Bump debriefing, part five: The ballot table

I’ve been to very few tournaments that were neatly contained. Aside from local events like MHLs, where we might acquire a small building for a hundred teams or so (I’m thinking mostly of the Newark venues), usually we’re in a very large building, or in some cases, a number of very large buildings. People are on different floors, in different wings, in totally different locations. Somewhere there’s a tab room, and somehow the ballots from all those different people in different locations have to get to that tab room. This can be quite a poser.

Different tournaments address the issue different ways, depending on the scope of the distance. At Yale, for instance, we’ve resorted to cell phone call-in results on the Friday night, which is a pretty good idea when people are split up seven ways to Capistrano. In most places, though, it’s one building, but a very complicated building. There seems to be a rule in the construction of high schools that demands that the room numbering system be done only in primes, imaginaries, or hack-proof file encryption. You’ll walk down the hallway and it’s 101, 102, D-42, 2888, C3PO, A-V Room, Boys, More Boys, Nurse’s Office, 103, 301, 031, Nurse’s Other Office, 013, Even More Boys, Keep Out This Means You, and 104. In that order. You know you’re in trouble when the person asking you for a map is the assistant principal. As mentioned earlier, it’s a fair assumption that many of your judges have some reason to start their rounds late, and some other reason to end their rounds late. And meanwhile, the tab room is playing endless games of You Don’t Know Jack and just praying for ballots. There are times, of course, when there really is not much to do, but when it’s time to do something, and there’s nothing there to do, then the clock is ticking away and nobody—NOBODY—is happy.

[This is the point where, if you’re working in tab with him, O’C wanders off. He is, simply put, one of the greatest wanderer-offs of all time. Or maybe that’s one of the greatest wander-offers. Whichever. If you’re working with him, make sure he has his cell phone with him if you see him grabbing his pith helmet for another excursion into the bush. Otherwise, you’re on your own.]

The ballot table is a combination concierge desk and command center, and it is often the most poorly planned of the basic elements of a tournament, because I think that some TDs underestimate its importance, or just run out of steam when it comes to thinking about it. It’s sort of the default thing people come to last when they’re organizing their events, and it’s given a priority way lower than it deserves. On the one hand, it is the interface between all the attendees of the tournament and the staff of the tournament. It is the official site to which all have access, of which all will ask questions, where all will come when all else fails. On the other hand, it is the radius of the wheel of ballots, whence runners extend with their orders (“Get the ballots out of Becker’s hand if you have to slash his throat with a Torture Me Elmo doll to do it!”) and return with their hot little ballots. I think of the runners as a part of the ballot table, although this does not mean they should all sit around the ballot table so that none of the attendees of the tournament can get near it (a regular problem). I organize the Bump table with people whose job is ballot checking and distribution, with a Runner Wrangler whose job it is to keep the runners running (think Master Sergeant), and the runners (the Myrmidons). [I’ll wait a minute while you search for Myrmidon in Google. FYI, the Runner Wrangler is their Achilles.] This whole combined unit’s job is to get the ballots to the judges when the schematics are released (which includes, and this comes as a surprise to many people, getting schematics into the judges’ lounge), check that all the rounds have started (each runner is given a list of rooms to verify), and collecting the ballots when the rounds are ending by posting runners outside each door or in each strategic area (every judge who saunters back with a ballot rather than having a runner run back with that ballot is a delay in the tournament).

There is a series of rules that I think all ballot tables need to enforce, and some suggestions that should help, and some general thoughts worth considering.

