Guest Columnist: Edward Fear

Ladies and gentlemen, I would not lightly displace my good friend KK, nor needlessly put myself in a position which seems prone to great criticism, but this past weekend in Los Angeles I was on the receiving side of an act of benevolence and good will that requires repeating.

Coming into Grand Prix Los Angeles, my magic career was, as my friends would say, "on the ropes." Despite my ninth place finish in Nice and making day two of all PT's attended since my tragic boating accident, I had managed to accumulate only sixteen PT points. The masturbatory interrelation that is Onslaught Sealed Deck consumed 200 points of my rating and mocked any attempts I thereafter made at qualifying events. A top sixteen finish in L.A would essentially qualify me for the next THREE Pro Tours in essence, while anything else would send me further down the road of retirement. As such, I may have had more on the line in Los Angeles than any of the other 500 participants.

While my sealed deck on Day 1 lacked any real bombs, it was cohesive and consistent enough that I managed a 7-1 record on day one. After day one I went out for a wonderful meal at the Cheesecake Factory with several friends including Alex Shvartsman, with whom I would be drafting at Table one on day two. The first draft went well for me but sitting across from Mr. Shvartsman I noticed the first example of Alex's "Delayed Blast Fireball" effect on a Rochester Draft. Somewhere around pack ten Alex and his neighbors decided to start hating cards from each other, seemingly for
the pure spite of it. To quote Gary Wise:

"Alex's draft was going fine until Hegstad moved into red, but the Russian's frustrations over this led to a series of picks based on emotion rather than logic. Alex at times alienated both of his neighbors and was punished for it..."

In any case, I score 2-1 at that table leaving me 9-2 for the tournament. At this time I began having my first illusions of making top eight. For those of you unacquainted with my plight, I have a half dozen lifetime top twelve finishes at PTs and GPs with zero top eights. Maybe I choke under pressure. Perhaps I have some sub-conscious fear of success. Most likely I am just shit. In any case, I found myself in the familiar position of only needing a reasonable finish to make top eight.

Going into the last draft I realized I likely needed one win to qualify for Chicago, and two might squeak me into the top eight. Alex was again at my table this time seated directly to my right, basically in the position to make me his Siberian bitch if he so desired. We had both drafted Red/Green at the previous table and when he made early indications that he would again pursue that course, I decided to comply and moved into Blue/Black. Everything was going swimmingly until pack eight when it happened again. Maybe someone had fed him after midnight. Perhaps his extra Y chromosome kicked in. But for whatever reason, to the horror of onlookers, Alex stood up from the table, revealed his impressive manhood, and FUCKED ME. RIGHT IN THE ASS. Spectators gasped, judges checked their penalty guidelines but eventually did nothing as Alex continued to FUCK ME. My eyes began to tear up as I could do nothing but endure the agony of this SAVAGE FUCKING that lasted a good twenty minutes.

As I sat down (painfully) to register my deck, I was as despondent as I was angry. Gone were my hopes of a top eight, now replaced with seemingly futile dreams of salvaging a qualification. I told everyone who was within earshot how Alex Shvartsman had forced me into retirement. How I knew a Downs' Syndrome patient who could draft better. How if Alex wasn't connected to the Russian mob I would bury him and his family. During my feature match against Michael Turian I was sullen, mumbling only an occasional "Shvartsman sucks" between plays. In seemingly no time, I was 0-2, and boy did my ass hurt.

Sitting down for my final match I looked up to see the other 0-2 player: Alex Shvartsman. I could see from the look on his face he had heard from several spectators and friends what I had been saying about him. Before I could say a word he did something entirely unexpected: he offered to concede. Explaining how he knew how important this match was to me, he signed off on a loss and handed it to a judge. He asked that in the future if I had some problem with him, I bring it up to him, not talk about it to others. When I feebly said that he had screwed me in the draft, he disagreed, giving examples of how my earlier picks had made my own colors seem indecisive. And while I can not say that I entirely agreed with his arguments about his draft choices, It was clear he at no time had intended to in any way make things difficult for me. I was frankly quite ashamed and humbled. I realized, much to my chagrin, that I was both the pain in my ass, and the prick that caused it.

