Bumpian odds and ends

There were some high points.

SuperSquirrel arrived on the scene to save the day, thus adding a new member to the Justice League of Hen Huddia. Lord knows that all of us have some famous decisions on our resumes; I still maintain that I was right about the Villiger final in 1996. And I recall the time early on when I was judging finals at Bump and fell asleep and when I woke up I looked around and saw that there was this one kid I always dropped and this other kid I never dropped, and I apparently just followed my instincts (I can’t say for certain, being barely conscious at the time, and having only learned one lesson from this fiasco, to wit, that only an idiot judges at his own tournament) and picked up the kid I always picked up, unlike the other 4 judges who had been awake during the proceedings. But none of this holds the proverbial candle to an 8 to 1 decision, vigorously defended. Then again, this does explain grits: There is 1 person out of every 9 who, in fact, will not only eat grits but will also tell you that they taste good. We now know who that person is.

Meanwhile, we took great pleasure in punishing one judge for doing his best to hold up the tournament. Here’s how these things work. Schematics are posted, and ballots are laid out for the judges. Your job in this scenario, if you are a judge, is to look at the schematic, find your name, get your ballot and go to your round. You do not disappear before the round, during the round, or after the round. At every tournament. In this one, seeing this repeat offender (I had to call out his hiring school last year, so this is not a new, one-time short-term thing) and having, as we did, plenty of A-rated judges, we could have done a couple of things. We could have giving him 0-4 rounds, but that still allows him to slow up the tournament. We could have given him single flights, but that slows up the tab staff. Or we could uncheck the little boxes that show him as available, and let him sit on his nether portions for an 8-hour day. We chose the latter. And watched him stew. He protested, of course. A number of times. This is called slow cooking. Put the pot on the back burner and let it simmer a really, really long time. Is the lesson learned? Maybe. Given that the same tabbers are in every tournament in the northeast, we shall see how this plays out the next time. People don’t change all that much, so I’m betting on the same shenanigans, followed by the same punishment. It doesn’t solve the problem but it does entertain the people in the tabroom no end.

Down in the novice building, half the time O’C was sitting behind the Tiny Town Table entering ballots, randomly calling out, “Myrmidon! Oh, Myrmidon!” Runners and ballot staff would appear in the doorway as if by magic, and he would assign them some imaginary task, happy in his heart that he was the Achilles to such an army (or, in this case, navy). The other half of the time he was stumbling into rounds with his new camera taking pictures of people who were trying either to debate or judge and generally driving people batty. But, since they were all novices, they apparently didn’t realize the incongruity of the situation, and went about their business, little knowing that soon they would star on WTF. O’C even got a picture of me playing the piano. Thank God I didn’t bring my Sousaphone.

This year’s Cruz award had been in my basement for about 6 years, some moldy old trophy encased in varmint dust that I acquired early on in my former career as the World’s Worst District Chair. Just touching it made you want to wash your hands for a month. I also gave him a copy of Lingo in Japanese, a true collector’s item, and a Day Job beach towel which I have no idea where it came from. He seemed as surprised as ever that the Jon Cruz Award, Given Annually to Jon Cruz for No Apparent Reason, was awarded to him this year. He was also happy that the Speaker Soup went to the Bronx. For my part, I have no doubts that the Speaker Soup will arrive back at HH next year for its continued journey. The one thing we know O’C is good at is trophies. But will he proudly display the Soup in the Bronx trophy case in the interim? That is the telling detail.

One of the most magical moments was when a few of us were discussing someone, saying that he was a good worker, except it took a few seconds for his spark plugs to ignite. As we were discussing him, he poked his head in the door about thirty yards away, looked at us, made a comment to the effect that he didn’t know why he had poked his head in and that he’d be leaving now, and disappeared back where we had come from. And there are books on the bestseller list that say there is no God? Bah!

I learned that—even with an achy, scratchy throat—I can extemporize for as long as it takes for you to finally walk away about why I can’t give you your ballots early or take you out of the judging pool.

2-1 is too many more than enough PF judges.

There’s never enough LD judges.

And finally, if you lose your pants at a tournament, coming to me and asking me about lost and found will amuse me no end, but as a general rule, will not get you your lost pants.