We finally enter, and it’s a cathedral to absurdity. Prodigy’s “Fire starter” is blaring in the background as we try to make our way around the spectacle. Disco and coloured concert lights flash around the venue, with lit screens casting the three elements of rock, paper, and scissors as lighted emblems on the ceiling. To our right, Captain Morgan holds an impromptu press conference, declaring his spiced rum to be the finest drink of the seven seas, and calling out Black Beard as a punk-ass turd. On the left, a super-wiener-or a guy in a hot-dog costume complete with cape-gets interviewed by three reporters. Two saucy maidens in fishnets and naughty referee outfits roam the packs of players, promoting the event with titillation. One group, calling themselves team Bukkake, sees their chance and hijacks the stage. The wrestle away the mic from the emcee and start yelling, “Rock, rock, rock!”
This was the scene Saturday night as the World Rock, Paper, and Scissors Championship got underway at the Steam Whistle Brewery. Toronto has hosted the event for the past five years, as over 500 athletes, representing four Canadian provinces, 26 U.S. States, Australia, England, Ireland, Norway, New Zealand, and Wales, fought for the chance to win $7,000 CDN and the title of best rock-paper-scissors player on the planet.
With me were two rookie competitors to this high-flying tournament of fist-wielding power. But while still in the amateur ranks, RPS was nothing new to Josh and Pat.
Hailing from Boston, they had been hustling in the sport for years. It didn’t matter whether it was in the middle of lecture, during a keg stand, or over lunch at work, each had been challenging and defeating unknowing suckers for years. They had trekked across the border for the tourney, eager to take on the tried and true.
As we made our way through the cold mist of Saturday night, I could hear my friends in tow planning their strategies for victory.
“I’m throwing paper,” Josh said. “I’m going bureaucratic on the fucker.”
“So you’re feeling good?” I asked.
“I’m feeling pretty good right now,” Josh answered. He turned to Pat. “You think they’ll let me take an oversized check across the border?”
“Customs will hassle you, but you could just rock, paper, scissors him for it,” Pat responded. “And you’ll take it down.”
Pat, a student and lacrosse player from the University of Massachusetts, is a physically intimidating 6’4, and fiercely competitive. He had recently spent a year in Spain, and when he returned home, he arrived with a head frocked by a shocking dose of rust-coloured hair and beard. He towers over opponents like a conquistador on horseback. He is as good-natured as they come, boisterous and charming. But he would sacrifice both qualities in an instant to claim victory. His throw of favour: rock.
“It’s not because it’s the aggressive move,” he explained. “But because it’s a moral disheartener. You throw a scissors and you wind up getting crushed. Psychologically, it’s tough to regain your composure.”
Josh is a UMass student as well, studying business and economics while working with an accounting firm. He is the more seasoned of the two, having taken the RPS skills he learned on the playground with him to the business realm. His tactic is to out-psyche opponents by telling them what he was going to throw, and then pick the opposite-sometimes.
“Mind games wilt away the weak,” he said. “Get them confused, then flip the switch.”
While these two grizzly athletes were getting primed and ready, I was taking the spectator’s role with my buddy Dave, also from Boston but taking courses at the University of Rochester. We made the line-up at 7:15 p.m., with the tournament starting at 8 sharp.
“This is the most hyped event since LeBron James, or at least Tickle-Me Elmo,” Dave said, scanning the crowd of one thousand attendees.
As we funnelled our way to the brewery’s open hinges, a fellow competitor joined us. Wearing a neon afro wig, he hid behind Pat as he quickly snuck a few back from his flask.
“So when did you turn pro?” he asked Josh between gulps.
“I’d say around 2001,” Josh responded. This was his first pro event, but he had been hustling RPS for money long before that night.
“What would you say is your winning percentage in these games on the side,” I asked.
“83 per cent,” Dave claimed, answering for Josh.
“I’d vouch for that,” Pat stated.
“I’d put it a bit higher,” Josh concluded.
“Well, it’s all just a shit-show,” our neon-haired companion said. “I was here last year with four buddies, and they all got out in the first round. Except me, I lasted until fifth place, and lost to the defending champ. I still remember the throw I lost on. Should have thrown paper.”
The clock hits eight, and the ceremony concludes. After the referees are sworn in, it’s game time. I huddle off to Arena C, where Pat is the first to compete. The ref explained the rules and the format.
“There are a total of three sets, and two winning throws takes a set. The first competitor to win two sets moves on to the next round. Best of luck to everyone, and let’s play!”
Pat gears up against his opponent. He’s nearly the same size as Pat, only twenty years older and smeared with an angry, drunken stare. Not the type you’d like to cross in a dark alley.
The ref counted down, and the fists swung their primes.
“One, two, three go!”
Pat throws a rock, and he takes down drunkenly-thrown scissors.
“Honestly, who throws scissors?” one observer shouts. Pat smirks. Drunk guy looks like he’s about to take a crow bar to the crowd.
“One, two, three go!”
Pat tosses a paper, and looks away in disgust as he gets torn apart by another scissors.
“One to one,” the ref announced. “Get set. One, two, three go!”
Pat unfurls another paper, and a third scissors takes him down.
“I can’t believe he went with the toolbox in the first set,” someone observed of Pat’s opponent. “That’s ballsy.”
Pat is visibly shaken. The next set begins, and his face is down, unable to look away from his fist. His opponent is eyeballing him, like a snake coiling to attack.
The next set ends quickly. Pat goes rock, and his opponent has paper. Pat throws down paper, and the scissors fillet him alive. He’s out of the competition, one of the first.
I pat him on the back, and steer him out of the pile to see if we can find Josh.
He’s over at Arena K, and we see him walk towards us smiling a weak grin of shattered expectations.
“How’d you do,” Pat asked.
“Lost,” Josh answered. “He was cutting me up all night.”
