When the history of Roshambo¹s 2006 RPS Regional Tournament is
written, I want you to remember one thing. On June 3, 2006, I owned
world-class poker champion Phil Gordon.
I was the undisputed champion of his world. Well, his Rock Paper
Scissors (RPS) world, anyway.
Never mind the forum. High stakes, low stakes, two of three,
three of five, double-fisted, eyes on, it made no difference. My
scissors cut his paper to pieces time and time again. It was the
feeling of freedom. But the day was rarely so triumphant.
Since arriving in Sonoma County, this was the moment I had
waited for. Weeks before I left Michigan, my friend Josh had
introduced me to competitive RPS. We didn¹t enter any tournaments ‹
Michigan has none; we did immerse ourselves in the culture,
language and tips of the sport, holding endless matches at his
apartment late into the night. I learned of Roshambo¹s place in the
scene just after its tournament last year, and I vowed to return ‹
and win.
We had come in search of glory that morning: Josh, a wine shop
worker from San Diego and student of the numerous RPS gambits;
Kimra, my girlfriend, expert photographer and deceptively dangerous
in a heated match; and me, a mildly sun-burned and nervous
newspaper editor.
Passing through registration, I was assigned to the red bracket,
Josh to purple and Kimra, well, she was there to visually chronicle
the day and roll up some bank in Street RP. Every visitor to the
winery that day received $500 in Funny Money, an innovation
designed for side bets and unsanctioned winner-take-all
matches.
Wandering through the main building of the facility, we noticed
a few things ‹ first, my impulse to dress as a pirate had been the
correct one, and I had blown it; second, leaving my bandanna and
eyepatch at home allowed me to hide in plain sight. So what if I
wouldn¹t build a reputation as a pirate the way the bearded man in
the dress and the dude in the inner-tube did. We were here to hit
it large no matter what.
The energy at Roshambo was vibrant but hesitant. With round one
still nearly an hour away, no competitor was going to lose his
edge. We settled in the shade east of the lawn with a handful of
energy drinks and began to plot. Josh and I scrimmaged; I won, as I
had the day before. He warned me that I was relying too often on
scissors, but I thought the use of the most vulnerable of the RPS
weapons would pay off.
Growing bored, we pulled out the funny money. I cleaned Josh out
in two throws. I scrimmaged against Kimra¹s plastic RPS toy,
winning each throw.
The competition was starting to fill in around us, and I started
to take stock. I noticed a very intense-looking young boy, black
hair slicked back and shiny. He wore an RPS T-shirt, and he stared
into the distance with purpose ‹ the Bobby Fisher of Roshambo. I
knew instantly he would defeat me if we met in the first round.
With 256 total official RPS warriors on the grounds and dozens more
spectators with a taste for Street games, the last thing I needed
was a guaranteed loss. I introduced myself, mentioning it was my
first time in the tournament. Undisturbed, he looked up.
³Mine, too,² he said, saying he¹d begun to get into RPS a year
prior ‹ just like me. Dante, as he introduced himself, said he was
7. I vowed not to lose to anyone under 7 in the opening round.
It was then that Josh saw him across the lawn, already beginning
to take funny money off those around him:
³I think that¹s a really famous poker player,² Josh said with
typical understatement. In fact, he was the famous poker player, as
well as the current co-host of ³Celebrity Poker Showdown,² Phil
Gordon.
ŒReally?² I said. ³Should I go beat him?²
³Yep,² both of my companions responded.
I ambled across the lawn towards surely the tallest world poker
champion I have ever challenged to a fake-money RPS match. I
couldn¹t bring myself to talk to him at first. I found another
player, Bruce, who knew Phil and was reminscing about the good old
days of side bets on RPS matches away from the poker table.
Flush with $1,000 in funny money won off Josh a few minutes
earlier, I started off conservative.
³Five hundred?² I asked, feigning naiveté as to the etiquette of
the afternoon. Bruce, greying and bearded, tried to make things
more complicated.
³Australian rules? Guinean left-handed destruction? Sideways?²
Or something, he asked. I said we should keep it straight. Shooting
on three, first to two points takes all. In Street RPS, you name
your rules before you throw. I shut him down. He doubled the bet. I
shut him down again.
