Tournament Denial - Confessions of a 4th Year

When the leaves and temperature start falling, when every other food ends in "pumpkin spice," when your coaches start begging you to finish you platform, you know it's here.

No matter how many times your coach tells you the tournament is only in two months, or six weeks, or three weeks, it doesn't really click. Something has to happen. Some really, super duper significant (okay not that big of a deal, but I didn't want neg running significance on me) even has to happen, that makes you realize it's coming.

Maybe it's the learning that half the novices have written their speeches.

Or remembering the taste of Texas-shaped waffles in hotel lobbies.

Perhaps the realization comes when your alarm goes off at 5:30AM and you feel like you should be putting on a suit that morning.

Or when you think about the awards ceremony and your amazing friends who win things.

Or when you put on heels (or not, if you're a guy. Do not wear heels if you are a guy please) and practice your platform in front of the mirror for the first time since May.

Tournament season.

For the most dedicated debaters, tournament season can be more exciting than Christmas season. They're not that different, after all. You see your family at Christmas, you see your friends who feel like family at tournaments. You get presents at Christmas, you (possibly) get awards at tournaments. The main difference is that you can't stay in your pajamas all day at tournaments.

Three weeks out from the tournament, you realize you don't know what the heck you're doing for your neg LD case, you haven't even timed your motivational, and you should probably send your suit jackets to the cleaners. (And if you're me, you realize you should probably write a blog post before your best friend goes crazy waiting.)

It's crunch time (and not the delicious candy, sorry). Deadlines and script submission and blocking interps and trying not to slap your debate partner for not formatting any of the evidence for the 2AC. Also the small matter of having a value for your value case.

And maybe there are new events you've never done, or events you haven't done in ages, and there's also school, and Ultimate Frisbee, and hyperventilating. Or maybe you have absolutely no idea what a tournament is like because this is your first year in speech and debate and when you hear the word "tournament" you think Hunger Games style arenas and life or death battles.

But it's coming. The early mornings. The cold food. The suit-clad teenagers. The nerves. The talking to walls.

The tournament.

Don't deny it; an affirmative ballot is warranted.

Looking Forward

I have two more years of speech and debate.

I sit at my laptop in the kitchen, the rest of the household either out or sleeping. My cat has prevented me from enjoying the wonders of sleeping in. (Really, Lucie? You wake up at 8:00, play for an hour, and then sleep all day. WHY?) I don't have an Instagram, because I don't have a smartphone or any other Instagram supporting device, but I do have the ability to look at people's public accounts, and I do so with Katie Gregoire (ugh I love her). Anyway, she posted a video of her at her last Bible quizzing tournament (I don't know a lot about quizzing, but as far as I can tell it's pretty similar to the speech and debate community.)

I've had this blog for more than two years now. In some ways, those two years have gone by so fast. In other ways, it feels like it's taken me forever to get to this point. Everything is so different from how I expected it to be.

This is my first post in two months, and that's because forensics have been far from my mind. I haven't been researching the new TP rez. I haven't decided exactly which speeches I'm going to do. I don't know who I'm going to partner with in any event. I don't know what TP case I'm going to run. And thinking about all this is stressing me out.

The first club meeting of the year is in a little over a month. I feel like a lot about the club is changing, but I know one thing: they're going to ask us to write down goals. I don't have those planned out either. I guess at this point they're looking like, "find a partner," and "figure out what speeches I want to do," and "don't freak out."

Maybe doing eleven tournaments burned me out, because thinking about the coming year exhausts me. Honestly, thinking that I have two more years is overwhelming. Maybe it'll be fine once club starts. Maybe this is just tournament withdraw. Maybe I'm just really tired today because I've had a long week. And month. But this month also feels really short. UGH I'm so tired and my brain isn't functioning right. This is what happens when you go two months without writing about speech and debate.

Vote affirmative. I'm too tired to think of a creative reason why, and maybe you relate to 4th Year Exhaustion Syndrome.

NITOC - The Third Year Chronicles #27

I stand in the entry to the amphitheater and gaze around the massive space. To many, it would be a bizarre sight. Hundreds of teenagers in suits. carrying trophies and uncomfortable looking shoes. To me, though, the view is nothing unusual. Not unusual, but the epitome of bittersweet.

