Sports in Hell by Rick Reilly Page B

time for her to finally throw some Paper. Imagine my surprise to see her Rock again. Down one throw already. I thought: No way she throws three straight Rocks, right? Who does that? This crazy spacey girl who tans by 20-watt bulbs, that’s who. I threw Paper and there was her Rock again. Win for the good guys. Frizzy Guy smiled a see-what-I-mean? at me. I decidedmaybe he knew what he was talking about. Here came the rubber throw. Two Scissors. Tie. Would she go back to Rock again? Yes, yes, she would, I thought. She’s that high. I threw Paper. And what did she throw? Scissors.
    Dick nipples!
    Game over. Match over. Tournament over for Our Hero. The ref leaned over and unceremoniously zipped off my “Currently Undefeated” strip. It was like in the Civil War, when the colonel rips off your epaulets and sends you out of the fort horseless.
    (Personal record: 4–4.)
    I was Steamed, so I went over to cool it down with a cold Whistle and who was there but Graham Walker, the president of the World RPS Society, the grand poobah of the finger martial arts. I told him what happened. His eyes got huge. “You idiot! You got conned!” he said. “It’s the oldest con in the world. You got played by the second.”
    â€œThe second?” I said.
    â€œYeah, she probably didn’t throw Rock at all the first round. The guy was in cahoots with her. He’s the second. So he tells you to throw Paper when he knows all she throws is Scissors.”
    I felt like Bruce Willis at the end of
The Sixth Sense
. Everybody knew I was a dead man except me. I stomped off looking for Frizzy Guy. When I found him, I took him by the shirt button and snarled, “Did you con me?”
    â€œNo!” he said. “I swear on my mother’s grave!”
    I didn’t believe him. There was something in his eyes.
    â€œI mean,” he said, “we DO run a two-man con on the floor.”
    â€œWhat’s a two-man con?”
    Turns out a two-man con is when Guy No. 1 is throwing against the mark, when the “second” strolls up, pretends he doesn’t know Guy No. 1, and says, “Hey, wanna play a three-way?” In a three-way, all three players throw and nobody wins a point until somebody cleanly beats both the other two. So if Guy No. 1 throws Paper and the other two throw Rock, that’s a point for Guy No. 1.The con is that the two buddies have a pattern all worked out so that they know exactly what each is going to throw. They keep it close, lose a few, but when the money gets big, Guy No. 1 eventually wins all the money, which he splits later with the “second.”
    So, sure they con people, just, you know, not me.
Round Three
    The coat-and-tie Norwegian champ was crying. Literally crying. He had to bury his head in his coach’s blazer. Turns out champions of national federations—Norway, Sweden, Australia—get a free pass into the third round. And he got one and was
still
gone after one (1) match.
    â€œPretty emotional, huh?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yes,” he sniffed. “We aimed for three players to finish in the top sixteen this year. And so you see we have placed no one now. I am so sad for myself and my teammates and my country.”
    I could only hope the Norwegian federation brought the grief counselor.
    On the floor, the atmosphere was blazing. There were dozens and dozens of street games going on. Huge stacks of street bucks were being held in the air while men in ninja hoods fought guys in sombreros with actual chips in the brims and salsa in the centers. And behind them, I noticed Johnny Bravo taking on somebody while his teammates chanted “Not your fault!” over and over.
    â€œWhat’s it mean?” I asked one of them.
    â€œIt means, ‘It’s not your fault when you lose to Johnny Bravo,’” the guy said. “He’s just that good.”
    Brutal.
    We decided we better get started winning the $1,000