³Phil, you gotta play this kid,² he called back.
The poker champion giant strode towards me: ³Two out of three?²
he asked.
And we were on. $500, $1,000, $1,800 and done.
³Thank God you¹re in red,² Gordon said as it ended. ³I¹m not
taking on anyone this good in the first round.²
Having won his respect, Gordon told me about some variations on
RPS that can make it more interesting: 10-4, where the challenge is
to reach 10 points first without taking a lead at any point of four
points; Australian ‹ two fists to one, Cracking the Walnut, where
rock crushes paper covers scissors cuts rock and volleyball, where
you can score only when you hold serve.
³In other words, Œside out,¹² Gordon said. We shook hands and
headed to our color-coded barrels to wait for our
tournament-opening matches. The format meant the vast majority of
players were out in no time flat. Each 64-person bracket was
divided into eight groups of eight. Each group competed until one
champion remained, and then the next group started. Making the
final 32 was only enough to be named a second-rounder. I thought I
was destined for it.
I was matched in the red bracket¹s group B against David Doss, a
father from Sonoma. He and I talked briefly before we engaged in
hand-to-fist combat, wishing each other bad luck. I got off to a
good start in my quest for the top prize of $1,000. I had David on
the run, taking the first set with no difficulty. In the second set
(two victories in two out of three games are needed to win in
tournament play), I had a one-point lead, needing only to cover a
rock or slice a piece of paper to move on to the group
semifinals.
And then I lost it. Having dropped only two matches in the last
week of preparing, I took a nose-dive, dropping the next point and
the next set. I took my loser sticker, slapped it on my forehead,
scowling. Not even one win on the day. Josh had bombed as well.
In need of a self-esteem boost, we hit the street circuit again,
hoping to amass enough funny money to win an auction for one of the
consolation prizes. So we went looking for Phil and Bruce
again.
I found the inveterate gamblers taking bucks off rubes just
outside the blue tournament area. Cool and unflappable, Phil was
already sporting a second-rounder sticker. Bruce had dropped out
early, like the rest of us. He and I went down the same road again,
pulling all $1,500 of his savings and then dropped another $1,000
Phil fronted him. Victorious, I turned to Phil again.
³Let¹s go,² he said. Like Greek gods of children¹s competitions,
we pounded our fists silently in the air.
³Ro. Sham. BO,² he called with each move, pausing only to
observe the winning hand before counting down again. Phil fell
apart again, for more money than ever before.
³That¹s it, you¹re cut off,² he said. ³Bruce, don¹t play him
anymore. He¹s my doppelgänger.²
I counted my bills. Kimra, meanwhile, had begun to attract a
following through plastic hand matches. Phil wanted in. He got
cleaned out ‹ again.
³Is she family?² he said.
³My girlfriend,² I replied.
³All family¹s out,² he said, as he melted into the crowd, his
blue golf shirt and wrap-around shades floating off like the
Cheshire Cat¹s frown until he finally vanished. I didn¹t see him
again the rest of the day.
Rolling high (we were above $7,000 very briefly), we sought out
more street action. That would prove to be our downfall. I found
David, my arch-rival, and he took me down really fast for a lot of
fake money. And then his 4-going-on-5 daughter Breanna beat me even
more quickly. Another small girl took another $1,000. Had it not
been for one determined but predictable 10-year-old boy, I might
have been done for good right then. I escaped with $1,500, but the
damage was done. Kimra and I scrounged at the edges for a few
hours, amassing $4,300 ‹ not enough to win a prize, but enough to
take one big shot to double up.
We found it in the person of a wily competitor I can only bring
myself to call ³Ol¹ Blue.² Wizened and wise, Blue had just won
$4,200 off another dejected RPS warrior. He couldn¹t possibly make
it two in a row, right?
Well, in someone else¹s story, maybe he couldn¹t. But in this
one, I didn¹t win a throw. We tied twice, and then he took me out,
his scissors ripping my paper into neat thirds. I handed him the
stack of bills, and my band of three headed for the showers.
Remember: Kids and old men are invincible. Only bet against the
pros.
