In the same vein as many others, the New Year and surrounding holiday season is often a perfect time for me to reflect. As a result, this article will not
be strategic, but rather personal.
A few weeks ago, I knew walking into a final exam that it would be the determinant of passing the course. Having barely studied, when I turned in the paper
and left the building it was still unclear to me as to whether I succeeded or not. I didn’t mind. This had nothing to do with the course’s relevance to my
college career or being at peace with myself, I just didn’t care. Looking back, this is perhaps the first time since my early teenage life that I can
remember having nigh-complete control over something and not putting any weight in the result. It wasn’t me.
Last January I had just come off of a top 16 in the first Pro Tour of the season in Dublin. My goals were simple: continue to prove that I belonged on the
PT. Following a disastrous display of discipline in Valencia, I rededicated myself to the game and had a series of finishes before playing in Pro Tour
Journey Into Nyx. The nature of the system dictates that every Pro Tour is absolutely crucial. For someone not already Gold or Platinum, it is possible to
go from having a solid season in the mid 20-point range to no longer being qualified at all, and that was what I faced. Not only was Atlanta essentially a
high stakes PTQ, but it was a local tournament, amplifying the pressure with my friends close by.
If signing the match slip at the end of round 16 with shaking hands was elation, then finding out an hour later that I had gotten exactly 16th in my
sextuple PTQ surrounded by people I care about is the most unadulterated moment of sheer bliss in my life.
The nature of hunger, however, is that it can only be sated temporarily. Having achieved my goals, I turned towards the next prize: Platinum. For the next
two months I dedicated myself wholly to playing in Grand Prix and testing for the last Pro Tour with ample opportunity costs. On the flight back from
Portland, I was a hung over wreck that just wanted to cry, a stark juxtaposition from the person who came home from Dublin seven months prior with tears of
joy. I had failed.
I think I was pretty good at hiding my disappointment, even to myself. So good at it, in fact, that eventually it faded slowly but surely into something
worse: apathy. Apathy that festered and encroached itself into every aspect of my life, affecting my relationships, education, finances, and physical
health.
I was afraid. I was approaching a crossroads in my life. School is coming to a close and the stability of my future is unclear. Sometimes I would lay in
bed late into the afternoon instead of going to class, or get dressed before my roommates got home from work just to create the illusion I did anything
productive that day at all. It wasn’t me.
Magic is my passion, but maybe I felt entitled. That perhaps unless I reached all of my goals it wasn’t worth it to invest so much time, effort, and money.
If I cared, it would only serve to be a weakness, and once again I would be open to disappointment, that I would continue to feel a certain way. Of course,
however, I kept playing. It probably comes as no surprise that I was wrong. My heart hasn’t been in many of my games since Portland, and there was
undoubtedly a connection between losses on my record and my level of engagement in a tournament. I was no longer thoughtful or introspective, seeking to
improve.
My only real highlight of the season thus far was Grand Prix Nashville where I teamed with BBD and CVM. I wasn’t just playing for myself anymore, or simply
going through the motions. I didn’t want to disappoint them and felt like I genuinely brought my A game, that I was working for something larger than
myself. I had fun again.
In the past I have often delegated a large degree of my self-worth to my results in tournaments. A series of strong results would put me on cloud nine, but
the inevitable cold streak would be crippling. I foolishly thought I had overcome this by separating my emotions from my game, but in reality it only made
every single aspect of my life worse. As with everything, moderation is key.
I quite like Gerry Thompson’s metaphor of a Magic career being one long session. Every tournament should be an effort to get your chips in the middle when
you’re ahead, then win or lose, try to figure out what went wrong and keep playing. There will continue to be tables, and with proper management and
attitude, the results will come. By merely focusing on a finish line, I’ve often robbed myself of enjoying many of the highlights along my journey.
The fact of the matter is that there is no golden ticket. No tricks or shortcuts. Magic is not a game that favors, and no one deserves anything. If you
want to succeed, not only do you need to work hard, but you have to network. Leveraging other’s abilities and insights will allow you to work smarter.
Despite the fact that Magic is largely an individual endeavor, the people we meet and the shared victories and defeats are what really matter in the end.
Be introspective, be realistic. What is working and what isn’t? Not only in the sense of cards, decks, and matchups, but processes, people, and patterns.
Take responsibility for your mistakes, humbly relish in victory, and be supportive of your friends.
It’s time to wake up. The New Year’s cliche can certainly make for powerful stories, but in reality any moment is the right time to seek to be better. I’ve
been using Magic as an excuse to run away from the fact that I’m not happy in my current state. It’s not fair to the game, which has given me endless
opportunity.
So for this year, I have no tangible goals for Magic. Instead, I plan on trying to fill the holes that exist in my day to day life, and play every
tournament present, in the moment, to the best of my ability without concern for the other five days of the week. It is my hope that I find the wisdom to
connect my voice to my actions, and as a result of this piece, create accountability.
I love the game. That’s who I am.