Goodbye, Sheldon!

“At the end of the day people won't remember what you said or did, they will remember how you made them feel.”       ― Maya Angelou

I often skip the staff party at the end of an event. I'm shy, socially awkward, whatever you want to call it. After a weekend of talking to players, solving their problems, calming them down, and making their event special, my brain hurts. My coworkers are genuinely awesome people. Most of them are fascinating, intelligent, and a lot of fun. However, following 3 days of working 12+ hours in addition to networking, learning, and teaching, choosing to voluntarily spend several more hours being 'on' isn't usually ideal. I generally prefer a quieter meal with the opportunity for deeper conversations as well as reflecting on the weekend's events. 

However, on this particular weekend, we'd journeyed to a frozen, snowy northern city. The bitterly cold temperatures outside reminded my tired feet that we had no desire to trudge around hoping to locate on open restaurant late on Sunday night. The weekend's overall tone had been positive and the work hadn't been too taxing, and I had a few spoons left, so I opted to sample the free dinner at the staff party rather than set out in the cold in search of an elusive, and likely expensive, meal. When I entered the staff hotel the pleasant aroma of Italian food greeted me across an almost deserted lobby. An abundance of tables appeared available and I let myself relax a little upon noting that the party wouldn't be too loud or crowded. I selected a few items, loaded them onto a plate, and seated myself alone at a table not too distant to seem companionable, but far enough to be out of the walkway. 

Only a few minutes passed before several coworkers joined me and we conversed amiably while enjoying our meals. As usually happens at these types of social events, the cast of characters at the table changed fluidly with people coming and going to get more food, mingle, or join games of draft or Commander. I know I wandered back to the food table a few times and spent time at several different tables chatting, munching, and laughing.

A few hours later I found myself seated alone with a man with whom I shared an excellent working relationship, but we had not conversed much outside of our professional interactions. His reputation preceded him as many of my mentors looked up to him and frequently passed along lessons he had taught them. I knew from our work together that his knowledge was impressive, but that knowledge was far from his most important quality. He cared deeply about our events, and the people running them, and that passion displayed itself every time he stepped on the floor. He could often be found engaging players and staff, answering questions, and making time for each person that had an ask of him. Despite his position as a 'senior' staff member, he always had time for even the smallest need.

On this particular evening, he engaged me in conversation by asking about my region and my specific experiences within certain contexts. Over the course of the next hour, he queried me concerning my interactions as a female judge both with players, and more importantly with other staff. (While if you know me, you know how much I loathe that topic, he did it in such an open and caring way, that I felt comfortable sharing some pretty intimate thoughts!) He expressed genuine concern about certain things, celebrated when I told of small victories, and followed up with more questions. He likely had no idea how much that conversation meant to me, as it let me share a part of myself I often keep hidden, and rarely discuss with anyone in leadership. 

Thinking back on that night later, the thing that resonated so deeply with me was not what this man did, but rather what he didn't do. As a pillar of the community and someone full of wisdom, anecdotes, and experience, he said very little, yet he yearned to learn more. Rather than filling the space with his own voice, he did the simplest, yet most impactful thing possible - he listened. 

I left that table feeling a deep sense of encouragement and validation - like the work I had been doing that often felt unseen or unvalued wasn't worthless after all. More importantly, I felt like I had a story to tell that mattered and that could effect real change in our industry. Despite the long weekend, the late hour, and the heavy topic, I walked away feeling just a little bit lighter and more hopeful. 

Over the following months I became more open about my own story and more willing to discuss the challenges I've faced. I feel more confident and have embraced my past as a part of the person I have become. I've stopped fighting and leaned into who I am. And all of that started with one conversation with one man who despite all of his influence and experience took the time to not just listen, but truly hear me. I don't remember most of the words we said than night, but the way Sheldon Menery made me feel with be with me for the rest of my life. 

I'd like to end this bit of reflection with Sheldon's own words:

It doesn't matter how much life I have left, I will live it to its fullest.

― Sheldon Menery, facebook, April 8, 2002

An Empty Chair

Seated across from an empty chair, looking at a still full glass of iced tea and waiting for a blue cheese potato chip appetizer that would never arrive. In that moment it hit me, he was really gone.

We were supposed to have lunch today, Wednesday, February 20, 2019. His life ended on the 15th. Cut short by a heart attack and leaving behind a family, friends, and a community filled with grief.

