxied) metadecks, I honed my meager skills in a clear aggressive direction. I took my many beatings in the name of progress, living the game and loving the game. The Pro Tour was my shining light, my guiding star, twinkling at my fingertips, dancing out of reach.
At Grand Prix: London, I grasped it.
See how I ran…
…
I was going to Houston!
The Pro Tour, for so long an ephemeral shiver, and unattainable goal, was now mine to play. I’d made it to the Big Show.
My friends, as always, were full of tips.
“You must be careful on the Pro Tour, Craig. It’s the strictest tournament on the planet.”
“People will cheat you left, right and center. Look sharp!”
“Watch you opponents like a hawk. If they do anything sudden, scream for a judge.”
“One guy was stabbed at the Pro Tour for tapping his mana in a funny way. Don’t let it be you!” [I think Mike only got a warning for that one… – Knut]
Truth was, I was terrified. Such high level of play, though the dream for so long, took on a sinister quality when it was about to become real. Were these tales true? Did people call judges because they didn’t like your face? Did they come to you as angels, laughing and smiling, only to bite through your throat at the first signs of weakness?
“A Pro Tour player wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, Craig. Fear does not exist! Show no Mercy! Sweep the leg!”
As for deck choice… I had no idea.
For testing, I’d joined a mailing-list encompassing the qualified players from the UK. We chatted and threw strategies back and forth for a few weeks, and then the list died a slow lingering death. Real-life testing against Team Leeds chums was welcomed, but erratic. The Pro Tour loomed large, and I was stumped.
In the end, I decided to go with Tinker. At the hands of an accomplished player, it could walk on water.
I was looking forward to the Pro Tour, of course, but the biggest factor in my excitement was the holiday itself. America! Home of the Brave, Land of the Free! Everything’s bigger in America! Everything’s better!
USA was the Holy Grail of holiday destinations. Okay, so Houston wasn’t New York or Florida…. but it was in the right ball-park. And I was already using word like “ball-park,” getting with the lingo!
America!
Unfortunately, Houston was rubbish.
The Pro Tour was held at the Astrodome, miles and miles from anywhere significant. There was the venue, the Holiday Inn hotel, a Mexican restaurant and a shop that sold cowboy hats, Even to this wide-eyed English gent, a shop selling cowboy hats only holds the attention for two days, three at the most. The only other attraction was Mission Control of NASA, and even though the weight of history lent it a certain gravitas, there was something slightly crap about that whole experience.
So… I didn’t enjoy my holiday in Houston, I hear you guessing…
Wrong.
It was America!
Big yellow school buses, strange pancakes for breakfast, OJ and free refills of “soda”! Milk Duds and Oreos and Peanut Butter Cups! Cigarettes with white filters! Massive trucks and fire-engines, flags on every corner! Baseball on the telly, tipping your waitress, pedestrian right-of-way, traffic driving on the wrong side, cheerleaders and waffles and Have-A-Nice-Day!
I loved every goddamn second of it, y’all.
And yes, I bought a cowboy hat. What else could I do?
Yeah, you Yanks are laughing at me right now… I’ll remember that next time I see a fat American tourist in London taking a photo of a phone-box.
The day before the PT, I had a crisis of faith. Actually, it was more a crisis of confidence, as my stateside testing revealed that Tinker was in no way the deck for me to play. Sometimes I’d win, and sometimes I’d lose, but all the time I simply had no clue at all as to what to do. If I made a good play, it felt random. If I made a bad play, it felt equally random. Eventually I admitted to myself that I simply didn’t have the gumption to pilot Tinker in a field where everyone’s favorite color was Blue. Thankfully, I had options.
I chatted to a fellow countryman (and Star City Feature Writer) Quentin Martin, the afternoon before the main event. He supplied me with a list created by John Ormerod and Dan Paskins. Guess what color it was…
8 Mountain
4 Rishadan Port
4 Wasteland
4 Wooded Foothills
4 Bloodstained Mire
4 Mogg Fanatic
4 Grim Lavamancer
4 Jackal Pup
4 Goblin Cadets
4 Blistering Firecat
4 Volcanic Hammer
4 Seal of Fire
4 Firebolt
4 Cursed Scroll
4 Stone Rain
4 Mogg Salvage
4 Ensnaring Bridge
3 Savage Firecat
I played Red Deck Wins at this Tour, along with another Englishman called Dave Connell. As far as I’m aware, it was the first time the deck saw significant tournament play. The next week, when Alex Mack won a GP with an identical build, the World christened the deck “the Alex Mack deck.” Even though I didn’t create the deck, that moniker smarted a little. But I digress…
While Houston itself was a little disappointing, the Pro Tour venue was fantastic. Other than Grand Prix tournaments, my Magic play usually took place in grotty pubs and village halls. The function room for the Pro Tour was vast. Tables disappeared into the distance, evoking images of the X-Files endless warehouse. There was a feature-match stage, flashed by coloured lights, circled by viewing gantries, pinned down by video cameras. Huge TVs dotted the hall, showing standings and promotional programs. Side events were available to all at the click of a finger, and the two, three, four traders spilled cards across almost one-quarter of the available space. The entrance to the hall itself housed the fabulous Pro Tour Silverware, encased in glass and etched with the manes of legends.
