Magic: The Reminiscing
I said I’d write this down someday, so I did. This is one of those posts that’s probably of interest only to me, and consists of random recollections. If you’d rather skip it, I don’t blame you one bit.
Flashback to spring of 1994: captain_squid spent a weekend with his friends down in Lancaster, where they introduced him to a new card game. When Squid returned to State College, he told his roommate -- that’d be me -- about it. I admitted that it sounded pretty cool, but it also sounded like a huge scam to get people to blow money on boosters, and more boosters, and more boosters. Squid certainly didn’t deny that, but thought the coolness outweighed the scam qualities. I took the opposite view, since Squid had a steady job, and I didn’t. As a result, neither of us ended up playing in college (which was a darned good thing, since I had to finish my thesis that semester). I saw them at the comic shop, but between my disdain for the scam, and my general lack of funds, I was never tempted.
Jump forward a few months, to October 1994. I was back in Philly at this point, with my first “real” job. I was also spending my after-work hours hanging out at Penn, with a bunch of friends who were still taking classes there. So on the gorgeous sunny afternoon in question, I was sitting outside on Locust Walk with shiny_bauble, evilhat, floyd, and stendhal9. It’s possible that my_tallest or malabranca were there too, but I don’t think so.
Somebody mentioned that a hand of Magic would be a fun thing to do, and everyone else quickly agreed. I agreed in theory, but pointed out that I’d have to borrow someone’s deck, as I’d never played. Borrowing someone’s deck was a faux pas, I was immediately informed, and I’d need to buy my own, immediately, no questions asked. Although I tried to protest, it was pointed out to me that as a gainfully employed type, I really had no excuse not to drop twelve bucks (or whatever it was) on a starter deck and a couple of boosters. I argued, but as they dragged me down to Showcase Comics on South Street, it became obvious that my choices were “pay up” or “go home,” and well, it really didn’t seem like much money, under those circumstances.
So I bought my starter and boosters, and we played that evening. I really enjoyed the cards, the strategy, the artwork…basically, the whole experience. In retrospect, I did amazingly well, considering that I was essentially playing a sealed-deck match, while my opponents had completely tuned decks -- or what passed for a tuned deck in 1994. I don’t know if I had a particularly lucky selection of cards…I recall a Night Mare, and a Living Wall, being part of that initial deck…but I was certainly intrigued enough to want to play again.
Shiny and I then recruited our other high school friends into the game -- hells_satans, and Rob and Mike, who don’t have LJs, so they’ll just have to rely on common first names for anonymity. It’s important to understand that we’d been friends, and playing games together, since the age of 14, because that colors how we played. Our objective, in a game like Monopoly, say, wasn’t just to win -- it was to drive the other guy out in as humiliating a manner as you possibly could. We’re talking about guys who could make a game of Hearts into a trash-talking extravaganza. (Let’s not even talk about our D&D sessions.) A game that let us attack each other directly, undercutting our opponent’s defenses before swooping in with a devastating finishing move? Nothing could be better. We all got pretty thoroughly addicted, leading to the infamous New Year’s Eve party at Shiny’s in 1994. See, Shiny had an apartment at the time, but he didn’t have any actual furniture in it. That didn’t really bother us, because the plan was to watch college bowl games, and then play Magic until dawn or until we passed out on the floor, whichever came first. A fine plan for 22-year-old guys, but nobody told Rob, who brought his wife-to-be. The less said about that, the better.
So as I mentioned, I had a real job, and low expenses. Add to that the competitiveness of my friends, and I was primed to go overboard. The rest was an accident of geography. I was taking the train to work every day, which meant that I was passing through Market East Station downtown, which is a nice enough station, and conveniently attached to an urban mall called the Gallery. Even more convenient, the Software Etc. and Waldenbooks were right across from each other, right near the entrance to the train station. If I left work sharply at 5:00 and hustled, I could catch the early train home. I usually didn’t, though, which meant I had to kill about 20 minutes or so in either the bookstore or the game store. I know, your heart bleeds for me.
I was in Software Etc. often enough to become acquainted with the staff there, and they always had a box of booster packs by the cash register. I bought the occasional pack from them, but usually no more than two. I didn’t have a reason for buying just two packs at a time, just force of habit. One day, after I scooped two packs out of the box, the guy at the counter pointed out that there were only two packs left, and if I’d just take those off of their hands, the box would be empty, and they could open a new one, which would please the assistant manager, who collected the empty boxes. Kind of odd, I know, but I’d met the assistant manager, and I could believe it. So I snagged the last two boosters; everybody’s happy.
Except that when I went in after that, there always seemed to be three, or four, or five boosters left in a nearly empty box. I don’t think they were playing me deliberately, and I’m sure it didn’t happen every day, but I do remember the day when I bought seven boosters at once, and realized that I’d probably have to upgrade to a larger box to keep my deck in -- I was at around 700 cards at that point. “This,” I thought, “isn’t right. I need to stop.”
