Beyond the Norm: A Weekend of Pandemic Magic

Before the pandemic, Al knew that he should never expect to see his girlfriend, Brit, on the weekends. She referred to herself as a “grinder,” and spent the weekend traveling the region to compete in Magic: the Gathering tournaments. Al played casually, but didn’t feel as passionately about the game as Brit did. He would support her where he could, traveling to Grand Prix and Pro Tours in other cities, but for the most part, he took advantage of the alone time to engage in his favorite hobby: birdwatching. He shivered at the thought; nothing got him going like the idea of spotting a California Condor.

As responsible, rational adults with empathy, Al and Brit quarantined themselves and minimized their excursions outdoors, wearing masks when they did. Social isolation was hard on both of them, but it was particularly difficult for Brit. While Al could still birdwatch in the wilderness, Brit couldn’t attend her weekend-long tournaments in small, packed rooms that were biohazards before COVID-19.

On Friday night, Al had an idea.

“Brit, you have a tournament tomorrow, right?” he asked.

Brit rolled her eyes.

“If you can call anything I do these days a tournament,” she replied. “If I can’t smell my opponent’s lack of deodorant, is it really a Magic tournament?”

Al blinked.

“Um,” he replied. “Well, I was thinking that this weekend, I would do whatever it takes to help you feel like you were really in a tournament! I’ve cancelled my birdwatching for tomorrow—”

“Storm Crow,” Brit muttered under her breath, chuckling.

“—and cleared the day, so I’m available to give you an authentic tournament experience,” he finished.

Brit lit up.

“That is so sweet!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! I’ve really missed it, and I think this will help make the Historic Open tomorrow more fun.”

Al smiled and closed his eyes to sleep, pleased at the prospect of a fun day with his girlfriend.

*

“WAKE UP!!!” a voice screamed into his ear.

Al tried to leap to his feet, but, being in bed, he was caught in multiple layers of covers and crashed to the ground.

“Brit, what’s wrong?!” he asked groggily.

Even with the shades up and curtains open, it was pitch black outside.

“The tournament hall opens at 8am!” she cried. “And I’m still missing a bunch of cards for my deck!”

“The tournament is online!” Al protested.

Al didn’t need to see in the darkness to feel Brit’s glare on him.

“Oh…” he said slowly. “This is… part of the experience?”

“I’ll need your help,” Brit said sternly. “There are a lot of vendors, and I don’t have time to hit them myself. I need to finish my decklist and figure out my last twelve sideboard spots.”

Maybe it was just that he was still half-asleep, but everything was so confusing.

“Twelve?” he asked.

“Three Mystical Disputes are just a given,” she scoffed. “Unless… you think I should be running them in the main?!”

Al struggled out of the covers and stumbled out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into their living room. He flipped on the light switch, raising a hand to cover his eyes.

Before him sat twenty white, unlabeled cardboard boxes.

“The vendors,” he groaned in horror.

“My decklist is on the dining room table!” Brit called down. “Next to the cards that I do have for my deck.”

Al picked up her decklist, scanned it, and sighed; his girlfriend wasn’t winning any handwriting awards. The question marks, strikethroughs, and incomplete card names only worsened what was already difficult to parse.

An hour later, Brit entered the living room.

“How’s it going?” she asked, frantically booting up the computer.

“What took so long?” Al asked grumpily.

“Well, I thought I’d finished my sideboard, but then I realized that Goblins just isn’t right for Day 1,” Brit replied, giving Al a glimpse of her bloodshot, crazed eyes. “So I’m switching decks.”

Al looked down at the piles of red cards before him.

“So does that mean you don’t need me to find…” Al squinted at the list again. “‘Snoopy?’ And ‘Goblin Mom?’”

Brit chortled.

“Those are nicknames,” she replied. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Al replied through gritted teeth.

“Instead, grab the Temur Reclamation deck that you were playing in Standard,” Brit requested.

“I thought the tournament was Historic?”

Brit shrugged.

“Every format is Standard now, just with different lands.”

It was tedious, but they worked together to cannibalize Al’s Temur Reclamation deck and transition it to the Historic variant.