I got the news in a hotel room in Memphis, while working a Magic Fest. Looking back almost 3 years to my first Grand Prix I remember running into him in the lobby of the convention center. We sat and talked a few minutes and he told me he was excited to see more women joining our community. At the time I didn’t understand some of the more toxic elements of our culture and I had no idea why he would say such a thing to me. What I did know is that I hadn’t even put on my brand new judge shirt for the first time yet, and this man was excited to welcome me. On a day where my nerves trembled as I struggled to keep up with the mountains of new things I was learning, he provided a sense of calm acceptance and a ready smile.

That was the first of a long list of event encounters where we shared a smile, a chat, or a meal. One night we went to Joe T. Garcia’s, a Mexican restaurant I had frequented in college. “Get the nachos,” he implored. At a place known for enchiladas and fajitas, I didn’t even know they had nachos. He wasn’t wrong - and I’ve ordered nachos every single time since that night.

He wrote me a review one time, for a stressful 65 player PPTQ where he was a player. He loved to write. He loved to make others better. And he was willing to invest his time in writing to make me better. Opening that review was a lovely surprise after a rough day. And now that review sits in my history as a lovely reminder of a lost friendship and the lasting impact he made on my career as a judge.

Two weeks ago he was on my deckchecks team for the Star City Open in Dallas. We enjoyed a fun day together checking decks, sorting lists, and sharing laughs. He was always a whiz at deckchecks, faster than me by far. I never understood how he could be so jovial while doing a task that tested my concentration and my patience. He seemed to know when a deck was problematic and had a knack for figuring out issues that arose. I’m so honored that I got to share the day with him on his last event working as a judge.

He often bought extra boxes of product that I brought home from events. We’d meet here, at Pluckers, to enjoy wings and make the exchange. While it started out as a way to meet up for a sale, it evolved into more of a fun meal to talk about the judge program, upcoming events, conferences, and more. Our topics often included our families, writing and editing, hopes and dreams for the future, sports, and anything else we could think of. We were never at a loss for words and the meals always ended too soon.

So here I am today, sitting alone at this table with a painful ache in my heart. His warm encouragement will be missing at future events and I’ll never get to read his latest writing project. I’ll have one less confidant to bounce conference ideas off of and I can’t ask if he’s attending. I’m sitting at one of our favorite tables, eating the wings we both adored. And while I know he’d be happy to hear that they are still delicious, they will never be the same without his company.

Jeff Zandi, you may not be here in person, but your spirit is with me today at this table. I hope to pass on your traditions of hospitality and encouragement and continue to build the community that you loved so much. Your influence is woven into the fabric of who I am as a judge and you will be with me every time I wear that mantle. I miss you, but I know that you will live on both in me and in the Magic community.

Rhythm

All the buildup, the planning, the flights and hotels, they culminate in a moment whose sights, sounds and smells all feel so familiar, yet never the same. Each event has a rhythm, a feel and a tune, that undulates slowly as you walk in the room. The doors open slowly, the event hall is filled with booths, vendors, and tables in various states of setup and build. One by one people enter and join in the flow, each a part of river down which all will go.

The truck door slides up and the forklifts roll past as one by one items are carted from the first to the last. Each team with its tasks to sort, stack, and display, all getting ready for tomorrow’s opening day. The work is demanding, but community is built as piece by piece comes together to prepare. By the end of the night bodies are tired and worn, but the room is in order and ready to go. The morrow will bring crowds that will flock in and open the show.

The morning’s quiet anticipation lingers over rows upon rows of perfectly set chairs and tables adorned with crisp tablecloths and neatly placed table numbers. No dice on the floor, no smells in the air, no movement at all. The air handlers humming softly in preparation for the rush that is to come. Standing on the stage and looking out over the place, quietly envisioning the crowds and the chaos that will soon fill the space.

Slowly few by few the staff trickles in, most are excited and eager to begin. Some sore from setup, some tired from flights, some feeling the effect of the previous night. Greetings are exchanged, many hugs, many laughs. Shirts are changed and pockets are stuffed with notebooks and pens. The players arrive and tournaments begin.

In clumps and teams judges take to the floor guiding the players and flipping the rounds. Throughout the day laughter abounds as they interact with one another as friends asking and answering helping and herding. The events rise and fall like waves in the sea, one following another overlapping a bit. Each one changes the landscape subtly as it comes and it goes and when it’s gone it leaves no traces, only memories.