After playing a quick match in which he easily destroyed me, we anxiously awaited the final standings to see whether or not his act of charity would have its' desired effect. While Wizards has not yet made it official; with the assistance or Scott Larabee we determined that my 22nd place finish should indeed be good enough for the 8th and final qualification slot. Despite my earlier bad mouthing of him, Alex seemed thrilled for me, and we went out to eat and to see the new 007 film with a group of friends. He never asked for one cent of the $250.00 he had essentially given to me. He never once rubbed my nose in what I had done. As the evening went on I found myself more and more attracted to this man; that cleft chin, those soft brown eyes. Zvi's laughter, ordinarily shrill and somewhat frightening, became the sweet music to which I courted him with my eyes the entire evening...

I could go on with the homo-erotica for quite some time, but it's 6AM and I do have a point I wish to make clear. The pro tour is filled with nice guys, outgoing people who make you laugh, make you feel wanted. I have always tried to be a good man, to support my friends financially and emotionally whenever it was my option to do so. But with rare exception, every time one of my "friends" from the Pro Tour has been in the position to do what is right or do what is easy, they have chosen the latter option. As the bard said, "One may smile, and smile, and be a villain." Principles and good will are easily abandoned when tested; egos are easily bruised and no one likes to have their play skills so criticized, especially behind their back. Another player might well have heard my slander, known the weakness of my deck and smashed my face. Alex did what many, likely including myself, would not have had the amity and grace to do, which was to look past pride and prejudice to do the right thing. I hope the next time I am given such an option I react in a similar manner, and I would hope the same for each of you. For his friendship, Alex Shvartsman is my GMOTW!

Discuss this article in the Magic: the Gathering Forums!

Guest Columnist: Edward Fear

Ladies and gentlemen, I would not lightly displace my good friend KK, nor needlessly put myself in a position which seems prone to great criticism, but this past weekend in Los Angeles I was on the receiving side of an act of benevolence and good will that requires repeating.

Coming into Grand Prix Los Angeles, my magic career was, as my friends would say, "on the ropes." Despite my ninth place finish in Nice and making day two of all PT's attended since my tragic boating accident, I had managed to accumulate only sixteen PT points. The masturbatory interrelation that is Onslaught Sealed Deck consumed 200 points of my rating and mocked any attempts I thereafter made at qualifying events. A top sixteen finish in L.A would essentially qualify me for the next THREE Pro Tours in essence, while anything else would send me further down the road of retirement. As such, I may have had more on the line in Los Angeles than any of the other 500 participants.

While my sealed deck on Day 1 lacked any real bombs, it was cohesive and consistent enough that I managed a 7-1 record on day one. After day one I went out for a wonderful meal at the Cheesecake Factory with several friends including Alex Shvartsman, with whom I would be drafting at Table one on day two. The first draft went well for me but sitting across from Mr. Shvartsman I noticed the first example of Alex's "Delayed Blast Fireball" effect on a Rochester Draft. Somewhere around pack ten Alex and his neighbors decided to start hating cards from each other, seemingly for
the pure spite of it. To quote Gary Wise:

"Alex's draft was going fine until Hegstad moved into red, but the Russian's frustrations over this led to a series of picks based on emotion rather than logic. Alex at times alienated both of his neighbors and was punished for it..."

In any case, I score 2-1 at that table leaving me 9-2 for the tournament. At this time I began having my first illusions of making top eight. For those of you unacquainted with my plight, I have a half dozen lifetime top twelve finishes at PTs and GPs with zero top eights. Maybe I choke under pressure. Perhaps I have some sub-conscious fear of success. Most likely I am just shit. In any case, I found myself in the familiar position of only needing a reasonable finish to make top eight.