“I miss sleeving cards,” Al said wistfully. “Just handling them.”

Brit snorted.

“Paper boomer,” she said, punching him on the shoulder and smiling.

Her face abruptly shifted to panic again.

“Oh!” she cried. “I forgot! There are some things I need you to say throughout the day that I’ve written down in this notebook. The table of contents in the front will tell you which page you should turn to at what time.”

She handed him a notebook, sat down in the chair in front of her gaming laptop, and then looked at Al.

“What?” Al asked.

Brit cleared her throat and nodded toward the notebook, which Al opened and turned to Page One.

“Uh… Welcome to Day One of the Historic Open. You should have a decklist in front of you, please make sure it is filled out with at least sixty cards. You may also have a fifteen card sideboard, though today is Best of One. At the end of today, all players who achieved seven wins and no more than two losses will proceed to Day Two of competition. If you need a judge, show me what you should do… pause here…?”

“JUDGE!” Brit screamed, shooting her hand into the air, startling Al, who stumbled backward into a cabinet.

“Those of you who kept your hand up…” he glanced up at Brit’s aggressive hand still thrust into the air, accompanied by a proud smirk. “…did it right. I will be around to collect decklists. You have fifty minutes, you may begin.”

Immediately, Brit entered the event, and once she was connected with an opponent, Al turned to Page 2. Following the instructions written out, he walked over to the table and sat down across from Brit.

“Hi there,” he said, extending his hand.

Brit shook it.

“High roll?” Al read off the page.

“Can we do even odd?” Brit asked.

“But the odds of even and odd if we roll two dice aren’t the same,” Al continued, before looking up at Brit in confusion. “Yes they are!” he protested.

“They are, but most Magic players don’t know that,” she whispered. “Alright,” she said more loudly. “We’ll just roll one.”

Al turned to Page Three.

“Did your boyfriend teach you to play Ma—”

Al’s eyebrows shot up.

“I am not reading these,” he said in disgust.

Brit rolled her eyes.

“Are tournaments really this bad?” Al asked.

Brit snorted again.

“I gave you the tame lines, babe,” she replied. “And they’ve gotten a lot better, but there’s still a lot of work to be done. At least online—”

Brit’s brow furrowed.

Al moved to her side and looked at the screen.

Your Go.

Your Go.

Your Go.

Oops.

Good Game.

Good Game.

“I mean… at least it’s not sexist?” Al said hopefully.

“I guess,” Brit replied dryly.

“Oh!” Al exclaimed. “Did you want me to grab you any breakfast? I was gonna make some eggs, I can throw on—”

“Nah, just get me a bag of Cheetos,” Brit answered, focused on the screen.

“Cheetos?”

“Orange. Cheesy. They come in a bag. Leading cause of death among Magic players. You know, Cheetos,” she spelled out. “And feel free to stop by Starbucks to get me a coffee, but be sure to take around twenty minutes because there should be a line of other Magic players out the door. You’ll recognize them by their backpacks and excessive use of the term ‘EV.’”

Al sighed and walked to the kitchen, which Brit appeared to have stocked for the event. Throughout the day, in addition to Cheetos, he brought her a hot dog that she paid him $15 for, filled up her water bottle for $6, and a cold slice of pizza that was in fact simply a thick coating of cheese on old bread for $8.

“Didn’t have to wait for the bathroom at all,” she smirked as Al handed her the “pizza.”

He looked down at the notebook she’d given him. In addition to required phrases at certain times of the day, there were also responses given certain prompts; this was one of them. He turned to Page Thirteen and cleared his throat.

“Wow, you are so lucky,” he said, trying to put some emotion into his voice. “I had to wait ten minutes for the bathroom, I almost missed my last round.”

“That’s what you get for playing control,” she replied distastefully.

Al glanced at the screen.

“Is… is there a reason you’re not playing?” he asked, lowering his voice again. He felt like he had to whisper whenever he said something unscripted.

Brit raised an eyebrow.

“The round only ended six minutes ago,” she pointed out. “It’ll be another fifteen before the next round gets paired.”