As it happened, it was February 1995 by that point, and Lent was right around the corner. I’ve never been big on abstaining from something for Lent, but I figured it was as good an excuse as any, and the folks at the Software Etc. probably wouldn’t argue with “sorry, gave ‘em up for Lent” -- and they didn’t. Six weeks later, I went into the store, flamboyantly plunged my hand into the box, took it out empty, and pronounced myself “cured.” The staff gave a heavy collective sigh, but some of them said they were envious of my accomplishment.
And I never bought any more cards after that. I still played, but only for a little while longer. That part ended when Evilhat called me up one evening, said she had a new deck to try out, and couldn’t find anyone else to play with. So, against my better judgment, I took the train downtown at around 9:00 on a work night, where Evilhat decisively trounced me four times in a row with a Millstone/Wheel of Fortune deck. That was the point where I realized that if I wasn’t buying anymore, I wouldn’t be able to play competitively for much longer. Fortunately, I started spending a lot of time with Elora, who was never interested in the game in the first place, so that was that.
There is a coda, though. When I was living in California, I noticed a friend of mine at work had an oversized Shivan Dragon card taped to her office door -- one of the non-playable cards that came in the Microprose PC game. I try not to out myself as a geek at work, but here was a person who was flaunting the fact that she played -- and a woman, no less. Since we were already friends, I eventually asked her about it, and she said her boyfriend had introduced her to the game. They played with a group of friends, in a strangely adult fashion -- get together, have a nice dinner, casual conversation, and then a pleasant game of Magic. Did I want to come next time? I figured it couldn’t hurt. I put together a small subset of my deck (no need to scare anybody), and went along. I needn’t have worried about bringing too many cards -- the hosts were resellers, and had an entire closet full of shrink-wrapped boxes. In fact, if someone came who’d never played before, they provided a starter and boosters for free. (Which is exactly how drug dealers do it, or so I’m told.) The meal and conversation were very pleasant, and the game…was bizarre. There was no venom, no ruthless crushing of one’s foe, and certainly no lamentation of the women. It seemed to be all about showing off your all-centaur theme deck, and throwing the flashiest counterspells. With my direct-damage approach, I felt like a pit bull at a poodle show (and I was playing a green/white deck, my preferred technique, not red/black or anything extra-nasty). Worst of all, I didn’t recognize a single card played by anybody else all night, except for the lands, and even some of them were new to me. I didn’t go back.
I still have my deck -- I tried to sell it online in 1997, but eBay didn’t exist then, so I didn’t get any takers. Elora still doesn’t play, so I haven’t had the deck out in years. I do get the urge, every now and again, to challenge Shiny to a duel, but I don’t think he even knows where his deck is. But if you find yourself in my neck of the woods, and you’re feeling nostalgic, bring your deck, and I’ll happily play you, while muttering things like, “What does this Serra Angel do again? I can’t remember.”
Flashback to spring of 1994: captain_squid spent a weekend with his friends down in Lancaster, where they introduced him to a new card game. When Squid returned to State College, he told his roommate -- that’d be me -- about it. I admitted that it sounded pretty cool, but it also sounded like a huge scam to get people to blow money on boosters, and more boosters, and more boosters. Squid certainly didn’t deny that, but thought the coolness outweighed the scam qualities. I took the opposite view, since Squid had a steady job, and I didn’t. As a result, neither of us ended up playing in college (which was a darned good thing, since I had to finish my thesis that semester). I saw them at the comic shop, but between my disdain for the scam, and my general lack of funds, I was never tempted.
Jump forward a few months, to October 1994. I was back in Philly at this point, with my first “real” job. I was also spending my after-work hours hanging out at Penn, with a bunch of friends who were still taking classes there. So on the gorgeous sunny afternoon in question, I was sitting outside on Locust Walk with shiny_bauble, evilhat, floyd, and stendhal9. It’s possible that my_tallest or malabranca were there too, but I don’t think so.
Somebody mentioned that a hand of Magic would be a fun thing to do, and everyone else quickly agreed. I agreed in theory, but pointed out that I’d have to borrow someone’s deck, as I’d never played. Borrowing someone’s deck was a faux pas, I was immediately informed, and I’d need to buy my own, immediately, no questions asked. Although I tried to protest, it was pointed out to me that as a gainfully employed type, I really had no excuse not to drop twelve bucks (or whatever it was) on a starter deck and a couple of boosters. I argued, but as they dragged me down to Showcase Comics on South Street, it became obvious that my choices were “pay up” or “go home,” and well, it really didn’t seem like much money, under those circumstances.
So I bought my starter and boosters, and we played that evening. I really enjoyed the cards, the strategy, the artwork…basically, the whole experience. In retrospect, I did amazingly well, considering that I was essentially playing a sealed-deck match, while my opponents had completely tuned decks -- or what passed for a tuned deck in 1994. I don’t know if I had a particularly lucky selection of cards…I recall a Night Mare, and a Living Wall, being part of that initial deck…but I was certainly intrigued enough to want to play again.
