In my last post I went to great lengths to encourage you to forget about the last match you played and go forward into your next match fresh faced and all guns blazing. This is true and I stand by it. But you know what it's like, there's always that one loss that gets under your skin. That one defeat that burrows deep, like a tick, ensuring you will suffer the loss for many months to come. If you can't relate to this right now, give it time. In this post I'm not even going to pretend to be a good winner. Don't get me wrong, I wish nothing but the best to all those who beat me fair and square. I just wanted to offer a warts and all look at just how devastating a loss can be.
There is a few matches I could cite as the one that sticks with me since the BHO opened it's metaphorical doors last March, but when I boil it down there is a clear winner; a match, that when I think about it, I still get that pang of disappointment as if it only happened a few minutes ago; the final match of the 2024 End of Year Knockout. Even the prospect of going back to that fateful evening makes me want to wretch. But here goes, for you fine people, I'll do it anyway...
It was a tournament that I most certainly had my eyes on winning, but I was also realistic, there were a lot of us competing, more than ever (eleven of us), and it was going to be a long old night. From the beginning of the evening, not even the tournament, things did not bode well. There were many delays and much hubbub. This did nothing for my confidence. I have mentioned previously how much such a carnival atmosphere can affect my game, and this was no different. It's fair to say that at this point I was beginning to get a bit antsy. Neil decided that when everybody was present and ready it was the perfect time to put the clothes he'd had in the washer all day, into the dryer. Now I know what you're thinking, it only takes two minutes right? Well, not when Neil's doing it! He moves like a highly sedated inmate at Broadmoor so even the simplest of operations can take three times longer than the average human. All this fannying about did indeed take its toll on me. When the first round actually got going, I played like a bit of a tit. I finished fifth in the match, so at least I wasn't eliminated, but to say I was disheartened would be an understatement. This was only the first round, and I know that if I get off to a shonky start, it usually only gets shonkier from then on. But when round two rolled on by, it was quite the opposite. I managed, and I don't quite know how, to come first. But I tell you what, it sparked an ember. I was no longer disgruntled or hampered by feelings of annoyance towards my fellow competitors. I had fresh focus. I was as focused as a pervert's camera on an upskirting mission. So I entered the third round like Bruce Lee entered the dragon, Or did I see the wrong version of that movie? And what do you know? I stormed the match AGAIN. First place twice in a row! This is unheard of, for me at least. When the final came around, my confidence was soaring. I felt invincible, like a viking at the gates of Valhalla waiting for the big piss up in the sky.
This is about the time where fate decided to step in and give me the middle finger. And not only did she show me the middle finger, I got it right up the... well, you know. I was walking on air, ready to hold that Champions Badge in my hands and raise it in the air like the young Danny Larruso did in the first Karate Kid; beaten, bloody but victorious. Never before was the glory of a victory so close that I could almost touch it. The game got underway. All the way through I thought I had a fair chance, not one of the three of us seemed to be doing spectacularly, so it was anyone's game. And then... it wasn't mine. Each roll I took was worse than the on that preceeded it. My scores went dooooown. Then my head did. And so it was, I ended up coming goddamn last, after two matches at the top. This was a monumental blow. It hit me harder than a degenerate hits his wife. I put on a brave-ish face and congratulated the winner, Claire, but deep down I felt sick with trauma. I was seething. If I'm being truly honest, then I wasn't really fooling anybody, they knew about my grief, and they consoled me in the only way they knew how; by taking the absolute piss. This, as you might imagine, did not help. After a while of relentless jibes about my performance, I think they picked up on the fact that I did not have the best sense of humour at that point, so they relented. For the purposes of full disclosure, I will say that this was total hypocrisy from me as I would have wasted no time in ridiculing my competitors. Normally, when I lose, I accept my fate, and I welcome every sneering jibe that they have to throw at me and I usually take it like the good sport I am for 99.9% of the time. But that night was different. That night hurt. I alway like to win, who doesn't? Since the birth of the BHO I have been coveting a championsip badge like my neice covets a one litre bottle of vodka on a weekend. This was the closest I had ever been. So when the rug was yanked from under my feet, you'd best believe I was hurting!! It's fair to say that the pain isn't quite as raw today as it was back then. But it still lingers.
It could be just a normal day, I'll be fixing myself some breakfast, poached eggs perhaps. I'll get to plating them up, then BANG! I'm transported back to that miserable evening and the crushing defeat that came with it. That's how you know that a particular match was a hard one to swallow. The memory of it sets up camp in the dark recesses of your mind and mooches off your positive outlook, eventually leaving you with nothing but the memory of that cursed match. It will move out eventually, but it will sure take it's time about it. Such is the nature of the lingering defeat...
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