As evening draws to a close the events wrap up. The staff rolls out in small groups seeking dinner and rest. The tables show clutter, their cloths sit askew. Tired chairs are pushed in, but not quite as neat and you can see on the floor where food had met feet. The printers fall silent, the scorekeepers wrap up, and alone on the stage once more you see silence.

The next mornings the same tune plays again as slower and slower the judges roll in. Anticipation is waning by the very end, but show up they do and begin all again. Each day like the last with clipboards and slips, the events one by one called from the announcer’s lips.

The final evening brings one of the best parts: dismantling the show and reloading the carts. Hand trucks and dollies, forklifts and flight cases each of the items in their assigned spaces. Dropping the banners, trashing one time use signage, tablecloth folding, and pallet wrapping - each task assigned and completed with ease. Everyone tired and ready to leave. One last thing the closing the truck, no sound is as nice as that door banging shut. Locking the lock and driving away, so sad yet satisfying, at the end of a day.

Impact

As she walked up to me I vaguely recognized her, but couldn't place her exactly. She said, "I just want to thank you for helping me find a team at that GP." Ahh, my memory jogged, she was the player whose teammates had missed their flight and she almost didn't get to play in a team GP. There had been another player who was there without a team as well, we'll call him Rick (not his real name). Rick had asked me all day about finding a team, but as the registration lead there was really not much I could do. When she showed up that afternoon, I had introduced the two of them. They had been able to find a third and compete in the event. Later that weekend she had dropped by registration to thank me and tell me that they had almost made day 2. I felt a sense of satisfaction at being able to unite two players and turn their disappointment into a fun weekend.

Now, almost a year later, halfway across the country this woman had sought me out again. She continued, "That weekend really changed my life. I appreciate your help." As a Magic judge I'm always excited to help players out and make sure they have great experiences, but this praise seemed over the top. Then Rick walked up and thanked me as well. As they walked away hand in hand, she smiled over her shoulder and said, "We've been dating for six months."

"What are some of your favourite things about your local Magic community?"

"What are some of your favourite things about your local Magic community?"

I was asked to answer this question as a part of a Judge of the Week feature, but my response took on a life of its own. I sent an excerpt for JOTW to use (which met their length requirements), but opted to post the full text here as well. A special thanks to Raoul Mowatt and the JOTW team. I appreciate the work you guys do and I appreciate the opportunity to be a part of this feature.

There was a time, about six months after I started playing Magic, when I commented that walking into my LGS felt like 'coming home.' My friend laughed and said, "A place where everyone knows your name?" And while cheesy, he was also correct. I loved walking in those doors and being greeted by friends, immediately being asked what I was playing or invited to join a game. 

As a newcomer to both the game and the shop, my concerns about fitting in had been unfounded. Guys offered to help me improve my decks, trade me cards, show me how to beat them, and teach me tournament fundamentals. As I immersed myself in the community, the terminology and ethics soon followed. After an exhaustive internet search, I finally asked someone and discovered that "fizzled" and "countered on resolution" mean the same thing. I learned that slow rolling when you have a win in hand is considered rude, just like scooping before you've attempted all your outs is incorrect. (It just took me a while to figure out that I had a win in hand!)

I came from literally nothing in terms of knowing the game. I had never seen or heard of it until a friend of a friend brought over a box of Theros and some guys offered to teach me a 'new game.' Let's just say that drafting might not have been the best introduction . . .  However my 5-colored deck of mostly 8 drops (the big ones are the best, right?) was amazing. I do wish that before we drafted someone had told me that you could add basic lands - I drafted every land from every pack because they were so exceptionally rare.

Terrible beginning aside, I'm extremely grateful that those guys kicked my ass that day. None of them let me win. They didn't even allow me to take back my awful plays. They did explain the rules to me, and require that I play by them. The guys in my local store treated me the same way. No one babied me. No one coddled me. They simply educated me, and demanded excellence. Each time I lost was a learning experience, and gradually I won a few games, and finally a few matches. 

While I can't say it was an easy road, it was the right road for me. I'm sure there are folks out there who would have preferred a different experience - a handicap of sorts for beginners. That's just not my style. Growing up, my dad and I played a lot of games, and he didn't let me win. I learned to respect skill, hope for luck, and that winning and losing must both be accomplished gracefully. My LGS recreated those feelings for me.