I spent the week with the people in this room. I don't know most of them. Some I met this week. Some I met years ago. Many had walked across the huge stage the front of the room. Many had sat in their seats and cheered for their friends. Medals drape from necks. Ballots are clutched in arms holding drawstring backpacks and snacks bought at the last minute.

My brown high-heel shoes hang from my fingertips. I'm not looking for one specific person. I'm looking at everyone, trying to be with all of them at once. The hours I'd sat through the awards ceremony, the days I spent walking around BJU's campus, and the week I spent with these people is taking its toll. The energy I had throughout the day and week is failing.

Here it is. Here we are. The end.

The end of the awards ceremony. The end of the day. The end of NITOC. The end of the 2014-2015 speech and debate year. No more electronic surveillance law or federal jurisprudence or communities' moral standards in TP and LD rounds. Broadcasting has been rotated out and replaced with monologue. Trade policies with Asian countries, liberal arts, developing countries, OI's continuance. Another year coming.

It all makes me want to cry. A long week has gone by too fast. There are so many people here I won't see for sixth months or more. Some I won't see ever again. Some have impacted me in ways not even I can see. I can only hope that I've impacted them in some way. There are so many people I need to say goodbye to, but no matter how much time I spend in this room, I cannot say enough goodbyes, enough "I love you"s, enough "thank you"s.

I didn't break in my original speech, but I did break in impromptu (to the great excitement of my club). I didn't win any events. I didn't get last place in any events. There's no trophy for me to lug back to my car. That's okay.

I watch friends and strangers mill around the room, saying their own goodbyes and congratulations. I've said a few already myself. I can almost taste the bittersweetness in the air.

"I'll see you next year!"

"I cannot believe the president skipped my name."

"Any ideas for next year?"

"I'm moving in ten days."

"I'm so proud of you!"

"...College in California."

"I love you."

Not much time passes as I stand in the back of the room. I'm so unprepared to say goodbye to my friends, so I'll be cliche and say 'see you later.' An open statement. 'Later' could mean at the ballot party, 'later' could mean next week, 'later' could mean next year. An open promise, though. Even I don't see some of these people ever again, I won't forget this week, or this year of speech and debate.

I leave my spot in the doorway. I make my way through the crowds and have to hug most of my friends at least three times before I'm somewhat satisfied with the beginning of our separation.

NITOC is over. There were a lot of hard spots. Thursday night breaks. Occasionally confusing behavior from my friends. Short nights. Long walks. Heavy boxes. Small hotel room. Three flights of stairs. Leaving my meal tickets at the hotel. Leaving my goldfish at the hotel. Feeling like passing out. Folding two hundred t-shirts. Friends breaking, friends not breaking.

Yes, there were hard spots. But the good spots, the perfect moments, the rejoicing, the small conversations, the frisbee games, the outrounds, the cute suits and kind hearts, getting lost with friends, seeing chipmunks, cheering for my friends and club mates, the sunglasses, the first round, the last round. Every real smile. Every kind word. These things overshadow the rough patches.

When I finally get in the car to go back to the hotel for the ballot party, my mind rolls over the past nine days. The lessons I've learned or relearned. Moments I'll hold onto for years.

I take a deep breath and stare out the window. I won't likely drive down this road again, so I watch the trees blur by in the darkness. I memorize the way the moon looks in South Carolina. I don't cry, but I could. Not necessarily from sadness, or happiness either. But from both.

I thank God for my friends and my family, because without them I wouldn't be anything like the person I am, and I kind of like who I am. I like where I am, right now. This tournament was long and hard and wonderful. Maybe not the best tournament ever, but it's been pretty fantastic. Even if I won't remember every detail, I'll remember what's important. I'll remember the love and pride I feel for my friends, however well they did in competition this year. I'll remember the relationships. I'll remember the people.

Vote affirmative. I'll see you next year.

(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #26)

Five Stages of Resolutional Acceptance - The Third Year Chronicles #26

Three resolutions go in. One resolution is complained about for a month then gradually accepted into our lives as debaters. Every year, it's the same story.

1. Denial

 2. Anger

3. Bargaining

4. Depression

5. Acceptance

BONUS: Exhaustion

Vote affirmative. You'll come to accept it.


(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #25)

The Last Tournament of the Year - The Third Year Chronicles #25

I've been to 10 tournaments this year. Now, I know you're probably thinking, 'dang, Hadley, that's massive amount of tournaments.' And you're right. Ten tournaments is a lot. There's probably some math I could do to see how many hours I spent at tournaments this year, but I really don't want to. Sorry.