Shiny and I then recruited our other high school friends into the game -- hells_satans, and Rob and Mike, who don’t have LJs, so they’ll just have to rely on common first names for anonymity. It’s important to understand that we’d been friends, and playing games together, since the age of 14, because that colors how we played. Our objective, in a game like Monopoly, say, wasn’t just to win -- it was to drive the other guy out in as humiliating a manner as you possibly could. We’re talking about guys who could make a game of Hearts into a trash-talking extravaganza. (Let’s not even talk about our D&D sessions.) A game that let us attack each other directly, undercutting our opponent’s defenses before swooping in with a devastating finishing move? Nothing could be better. We all got pretty thoroughly addicted, leading to the infamous New Year’s Eve party at Shiny’s in 1994. See, Shiny had an apartment at the time, but he didn’t have any actual furniture in it. That didn’t really bother us, because the plan was to watch college bowl games, and then play Magic until dawn or until we passed out on the floor, whichever came first. A fine plan for 22-year-old guys, but nobody told Rob, who brought his wife-to-be. The less said about that, the better.
So as I mentioned, I had a real job, and low expenses. Add to that the competitiveness of my friends, and I was primed to go overboard. The rest was an accident of geography. I was taking the train to work every day, which meant that I was passing through Market East Station downtown, which is a nice enough station, and conveniently attached to an urban mall called the Gallery. Even more convenient, the Software Etc. and Waldenbooks were right across from each other, right near the entrance to the train station. If I left work sharply at 5:00 and hustled, I could catch the early train home. I usually didn’t, though, which meant I had to kill about 20 minutes or so in either the bookstore or the game store. I know, your heart bleeds for me.
I was in Software Etc. often enough to become acquainted with the staff there, and they always had a box of booster packs by the cash register. I bought the occasional pack from them, but usually no more than two. I didn’t have a reason for buying just two packs at a time, just force of habit. One day, after I scooped two packs out of the box, the guy at the counter pointed out that there were only two packs left, and if I’d just take those off of their hands, the box would be empty, and they could open a new one, which would please the assistant manager, who collected the empty boxes. Kind of odd, I know, but I’d met the assistant manager, and I could believe it. So I snagged the last two boosters; everybody’s happy.
Except that when I went in after that, there always seemed to be three, or four, or five boosters left in a nearly empty box. I don’t think they were playing me deliberately, and I’m sure it didn’t happen every day, but I do remember the day when I bought seven boosters at once, and realized that I’d probably have to upgrade to a larger box to keep my deck in -- I was at around 700 cards at that point. “This,” I thought, “isn’t right. I need to stop.”
As it happened, it was February 1995 by that point, and Lent was right around the corner. I’ve never been big on abstaining from something for Lent, but I figured it was as good an excuse as any, and the folks at the Software Etc. probably wouldn’t argue with “sorry, gave ‘em up for Lent” -- and they didn’t. Six weeks later, I went into the store, flamboyantly plunged my hand into the box, took it out empty, and pronounced myself “cured.” The staff gave a heavy collective sigh, but some of them said they were envious of my accomplishment.
And I never bought any more cards after that. I still played, but only for a little while longer. That part ended when Evilhat called me up one evening, said she had a new deck to try out, and couldn’t find anyone else to play with. So, against my better judgment, I took the train downtown at around 9:00 on a work night, where Evilhat decisively trounced me four times in a row with a Millstone/Wheel of Fortune deck. That was the point where I realized that if I wasn’t buying anymore, I wouldn’t be able to play competitively for much longer. Fortunately, I started spending a lot of time with Elora, who was never interested in the game in the first place, so that was that.
There is a coda, though. When I was living in California, I noticed a friend of mine at work had an oversized Shivan Dragon card taped to her office door -- one of the non-playable cards that came in the Microprose PC game. I try not to out myself as a geek at work, but here was a person who was flaunting the fact that she played -- and a woman, no less. Since we were already friends, I eventually asked her about it, and she said her boyfriend had introduced her to the game. They played with a group of friends, in a strangely adult fashion -- get together, have a nice dinner, casual conversation, and then a pleasant game of Magic. Did I want to come next time? I figured it couldn’t hurt. I put together a small subset of my deck (no need to scare anybody), and went along. I needn’t have worried about bringing too many cards -- the hosts were resellers, and had an entire closet full of shrink-wrapped boxes. In fact, if someone came who’d never played before, they provided a starter and boosters for free. (Which is exactly how drug dealers do it, or so I’m told.) The meal and conversation were very pleasant, and the game…was bizarre. There was no venom, no ruthless crushing of one’s foe, and certainly no lamentation of the women. It seemed to be all about showing off your all-centaur theme deck, and throwing the flashiest counterspells. With my direct-damage approach, I felt like a pit bull at a poodle show (and I was playing a green/white deck, my preferred technique, not red/black or anything extra-nasty). Worst of all, I didn’t recognize a single card played by anybody else all night, except for the lands, and even some of them were new to me. I didn’t go back.
I still have my deck -- I tried to sell it online in 1997, but eBay didn’t exist then, so I didn’t get any takers. Elora still doesn’t play, so I haven’t had the deck out in years. I do get the urge, every now and again, to challenge Shiny to a duel, but I don’t think he even knows where his deck is. But if you find yourself in my neck of the woods, and you’re feeling nostalgic, bring your deck, and I’ll happily play you, while muttering things like, “What does this Serra Angel do again? I can’t remember.”