Okay, so there were no butlers serving drinks or flamingos with canapé-trays… but it was sumptuous enough.
The words of my teammates rang in my ears as I shuffled up for my first match.
“Fear your opponent, Craig! He’s there to cheat you!”
For the entire first round, I watched my opponent like a hawk. Of course, he did nothing wrong… yet he beat me anyway.
Strange, I thought, He didn’t appear to be cheating…. I must pay more attention next time.
The next round was similar. I pored over every movement of my opponent, examining his draws, his mana-tapping, his spell-count. Again I noticed no infractions. This time, however, my deck played itself to a victory.
The third round, which again saw me the picture of vigilance against the Pro Tour cheating scumbag, saw me drop to a 1-2 score-line. And again, I spotted no wrongdoing. In fact, thus far my opponents had been pleasant. Serious, yes, but friendly nonetheless.
Maybe the Pro Tour isn’t so rife with *ssholes after all, I thought. Yet the Devil on my shoulder screamed. Constant Vigilance!
My fourth round opponent was playing Suicide Black. A Black deck equals a black heart, I mused. This is the guy who’ll cheat and rules-lawyer me out of my rightful place.
Look at him, I thought, staring into his open face. He’s already scheming and planning to screw me over. This match is for high stakes, and will be no fun at all.
This match, however, showed me the true face of the Pro Tour. And the face was a friendly one.
Banter flowed as we split the first two games. My opponent knew he was up against it, as Red burn is pretty sweet against Phyrexian Negators The third game panned out the usual way. I’d kill his threats, he’d kill mine. However, this time my opponent found his Cursed Scroll before me.
And I drew land. And land, and land. Each time, I was being knocked for two by a one-mana artifact.
Fetch-land, crack it, shuffle shuffle shuffle. Draw? Land. And land, and land. I had three of my four Wastelands out, absolutely useless against a mana-base of Swamps. I cracked a Fetch-land, and shuffled. My opponent cut my deck, waggling his eyebrows.
“That’s my patent Wasteland cut,” he said. I drew my card.
Shaking my head, I flashed my fresh Wasteland to my grinning opponent. He punched the air in mock triumph.
Eventually, I drew some artifact kill, and then found my own Scroll. After that, it was easy. I took the match 2-1.
The Pro Tour isn’t scary, I thought. It’s fun. Those tales of dread were laughable.
The people at the Tour are like you, and me. Sure, there are some fools to see, but that’s the same at your PTQ, at your Pre-release, at your FNM. Hell, even at your kitchen table.
I began to relax, and play.
Round Five saw me defeat a fellow UK hopeful, Eddie Ross. Though I won game one, I made a mistake, and Eddie taught me how to effectively use my Cursed Scroll in my upkeep. Using my new knowledge, I won game two and the match. Thanks Ed!
I won Round Six too, giving me the opportunity to Intentionally Draw into Day Two.
Sound familiar?
That evening, the UK contingent shared a meal at a local restaurant. I was the only player to make Day Two. Me, at my first Tour. Laughing and joking, swinging with Little Red Men.
Our waiter took a group photo, asking us to “say the Magic Word” for the camera.
“Mountain!” I yelled, and everyone laughed. Even the waiter, though I suspect he didn’t understand why.
Day Two started, and I won my first match. My opponent was Japanese.
My second match that day was against a guy from Poland. Game one was proceeding according to plan. He’d make something, I’d kill it. At one stage, he made a foreign card I didn’t recognize. After lengthy consultation with a Judge, it transpired that the card was Hermit Druid, which still died to a Seal of Fire. Game Two, however, was all about this little fella. Having no idea what my opponent’s game-plan was, made minimal sideboard changes. Thus when my foe’s creatures all gained permanent Protection from Red, I was on the receiving end of a massive Terravore a few turns later.
I turned to my sideboard for game three.
What works against massive 22/22 tramplers? I thought. I think I’ll leave my Ensnaring Bridges out… and bring in my Stone Rains.
That’s right, folks. Not only did I neglect a fantastic answer to the Big Fat Terravore, I actually boarded in cards to make him bigger.
Of course, my opponent stalled on one land and I destroyed it on turn 3. I believe the correct terminology is “mise.”
Two matches, two wins. So far, so good. Next up…
Jeff Cunningham, playing Blue/Green Madness.
Jeff was a name I recognized. Sure, maybe I’d played some fine and famous players before this round, in both this tournament and the Grand Prix that preceded it, but ffeJ was a class apart. Consequently, I don’t think I said a single word to him during our duel. I was shy, and I am English. This combination does not a talker make.
Jeff was a lot smaller than I imagined, I remember that much. The internet makes everyone seven feet tall.