Last weekend, I went to my last tournament of the year. (Minus NITOC, which I am going to.) The last tournament of the year is the one where you realize a few things, such as, but not limited to, the following:

• This could be the last round in which you deliver the speech you've been working on all year.
• You won't be able to hang out with your senior friends at tournaments anymore (unless they're awesome and come back to judge.)
• You'll never deliver that debate case again.
• Speech and debate camp is too far away.
• You aren't going to a tournament for at least six months.
• If you're a senior, you aren't going to compete at a tournament again. (Now that's just depressing.)
• This is your last chance for a green check mark.
• Waiting is hard.

Well, now I'm depressed.

Tournaments are exhausting. Especially when you go to ten in six months. But they're also the greatest. I won't go too far into why, because I've written a lot about this subject.

The last tournament of the year is also a reminder. It reminded me why I'm doing this to begin with: because I love people. It's easy to forget this when you're in the middle of a heated debate round, or when every ballot reads fifth and below, or when you lose around because the other team was more charming. But if we continue to go back to why we love speech and debate, these things fade away. I promise.

Vote affirmative. And try not to freak out because NITOC is in 40 days.

(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #24)

Tournament Nightmares - The Third Year Chronicles #24

I went two minutes overtime in Motivational. I left my heels in the student area. My throat was stuffy after having too much pizza and milk for lunch. I was 25minutes late to extemp prep. When I drew, I found questions on topics I knew nothing about: the newest pigeon-messenger technology, the stability of Tajikistan's economy, the leader of Australia's "Animal Justice" political party. I couldn't find anything on any of these topics, and by the time I deciphered what they might actually mean, my prep time expired. When I checked postings outside my room, I found that the top extempers in the nation were in the same room as me. And, oh, the president of Stoa was judging my speech.

As you may have guessed, this was a dream, or rather, a nightmare. The kind that you wake up from in a cold sweat, breathing like you've just run a marathon, and check the date and time to make sure what just happened didn't actually happen. The kind that makes you have to remind yourself that the tournament is still a week away.

When I was a child, I dreamed about things like my dogs getting into car accidents while driving my grandmother's car (what the heck, small child me?). Those dreams, clearly, were frightening. But something about leaving my suits at home, wearing two different shoes into a debate round, and showing up ten minutes late to parli prep just terrifies me. Maybe because that is not totally impossible, unlike my dogs hijacking my grandmother's car.

In a weird, round-a-bout, annoying way, tournament nightmares remind me to show up to extemp on time and to actually charge my laptop before going into extemp. Thanks, tournament nightmares, for doing something useful. I guess.

Vote affirmative, or have nightmares about forgetting to.

(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #23)

People Who Win - The Third Year Chronicles #23

Every tournament, someone walks away with a first place trophy.

Usually around eighteen someones, actually. Some of these people win all the time. They have to clear space on their bookshelf or wherever they put their trophies every time they come home from tournaments. Medals dangle from their first place trophies and tiny judge-hammers (some call them gavels) lean against their books.

In my 2.5 years of speech and debate (and the five years before that), I've noticed that there are two types of winners.

These are the people who are used to winning (not just people I tease about being used to winning). They expect it. They gain popularity because people want to be seen around the people who win. Then they mistake popularity for friendship. They think that, no matter how they act, as long as the keep winning (which, of course, the will) they'll gain friends. This is where they go wrong the most. These 'friendships' are shallow and fade away once dust settles on those trophies. Winning gets you recognition. Winning pulls you up Speechranks. Winning does not win you friends.

But there's another kind of winner.

I can think of a few of my friends who win. Their names are fairly well known. People come up to them and ask them about the tournament they won. They're recognized at out of state tournaments. People come up to them and ask to touch their hair. But, regardless of all this, these friends of mine are extremely humble (don't let it go to your heads).

My close friends who have placed high or won tournaments haven't changed because of it. They don't act any differently than before. They don't treat the people who don't win any differently. They have a lot of friends, yes, but not because they win. They have friends because they are friends. They treat people with kindness and humility and love, regardless of the amount of green check marks or medals others have.

They have friends, not just popularity. They have meaningful conversations, not just trophies.

Over the last two weeks of tournamenting, I've learned that while winning is fun, it doesn't last. Friendships do.

Vote affirmative, and be the second type of winner.

(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #22)