Workshop Assignment: The Personal Essay

Below is the first draft of a potential submission to the column ‘Lives’ in the New York Times. There are 1042 words in this essay and I know it needs work:

Love and Magic

The moment I realized that I was, without a sliver of doubt, a certified nerd came unexpectedly on a Friday night in the fall of my senior year of high school. I was an average student, in just about every way imaginable, at a typical suburban school near the Twin Cities. Statistically, on a Friday night at my age, I should have been experimenting with sex or alcohol or marijuana. I should have been studying, playing video games, or working some minimum wage job. It was a Friday night, so at the very least, I should have been at the football game with the other 90 percent of my high school class. But as an eighteen year old I had no interest watching my classmates duel it out for honor and glory under the lights. All I wanted to do was play cards – and I’m not talking about poker. At age eighteen I looked forward to Friday nights for a different reason; Friday night was Magic night.

In 1993, Richard Garfield and Wizards of the Coast introduced Magic the Gathering to the world. A collectible trading card game, Magic builds upon a fantasy world where each “game” represents a battle between players – or wizards – wielding armies of magical creatures and arsenals of powerful spells. Magic, one of the first games of its type, is known for being widely customizable, sophisticatedly strategic, and addictively fun. There are estimated to be over thirteen million players worldwide according to Wizards of the Coast. Despite the numbers and the game’s long-running popularity, there was little comfort for me as a high school senior knowing that there were ten million other nerds out there spending their Friday nights in comic book shops and suburban basements poring over paper battlefields and talking tactics between elvish archers and zombie legions.

I mentioned that I was an average kid in high school, and I meant it. To this day, when I reflect on my teenage years, “average” is still the first adjective that comes to mind. Most of my teachers had a hard time remembering my name. I was smart, but I wasn’t smart enough for the honor roll. I played the trumpet for a year and a half until I realized that I would always be fourth or fifth chair in the band. I never made it onto a varsity athletic team; I also never worked up the nerve to try out. I was simultaneously a nobody and an anybody. But I don’t mean to paint my averageness as something pitiable. It was merely average. I had friends, good friends, some of who I even played Magic with from time to time. I had a healthy and loving relationship with an attractive girl – she was above average in just about every way. I even entertained a few other, more “normal” hobbies like snowboarding and photography. Despite it all, I always came back to Magic, and my love for it as the one part of my identity that pushed me over the edge from average teenage boy to high school nerd.

I don’t know when or where it started exactly, but at some point during the summer before my senior year I started playing Magic more seriously and more regularly than before. At this point in time, the game had become more than a game to a dedicated few. An organized system of tournaments had formed, raging in scale from sanctioned, local neighborhood competitions, all the way up to annual, international grand championships. As a result of this new level of organization, a community of professional Magic players formed, Wizards of the Coast was making larger profits than ever, and kids like me where falling deeper into obsession over a game that I once just loved. In the world of the truly nerdy, Magic the Gathering now had real significance.

So there I was, eighteen and average. It was a beautiful fall Friday night. It would have been a good night to watch a football game. We were in the midst of an Indian summer and the football team was nearing the end of a very successful season. Yet, when my cell phone vibrated with text messages from my friends asking about rides to the fields, I ignored them, or replied with some white lie of an excuse. Meanwhile I was working on modifications to my tournament decks and packing for my trip downtown to the card shop I had started to play at. By the time I was in the car, driving through dusk toward The Dragon’s Den Comics and Games, my girlfriend called. I looked down at my phone and couldn’t bring myself to answer it. I knew she was at the football game. I knew she was probably looking for me. I knew I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I was up to. Despite how much I loved the game of Magic, and despite how open and communicative we had been, I couldn’t help but feel shame in admitting my status as an open nerd to her. I pressed the ignore button. By the time I got to the comic shop I had three missed calls. I decided to leave my phone in the car as I went inside to enroll in the night’s competition. I played for two or three hours. I don’t remember now if I won or lost, or how I played, but I do know that for two or three hours I lost myself in the company of fellow nerds and I had a blast pretending to be a wizard.

When I got back in my car to drive home I saw that I had four more missed calls from my girlfriend. I knew I needed to call her back. I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her, though I had been. When she answered the phone I could immediately tell she was angry with me. I tried to explain myself. When she heard that I had blown her and our friends off to spend my Friday night at “the Dragon’s Den” she hung up before I could finish my sentence. She thought it was a strip club. We broke up that Sunday. I’ve been a nerd ever since.