Gamer to Athlete

There came a point where I had to ask myself a question, one of those scary philosophical questions that tells me about who I am, where I'm going, how I'll get there, what I'll do, why I'll do it.

“Is a video game worth it?”

When my parents asked me that question, I didn't even have to think. “Yes.” I enjoyed it and I could get paid a decent bit of pocket money while still living at home and I'd develop such real life experience. If I did my best, and truly my best rather than putting in whatever my team required of me, then I could travel the world, meet great and interesting people, become such a well-rounded person.

Those, though, are words.

In the beginning, being a pro didn't really change my life. All that happened is I started playing ranked fives with my team rather than my friends, spent some time talking strategy instead of solo queue, scrimmed with another pro team a couple of times a day leading up to events.

That's easy stuff.

Looking back, I guess pro meant you played for money. Professional, well, that's a whole other ball game.

When our team went from 'Pro' to 'Professional', it jarred me more than I thought, than I imagined it could. All of a sudden, things felt real. As a pro, every game is a game. As a professional, every game is a chance to show why people should give a damn about me.

After all, every day there's new people joining the scene, people improving their mechanical skills. I can never rely on reputation or seniority, not unless I think the bench looks comfy.

I guess that's the big disconnect between the solo queue heroes and the pros that have thrived in the scene for years. The solo queuers compete against the weakest pros; the pros compete against the strongest solo queuers.

Those players that have lasted years in the scene? They've survived culling after culling, fought away complacency, grown into pillars of experience and team skills.

So, let's go back to that question I had to ask myself.

“Is a video game worth it?”

That question plagued me for days, weeks, becoming a couple of months before I finally snapped. I had to know the answer before I could devote anymore of my life to it.

I pulled our team captain aside, though he's always been more of a big brother than a captain, and asked him.

“Is a video game worth it?”

He didn't laugh it off, like I thought he might. Nor did he reply with an automatic, “Yes,” like I had nearly a year before. Instead, he walked back to his gaming rig and pulled up a post on a forum from his bookmarks.

“I don't know about you, but when I see 'World Championship', I imagine a big, golden cup. Then, all I can think of is how millions of people play a video game, but only five people can hold that cup.”

He didn't say any more. After all, he didn't need to.

Pros, they play games for money.

Professionals, we play games for money, fame, to play another day. Most importantly of all, we play for the thrill of competing against the best, and winning.