I won our match, thanks to the wonderful tactic of “board in Land Destruction when you know your opponent will be mana-screwed.” Believe me, this tactic works every time.
Three out of three soon became four out of four, as Tinker fell under the iron-heeled jackboot of Little Red Oppression.
Four out of four became five out of five, as I took down the Rock. Alex, my Greek opponent, actually believed me when I told him my deck didn’t contain any Blistering Firecats because “I can’t afford good cards like that.” I still laugh at that one.
Win the next (and penultimate) round, and I could ID into the Top Eight.
In the forums, I’ve received many compliments on this series so far. For that, I thank you. However, a lot is made of my supposed modesty. Some folk are even finding it becoming rather tiresome, begging me to have a little conviction. In the words of the mighty Rizzo: “c’mon, dawg: swagger a little, show some ass!” The next paragraph is for them.
Having achieved a 5-0 record on Day Two, I thought I was going to win the whole thing. I was unbeatable, invincible, unstoppable. I was a wrecking ball, baby, a firebrand, a wild mustang! The luck was with me, and the trophy was mine. I could feel the oversized cheque in my hands, hear the applause, sense the flashbulbs on the back of my eyes.
It was there for the taking.
Pro Tour Houston 2002… champion, Craig Stevenson.
Jeroen Remie, however, had other ideas.
It started well enough. The Rock was a tough matchup, but I’d faced and beaten it twice already. No fear!
While not a feature match, the table was at the edge of the Pro Tour arena. Thus, we attracted quite a crowd. I saw John Larkin, clenching his fist and wishing me fine fortune. And I saw Jeroen’s friend, one certain Mr. Kai Budde, wandering over to watch the match.
Watching me.
Playing Magic.
On the draw, I made a Jackal Pup. Jeroen had a slow start, and his board was empty as I started turn 2.
I untapped, drew. Laid a land, made a guy. I sat back and pondered the game. I needed a plan
The key was to make threats quickly, swarm for damage. Save the burn for any accelerants or blockers, until they overpowered the table. Then, send it to Jeroen’s noggin. All so simple! Sorted.
“Go,” I told Jeroen. He looked at the table.
“Does your Jackal Pup not want to attack me?” he said with a smile.
The pup stared up at me, dismay in his eyes. I’d betrayed him.
“Apparently not,” I said, as Jeroen untapped.
In the background, Kai Budde shook his head and walked away.
The match was over there and then. Over the two games, Jeroen made about seventy Ravenous Baloths, even though he only had one in his deck. I suspect he was cheating, if you can call “using Volrath’s Stronghold” cheating. If it’s not illegal, it should be.
The final match, with $5000 on the line, saw Matt Ranks and his Goblin deck take me down 2-1. I was 1-0 up, with Cursed Scroll advantage, when I made my second Scroll to keep my hand size manageable. Matt had the Rack and Ruin, a card I’d never even heard of, and that was all she wrote.
In the end, I place thirtieth. This made me a few bucks, and qualified me for the next Pro Tour, in Chicago. My score on the two days was 9-4-1, sending my ranking above 2000. Qualification for the next Constructed Pro Tour on the back of this was a possibility.
Did I have a good time in Houston?
On balance, I’d say I did.
…
Overall, it’s safe to say that Magic has been wonderful for me, so far. The stories I’ve shared this week are the high-points, as no-one wants to read bad beat stories each day. There have been low-points of course: my first Limited Pro Tour saw me go 0-5 before I pulled two wins from nowhere. I’ve missed qualification for various tournaments by the skin of my teeth. I’ve lost cards, had cards stolen, spilt soda on cards, had cats piss on cards… I’ve pulled countless One With Nothings too. It’s not all roses.
But that, to me, is the joy. The ups are no good unless there are downs to compare and contrast. Last weekend, for example, saw me sat alone outside a Nottingham PTQ venue, having lost out in my third Top 8, trying my damnedest to qualify for Hawaii. I was shaking, almost crying with frustration, having once more succumbed to the Rock and bloody Ravenous Baloths. Boros Deck doesn’t always win, after all.
Even so, facing defeat on defeat, seeing my rating tumble and once more begin to climb, I’ll be there after Christmas, cracking my Ravnica Sealed, trying to make it to the next Pro Tour.
The Pro Tour is fun. I’ve played at six, and I hope to play many more. But overriding the fun of the Tour is the fun of the game. I’m winding this up now, as it’s already six hours overdue, and Ted has warned me that he can be pissy when pressed… but the real reason I’m wrapping this up is that I’ve people here, wanting to play. Were busting out the Type Four stack, slinging spells, having fun with friends.
Why do I play? Not for the promise of fame – that’s what I write for.
Not for the wealth – Heaven knows the game ain’t lucrative.
I play Magic because it’s the best game in the World.
What other reason do I need?
Until next time…
Thanks for listening.
Craig Stevenson
[email protected]
Scouseboy on MTGO