Going into the last draft I realized I likely needed one win to qualify for Chicago, and two might squeak me into the top eight. Alex was again at my table this time seated directly to my right, basically in the position to make me his Siberian bitch if he so desired. We had both drafted Red/Green at the previous table and when he made early indications that he would again pursue that course, I decided to comply and moved into Blue/Black. Everything was going swimmingly until pack eight when it happened again. Maybe someone had fed him after midnight. Perhaps his extra Y chromosome kicked in. But for whatever reason, to the horror of onlookers, Alex stood up from the table, revealed his impressive manhood, and FUCKED ME. RIGHT IN THE ASS. Spectators gasped, judges checked their penalty guidelines but eventually did nothing as Alex continued to FUCK ME. My eyes began to tear up as I could do nothing but endure the agony of this SAVAGE FUCKING that lasted a good twenty minutes.

As I sat down (painfully) to register my deck, I was as despondent as I was angry. Gone were my hopes of a top eight, now replaced with seemingly futile dreams of salvaging a qualification. I told everyone who was within earshot how Alex Shvartsman had forced me into retirement. How I knew a Downs' Syndrome patient who could draft better. How if Alex wasn't connected to the Russian mob I would bury him and his family. During my feature match against Michael Turian I was sullen, mumbling only an occasional "Shvartsman sucks" between plays. In seemingly no time, I was 0-2, and boy did my ass hurt.

Sitting down for my final match I looked up to see the other 0-2 player: Alex Shvartsman. I could see from the look on his face he had heard from several spectators and friends what I had been saying about him. Before I could say a word he did something entirely unexpected: he offered to concede. Explaining how he knew how important this match was to me, he signed off on a loss and handed it to a judge. He asked that in the future if I had some problem with him, I bring it up to him, not talk about it to others. When I feebly said that he had screwed me in the draft, he disagreed, giving examples of how my earlier picks had made my own colors seem indecisive. And while I can not say that I entirely agreed with his arguments about his draft choices, It was clear he at no time had intended to in any way make things difficult for me. I was frankly quite ashamed and humbled. I realized, much to my chagrin, that I was both the pain in my ass, and the prick that caused it.

After playing a quick match in which he easily destroyed me, we anxiously awaited the final standings to see whether or not his act of charity would have its' desired effect. While Wizards has not yet made it official; with the assistance or Scott Larabee we determined that my 22nd place finish should indeed be good enough for the 8th and final qualification slot. Despite my earlier bad mouthing of him, Alex seemed thrilled for me, and we went out to eat and to see the new 007 film with a group of friends. He never asked for one cent of the $250.00 he had essentially given to me. He never once rubbed my nose in what I had done. As the evening went on I found myself more and more attracted to this man; that cleft chin, those soft brown eyes. Zvi's laughter, ordinarily shrill and somewhat frightening, became the sweet music to which I courted him with my eyes the entire evening...

I could go on with the homo-erotica for quite some time, but it's 6AM and I do have a point I wish to make clear. The pro tour is filled with nice guys, outgoing people who make you laugh, make you feel wanted. I have always tried to be a good man, to support my friends financially and emotionally whenever it was my option to do so. But with rare exception, every time one of my "friends" from the Pro Tour has been in the position to do what is right or do what is easy, they have chosen the latter option. As the bard said, "One may smile, and smile, and be a villain." Principles and good will are easily abandoned when tested; egos are easily bruised and no one likes to have their play skills so criticized, especially behind their back. Another player might well have heard my slander, known the weakness of my deck and smashed my face. Alex did what many, likely including myself, would not have had the amity and grace to do, which was to look past pride and prejudice to do the right thing. I hope the next time I am given such an option I react in a similar manner, and I would hope the same for each of you. For his friendship, Alex Shvartsman is my GMOTW!

Discuss this article in the Magic: the Gathering Forums!