Yesterday, I spoke of my first Magic match. While it wasn’t at a tournament, and thus it never counted as a true competitive contest, it was my first series of games against a tournament-savvy opponent.
Matt Harper, of Team Leeds, playing Nether-Go.
Today, I talk of my first actual tournament experience. A Regionals tournament in Manchester, feeding the 2001 English National Championship.
…
A number of our team were already qualified for Nationals.
In a way, this was a blessing. For a start, it meant that I was able to borrow any necessary cards for any deck I chose, even if that seemed rather alien to me. Borrowing cards? What’s wrong with buying them?
My collection, though brimming with Invasion Block goodness, was a little lacking in the Base-Set Sixth Edition, and Masques Block was also a little thin on the ground. And Team Leeds, through collaboration with the Scottish Team Puppet, had an uber-strong and teched-out decklist for us to use.
It was Black/Red aggro, circa Sixth-Edition Masques/Invasion Standard. For the record, here is the list:
The Power of Four
4 Flametongue Kavu
4 Phyrexian Scuta
4 Plague Spitter
4 Skizzik
4 Shivan Zombie
4 Dark Ritual
4 Duress
4 Terminate
4 Urza’s Rage
4 Rishadan Port
4 Sulfurous Springs
4 Urborg Volcano
6 Mountain
6 Swamp
At least, that was what I think it contained. Chilling Apparitions were around too and so were Chimeric Idols. There was also a sideboard, fifteen cards of matchup-swinging necessity.
I assembled the deck as best I could, and borrowed cardboard for the remainder. On the day in question, I climbed into a friend’s car… and we were off!
There were three of us attempting to qualify that day. Sadly, I can’t remember names, but they were all stalwarts of Team Leeds. The venue was an hour’s drive away, in somewhere called “The Wendover.” It sounded palatial. I imagined a Country Club, housed on acres of lush fertile greens, grouse shooting at noon, swans and foxes dancing the tango while moustachioed men quaffed brandy by the snifter, reclining in gargantuan leather-upholstered chairs and reading financial broadsheets.
I hadn’t even seen the place, and I felt underdressed.
Luckily, my companions all bore the same black t-shirt and jeans ensemble piece, so I concluded that my imagined Wendover may be a little ostentatious.
How right I was.
The Wendover is a pub in the suburbs of Manchester. The brickwork outside is dulled and dirty, and the windows seem clouded with age. Patchy grass surrounds two sides of the building, hemmed from the pavement by a three-foot iron fence. A spartan car-park butts onto the remaining sides, grey concrete lined with scuffed white flashes.
The houses that surround the pub are identical. The shops that adjoin it are functional. An off-licence, a newsagents, a bookies.
We parked up, and climbed out of the car. It was drizzling.
As we approached the pub, we heard a barking growl. The Wendover had a split-level roof. The lower portion was fenced in to provide, for want of a better word, a “garden.” This chain-linked gulag housed the ugliest dog I have ever seen, more pig or shaved bear than canine.
We stood watching in silence as the pig-dog howled, clattering the fence, swinging swathes of feculent saliva from its undulating, pendulous jowls.
This was hardly the grandiose venue I had envisaged. I half expected a door to open on the level above, spewing out a thick-set, stubbled man, skin the color of an aubergine, sucking on a yellowing hand-rolled cigarette and cradling a chipped mug of beef tea.
The spattering rain pocked our darkening denim. We trooped into the pub, via the back door. Only the best for the Magic boys…
We trudged past dismantled bikes, haphazard ladders, climbing the stairs while the carpet sucked our shoes like a greedy infant. Smoke hung on the air, as did the briny tang of stale beer and the dagger-jab of urine. It was a normal pub, early Sunday morning. The Saturday must’ve been exceptional.
To tell the truth, I was unimpressed. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. We’d ambled past a few fat guys with backpacks, obvious Magic players, and they’d blanked us. The pub itself seemed dank, listless. My deck nestled in my pocket, begging to be taken home and shelved.
Then we entered our allocated room… and my outlook changed.
The décor hadn’t altered. The carpet still stuck, and the furniture was scuffed… but the room was alive.
Tables ran the length, around which players lounged and laughed. Lands were laid, spells were cast, trades were made… and fun was had. Wherever I looked, guys were poring over decklists, attacking with creatures, telling jokes, rolling die, reading books… everything. Each one here, on a miserable Sunday morning, to pit wits against wits, spell against spell, hoping to qualify for a place at the hallowed English National Championship.
But that wasn’t all…
At the far end of the room, two guys in black-and-white stripy shirts stood, eyes glues to a laptop screen, obviously important, certainly in charge. And along one wall, with boxes spanning multiple tables, each two or three deep, stood the Trader. You wanted a card, any card at all? If you had the cash, you could buy it.
The Wendover was full of Magic… of magic. These like-minded people, coming together under one roof, to share in a hobby, a pastime, a simple game with cardboard monsters. And it was happening in other cities too, in other countries, similar rooms filled with similar faces, each one sharing a common bond.
Magic: the Gathering…
Magic: the Gathering.
Suddenly, I felt at home.
…
The tournament itself was largely irrelevant. We played it out, but I never qualified. I wish I could say I did, as it’d make for a big brassy finish, but sadly it just wasn’t to be.
I did post a 3-3 record over my six rounds of play, mind. For my first tournament, I suppose I shouldn’t grumble… though I suspect it had more to do with my deck than my play-skill.
My first sanctioned match was against someone called Richard Cookson. I won. I have no recollection of Richard, or the deck he was playing. Up until I checked on the DCI ranking supercomputer, I thought my first ever opponent was Udo Kaiser.
I played Udo in the second round of this tournament. He crushed me with Land Destruction spells. At the time, the only thing I could think of was: “Bloody hell! I’m playing a German! A real live German!”
Magic is cosmopolitan indeed.
…
Since this first tournament, I’ve been to several more. Some were huge, and some were tiny… though all retained that same sense of wonder and camaraderie.
Many of the PTQs I attend are held at the Wendover pub, and I’d be churlish to deny that I enjoy this venue immensely. For starters, the events are always well-run. The pub itself, away from the function-room setting, is warm and friendly, and the prices are competitive… and they do one hell of an All Day Breakfast.
And finally, it really isn’t as grim as I made out: a lot of that was for dramatic effect. Though the carpet really does suckle your toes, and the Pig-Dog still howls from the rooftops.
Next time I’m there, I should take him a biscuit.
Thanks for listening.
Craig Stevenson
[email protected]
Scouseboy on MTGO
P.S. Tomorrow, the tale of my First Grand Prix. Or rather my second, as it’s a much better story.