1. Runners are not paid to think. Runners run. End of story.
Problems arise when runners are lazy, too good for the lowly position, try to fix things themselves, or don’t know what to do. Lazy and lowly need to be noted by the TD; these are the students who will be sidelined from any important work at your future tournaments, and if they’re bad enough, sidelined right this minute. I have sent people home for being too much of an obstacle. Your uncommitted runners are, mostly, your uncommitted debaters. You won’t miss them when they’re gone, and they’ll be gone soon, one way or the other. On the other hand, I’ve seen my senior captains running through the hallways with ballots in their hands. That’s why they get to be captains. Then there’s the ones who try to solve problems. A debater or a judge is missing, so the runners think they’ll find another debater or judge. This is the sort of thing that has tab storming out with their Torture Me Elmo dolls. If there’s a problem, runners have to know to bring it back to the table. (And, of course, the table has to know to bring it to tab.) The runners do what the table tells them to do, which is run. Anything comes up, have the table solve it. And not knowing what to do is a problem easily solved by having experience at the table. I try to put in new people every year, but I also carry over experienced people every year. This time out, with the incorporation of my varsity into judging, I was starting from scratch to a great extent, but there were reliable wranglers/assistants in both buildings, so problems were minimal.

2. The further your ballot table is from tab, the greater the number of problems.
All problems need to be solved by tab. This is the basic rule. It’s not necessarily true, but it’s mostly true. The further away from tab the table is, the more likely tab will not be involved in solving problems, and worse, will not even know problems are happening. Bietz wondered why top judge material was manning the tables at Yale rather than judging, but from my perspective, I was thrilled to have experienced tournament people right outside my door. Multiple ballot tables, walkie-talkies, every clever solution to the problem of the complex physical plant is potentially a problem of its own. Keep it simple. One ballot table, as close to tab as possible. Your runners will make sure the ballots get to tab, so don’t worry about making you poor miserable judges have to walk once in a while. Although to tell you the truth, given the likelihood of doughnut surplus at any tournament, the walk will do them good.

3. The ballot table must be totally professional.
The following are banned: card games, any other games, any distraction from helping out your guests at the tournament, if you’re bored, suck it up. As I said, the paradigm is the concierge table. And the people at the tournament are your guests. Think of it any other way at your own risk. I also ban outside food from the table. That is, we’re serving perfectly good food to our guests; if this were your house, would you serve one thing to your guests and something else to yourselves? Rude. Anyhow, they have to be friendly, accessible and knowledgeable. Your best people get to be at the ballot table, as they are your best reflection of your team.

4. Major domo is a unique job, and an absolute requirement.
The major domo is the connection between the table and the tab staff. The major domo is the third check of every ballot before it gets to tab (the runner is the first, the table is the second). The major domo gets to see how the machinery works so that next year, the major domo will be in a position of major responsibility, with an understanding of where all the bodies are buried. Major domos check all the ballots after each round for errors in tabulation. Major domos keep all the packets up-to-date, after the check. Major domos get to eat the tab food (I do believe that the tab staff needs to be fed well; since they’re undercover, I don’t feel I’m breaking my no-outside-food rule to keep them happy). The major domo is always on hand to do whatever tab deems necessary for the entire weekend. The major domo always comes out of it smelling like a rose. Gabe, for instance, has major domo’d at Lex, and now he wins Bump. End of story.

5. The Tournament Director means it.
I do not make threats lightly, and I do carry through on them. I am short-fused at Bump, but this year I only blew up once that I remember. But I saw things. First, I saw a bunch of runners who were running their little patooties off. These are my stars. These are the people who will get good jobs in the future, preference at tournaments if there’s a limit, whatever I can do for them. Second, I saw a couple of people who were obstacles to the tournament. They will never get good jobs in the future, nor preferences of any sort. They weren’t there when I needed them. I will remember this forever. That’s the way my mind works. If you run a tournament and people do a good job, reward them. If they do a poor job, tell them. It’s their team, their school. (This is especially true for me, as an outsider, so to speak.) At the end of the day, it’s the school that gets that good or bad rep, not the Tournament Director, since TDs come and go. I can think of one school I don’t like to go to because the kids just goof off year after year, and the judges and the tournament suffer for it. A little pride in the operation is what’s called for, but I can’t make you proud of your school in a vacuum. You’re either proud of what we’re doing here, for whatever reasons, or you’re not. If you’re not, go away.

Next up, the final, absolutely essential cog in the tournament wheel.