Alas all good things must come to an end, right? Well, shortly after I became a judge, that store closed down. I sought to fill the void by judging a lot of national events like Grands Prix and Star City Opens. Don't get me wrong-I love those events! But there is also something to be said for a local Magic community. I missed 'my guys' and a store that felt like home.

A funny thing happened: As I judged more PPTQs all over the area, I started seeing the same players each weekend. Many of the same guys who travel to the larger events as well. Guys that I have played Magic with, traveled with, roomed with, traded cards with, and judged with popped up at a variety of places. Sometimes players who didn't know me personally knew of me. Even when walking into a store I had never been in before, I was greeted with familiar faces.

It's awesome how quickly my feelings went from newbie and outsider to 'one of the crowd.' I can't help but smile when someone surprises me with a hot chocolate (I don't drink coffee, but I may have a bit of a hot chocolate addiction . . .) I love seeing a local player at a large event who stops by registration to say hello or asks me to check out his deck before the main event. It always brings me a sense of pride when other judges meet my players from home. 

While the game may have introduced us, the friendships I’ve made have connected us in many ways outside the game too. From pool parties and fantasy football to baseball games and Christmas cards. We've celebrated birthdays in a shop, brought our kids along to play, and shared our anniversary trip with crazy roommates. In the past year I've attended a wedding and a funeral, sharing both the joys and the sorrows of life with my Magic community. 

So in conclusion, my favorite thing about my local Magic community is the community itself - both the players and the judges, in person, and on the internet. Whether it's my Tuesday night legacy group, the grinders at a PPTQ, or roommates at a GP, the people are as much a part of the experience as the game itself and it's the shared experiences among those people that create the community that has made me who I am as a judge.

Stories

As a judge, we usually focus on rules knowledge or event logistics when we talk about what we do. We aspire to get to L2 or to become a Head Judge. Our goals are to flip rounds faster, present at a conference, or finally understand layers. Sometimes we grumble at another day of deck checks or at being assigned to the prize wall. We find ourselves going through the motions at an event without really engaging with the work.

This weekend at GP Omaha, while serving on the registration team, I got a taste of something more.

A player approached me with some questions about the event. He explained that he was attending his first Grand Prix and asked about registering for side events, getting a playmat, and how to earn prize wall tix. While answering his queries I added that we were so excited that he could join us for his first GP. He launched into a touching tale. When he was eleven years old, he played Magic and planned to attend a local GP, however his grandmother did not support his hobby and burned his Magic cards. Years later, he had returned to the game as a young adult, but a flood in his home destroyed yet another expensive collection. He quit. About three years ago his son took up the game and had been begging him to play again. At first he refused. Upon seeing that a GP would be in their area, he joined his son, now eleven, in preparing for the event, and the two of them attended together.

This story impacted me on so many levels. As a parent, seeing the father and son sharing a hobby reminded me of golfing with my father as I grew up. I'm sure that Magic will bring them closer as they travel and play together. Hearing of the man's loss and struggle to rebuild spoke to his perseverance and strength. His son accomplishing the dream that he could not fulfill at the age of eleven completed a circle of sorts in his life, and being a part of that thrilled me as well.

Later in the day a man approached with some younger guys. He explained that they wanted to register for the Main Event. After chatting a bit I discovered that the group had traveled from Sheldon,
Iowa. The man taught in an elementary school and spent his afternoons running "The Game Club" at the nearby high school. The young men had learned how to play Magic and practiced diligently to attend their first competitive event. Throughout the weekend the gentleman updated me on the group's progress and Head Judge Jared Sylva invited them onto the main event stage for a picture.

As a former teacher, I've seen so many adults fail today's young people. This man engaged with a group of young men providing them a role model and mentor while also sharing with them a hobby. These guys are learning more than a game - they are learning about commitment, decision making, and character. By showing them the larger world of gaming, this teacher has introduced them to the world of competitive play, and to the Magic community as a whole. While Magic may not be anyone's only passion, opening their eyes to the scope of opportunities can ignite these men's dreams and encourage them to look higher in all areas of their lives. What an amazing investment into our future!

