Tournament layouts have an almost fung shui-like ability to manage the gestalt of an event. Â 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. Â 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. Â 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. Â 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. Â 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. Â Around round 4, though, Â the diminutive judge went to lunch and I was stuck covering the floor. Â The format was straight forward so I thought I could escape judge calls. Â 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. Â 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: Â It’s ok, I’ll figure it out.
That’s what IÂ thought.