Fifteen minutes later, Al used some tape to stick a blank piece of paper to the wall. Brit moved toward him and waited expectantly.

“I am not going to ‘elbow you aggressively,’ ‘step on you,’ or ‘get way, way too close,’” he read off her notes.

Brit clapped Al’s shoulder.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “Can you help me move the computer to the couch?”

“Sure,” Al replied. “But why? I thought you liked playing at the table.”

“I do,” Brit answered. “But there’s a Commander event that’s taking over the space.”

She leaned closer and whispered.

“Don’t forget you have a task next round. I’m reminding you because you forgot to do Page Eight.”

Al glanced at Page Eight: Regale Brit with tales of how you lost the last round because you drew too many lands but also too few lands and your opponent was so bad, but variance.

After Brit got settled, Al turned to Page Nine and sighed. He stood on top of the table and, unwilling to “scream at the top of his lungs,” simply raised his voice.

“Pairings for the 2pm Modern PTQ have now been posted,” he read. “Please go to the black gathering point to find your pairings. Again, pairings for the 2pm Modern PTQ have been posted at the black gathering point.”

“Ugh, so annoying,” Brit laughed to the computer in front of her.

She then laughed again, louder.

“So true,” she added in agreement with her imaginary opponent.

Once Brit finished up the round, Al approached her as specified on Page Ten.

“Hey there,” he said. “Got any trades?”

“Nah,” Brit answered. “But I’m down for some games. What formats do you have on you?”

And so went Day 1 of the Historic Open or, as Brit called it, “Glorified Dice Rolling.” After finishing 7-1 and qualifying for Day 2, Brit argued with Al as he read the script over whether to play Day 2.

“Honestly, the prize payout in the PTQs is just so much better,” she said, exasperated. “Unless I Top 8 the whole thing.”

In the end, Brit decided that she would compete in the second day of the event, which meant more Cheetos, exchanges of money for things they already had in their cupboards, and Al trying his best to infuse with excitement lines like:

“Wow, I’m glad that at least one of you Day Two’ed—come on, Brit, I told you to stop sneaking these in!”

“Meet at the red gathering point.”

“In the Command Zone at the black tables, you’ll find a Brawl pod where Gavin Verhey is available to play! That’s right, folks, we’re still trying to make Brawl happen!”

By the end of the day, Brit was 6-1, going into her last round. Al turned the notebook to Page Thirty-Seven.

“Remember, as we enter the final round, that you must determine the outcome of this round with a match of Magic. You may not roll dice, flip a coin, or engage in a thumb war to determine the outcome of the match. You have fifty minutes, you may begin.”

Al watched in confusion as Brit stood and brought the computer downstairs into their basement, sitting down on the cement floor.

“Uh, Brit? Whatcha doing?”

“Playing my Top 8 match,” she replied cheerfully. “They had to pack up all the chairs and tablecloths, and there’s no coverage, so here I am!”

Al watched excitedly as Brit outplayed an opponent in the Temur Reclamation mirror to take the match in two games.

“Brit, you did it!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations!”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Twitter says it doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts! You worked hard for this; don’t let anyone else belittle your accomplishments,” Al argued.

Brit smiled and gave him a hug.

“Thanks, Al,” she said. “And thanks for helping out this weekend! It cannot have been easy dealing with all my judge calls.”

With Brit unable to see his face, Al grimaced.

“Well,” he said. “At least now that you just won two thousand dollars, we can celebrate!”

Brit immediately pulled away from him.

“Whoa,” she said. “You’re kidding right? After airfare, hotel, transportation, food, and cards, you think I made money playing Magic?”

Brit burst out laughing as she walked away.

“Uh…” Al followed her uncertainty. “You’re kidding though, right, Brit? Right?”

Ryan Normandin is a grinder from Boston who has lost at the Pro Tour, in GP & SCG Top 8's, and to 7-year-olds at FNM. Despite being described as "not funny" by his best friend and "the worst Magic player ever" by Twitch chat, he cheerfully decided to blend his lack of talents together to write funny articles about Magic.