That evening another player dropped by registration and excitedly asked to purchase the VIP package. He stated that this was his second GP ever and at his first (GP Denver 2016) he had registered for the VIP package and Magic judge Mike Goodman had gone out of his way to help this player out. The player not only remembered Mike's full name, but went on to gush about how special Mike had made his weekend. He wanted to buy the VIP upgrade to see Mike again. I couldn't keep the tears from my eyes as I quietly informed him that Mike had passed away. "Oh shit!" the man responded, clearly upset. I revealed my MG wristband and shared with him how much Mike meant to the Magic community. I told him how I had first met Mike as a player and then became friends as a co-worker. I let him know about the charity tournament on Sunday to benefit Mike's family. While I have never met that player before, we shared a moment of connection as we remembered a man who had touched our lives.

Throughout the weekend I worked hard registering players, handling issues, and serving on the floor team of the main event. I enjoyed mentoring new judges, receiving council from experienced ones, and making new friends. I did some things well, and some things that I need to work on. But when I returned home and thought about the weekend as a whole, the thing that stood out to me the most were the stories from the mouths of the players.

I'm going to borrow a sentiment that Jess Dunks shared with the judge staff at SCG Louisville a few weeks ago: to us this is another event, but to a player this may be the pinnacle of their Magic career. Of course there are grinders and pros who attend lots of GPs, but they exist alongside local players and folks who traveled to attend this one special event. We as judges have the monumental task of determining what kind of experience each of those players has.

To A Judge

I follow you on facebook. I see your struggles. I see your ups and your downs. You share your life so honestly with the world. I admire you.

We have a lot of mutual friends. I hear the things they say about you. How much you know. How you have helped them. When you are struggling. How much they care about you.

I remember spying the back of your judge hoodie in the Denver airport. It was my first time traveling to a GP alone. You remembered me. You helped me take the bus to the hotel. It was late and cold. I was alone and scared. You made me feel welcome and safe.

Denver was a tough weekend for me. My personal demons reared their ugly heads. I never told anyone how much I was hurting, how much I just wanted to quit, go home, and hide under a blanket and never come out. You were there to make me smile, to show me what strength looks like, and to remind me that no matter the turmoil inside, I could face each day and make it great.

We've worked together since then. You have supported me on rough days. We've shared rides, shared meals, and shared stories - shared moments of our lives. We've had a few chats, but nothing too deep.

But today, on a day where we remember a friend that we lost too soon, I feel compelled to say the words to you. The ones that stick in my throat for fear of getting too close or being too real. The ones I think every time I see you hurting and want to reach out to you, but don't.

Thank you for being real. Thank you for being there. Thank you for sharing your story so openly with the judge community. Thank you for serving as an example of how to overcome challenges and for being a pillar of strength in an uncertain world. Thank you for never giving up and thank you for continuing to dream big. You are an inspiration to me and an example of what I hope to become.

I believe in you.

Five

She played her first sanctioned Magic event today. She's only ever played at home before, with her family. She's been in a few shops and knows a few local players, but not very well.  She was nervous, but excited. She played 2 Headed-Giant. She went 2-1.

Her story is that of so many players.  Starting at the kitchen table with a brother, a friend, or a classmate. Playing a bit here and there when the opportunity presents itself. Not really knowing the rules, but learning by following what the other players do. Making misplays, having fun, not worrying too much about the outcome. Occasionally going in a shop to hang out with a friend or buy some cards, but never staying long.

Then, one day, it happens: the transition to organized play. Walking into a store and up to the counter to sign up for the first time constitutes a monumental step for some players. I watched her tremble a little as she handed over the credit card, and she looked a little confused when she received her prerelease pack, but overall she handled it well.

Then she walked to the play area where several players sat at a table chatting. She carefully selected a seat at the end of the table, near enough to hear the conversation, but not quite in the middle of the action. A player greeted me and I introduced her to the guys. While she seemed unsure, they all readily said hello and accepted her as a player.

Her partner arrived for the 2HG event and he joined her at the table. She handed him his pack and he pulled out her deckbox. They immediately set to discussing strategy. Then the TO came and officially started the event. Luckily her partner, a seasoned veteran, led her through the deckbuilding process. She managed to make her way through the event with the guidance of her partner and her opponents.

Seeing how well the community received her makes me proud to be a Magic judge. Players didn't question her gender, her age, or her experience, they just played Magic with her. When she didn't want to shake hands or fist bump (she's not a physical person), they didn't question her.  They just accepted her for who she is and how she is and welcomed her into the community.

I'm proud to say that today, my daughter's 5th birthday, she is officially a card carrying member of the DCI and the Magic community as a whole.

Big thanks to everyone at Collected TCU for welcoming her today!