Tournament layouts have an almost fung shui-like ability to manage the gestalt of an event. This venue was arranged in a pattern I call the “Vanishing Sunset” whereby the rows start out nicely spaced and start bunching up at one gets to the back of the room were table 1 was situated. Row 1 was simply not navigable by a man of my size and was more akin to low COPE activity where everyone has to sit down at once rather than a Magic tournament. Row 2-4 had an interesting spacing whereby I could fit down the row sideways but at the cost of every player in the direction I was facing being hit in the back of the neck with my junk. Depending on temperature, my scrotum would be either just square with the chairback or simply brush over it grazing it in the manner that makes men cringe requiring a gallop-like motion to navigate rows.
Over the day, we developed ways around the shortcomings of this arrangement. We’d put down match result slips before the first row of players were sat and a smaller judge handled rows 2-4 and I took 5-8. Around round 4, though, the diminutive judge went to lunch and I was stuck covering the floor. The format was straight forward so I thought I could escape judge calls. Five minutes later a hand flies skyward and a player yells “judge!”.
Me from the side: Yes?
Him: *Waves me over*
Me: I can get to you, but at the cost of my scrotum. I’ll come over, but if you ask me some bullshit question about a hypothetical that has nothing to do with the current board state, I will make you feel my pain.
Me: Would you still like to ask your question?
Him: It’s ok, I’ll figure it out.
That’s what I thought.