1 Pixel Off: The End

Ladies and Gentlemen, I’ll try to make this short – On Thursday, March 11th, 1PXOFF’s final ball was thrown.

It’s no stretch to say that this was not how we wanted things to end – the tournament had just begun. We were just getting warmed up, really. Accustomed to the pre-game routine, the entire team boarded the elevator at the same time, an entire cab of white and red uniforms, an irrepressible energy permeating the air. On the fourth floor we pushed through the narrow hallway to the basketball courts, started the practice throws, but this time something was different.

The balance was off. I think everyone could feel it and it became apparent as soon as the game started. First on the chopping block was to be the team we played two weeks ago that we had swept – we rushed in confidently, fluidly, as one united team. We tossed and dove, dodged and weaved, yet one-by-one we looked at each other in confusion as we filled up the sideline, watching in horror as our team lost not one, but two games in a row. From behind the line I channeled my most ferocious little league dad, one that quite lucidly displayed a disproportionate amount of anger at the massacre being perpetrated against the ones he cared so much about. When we won the third game my optimism returned, but soon it became apparent that we were sliding, that when game five came around, a hard-fought-for game, one that had been bought at the price of doing everything right, well . . . this time it just wasn’t enough.

I have to admit that even I became crestfallen as we lined up to high-five the team we had destroyed only two weeks ago. “Good game, good game, good game . . .” there was nothing good about this game. Defeated, in every literal and metaphorical sense, I returned to the locker room and began to change out of the uniform that I could see no possible future use for.

Then I stopped. I put my jersey back on. I ran out to the foyer where the entire team sat and leaned against the walls. Everyone was still wearing their uniforms.

“You know I was thinking,” I explained breathlessly, “I think we should get a drink or something, as a team– if everyone wants to.”

Kristal laughed. “Yeah, we already decided to. We were just waiting for you.”

It’s no stretch to say this was not quite the plan, not exactly what we were expecting the sum of our nights of training to add up to. But a funny sort of math is done between people who find themselves together on the knuckle side of the upper hand. We sat for hours as James reenacted the epic shot he had landed during game three – he throws an imaginary ball in slow motion as we all try to reproduce the ridiculous sound the guy in the Linkin Park shirt made as the ball scraped across his face. Kassy flexes her throwing arm in defense of some of her crazier lobs, I dodge wadded up napkins and coasters to show everyone that I am still on point. It was really no surprise that we explained to our (surprisingly tolerant) waiter that we were celebrating a victory. Just not the victory we had practiced for.

I wish I had a cunning web design metaphor for you that would explain how, in the end, you’re rewarded for every ounce of effort you put in. But the fact is, not everything you do will work out right. Some pushes fail and get reverted. Not every design gets approved, and some days we all leave feeling a little worse than we did that morning. But it’s the times that you get it right that you remember. The questionable experimentation that leads to that occasional breakthrough, the last minute choice that saves a launch, that extra hour that saved you ten more down the road.

They are quiet victories, often drowned out by the resounding deride of our failures, but they are just as important to our survival. We learn from our losses, yes, but our victories are buying the next round. If every night we folded up our uniforms with a sense of regret for all the catches we missed, all the throws that went directly into the other team’s hands, I doubt any of us would wake up ready to do it again.

It’s the times you get it right that count.

So forgive me for the short blog; this week’s game was fairly forgettable. What remains anchored in my mind instead is the most calloused, passionate dodgeball team to ever grace the Denver Athletic Club. Take a look at these faces! Do they not convey an energy so incandescent, a fervor so ardent and true? Does this picture not create a swell of camaraderie and pride, one that even weeks later moves you like a hymn?

No?

Well . . . I guess you’d had to have been there.