My 2024 ended on a sour note. Just a few days before Christmas, I got sick. Like, really sick, maybe the sickest I have ever been. I initially thought that I had contracted a classic case of the “con crud” (the illness so-called for its prevalence at fan cons), having spent the weekend at Holiday Matsuri. But as Winter Break flew by, leaving me still bedridden, I realized it was in fact my greatest enemy: sinusitis. I hate that guy.
I started the semester already behind and still sick, trying to support my closest friends through some of the toughest periods of their lives while also trying to hold myself together. The only respite I had all month was that Frosty Faustings — the one of the largest Guilty Gear majors — was coming up. All I wanted, even needed, was to do well and prove myself, because my next chance was months away. So I practiced every day for hours: studied every problem matchup, researched every player in my pool, refined the tech I needed to win. And in the process, I let myself fall even further behind on my schoolwork.
By the second to last week of January, I was feeling much better — perhaps even ready for Frosty Faustings. My original plan was to take the train to Chicago on Thursday, catch up on homework during the journey, get KBBQ with the Central Florida Strive scene and have a fun weekend overall. My train, however, was cancelled due to the cold front, replaced with a bus far too cramped for me to comfortably do my homework. Instead of arriving at 2 p.m., I got to my hotel well after nightfall, missing the opportunity to see my friends on my first day in Chicago. And in my rush to get off the bus and lie down, I left the only pair of gloves I had brought behind. It was the worst start to the weekend I could have imagined.
Friday, the day before my Strive pool, provided some respite, though. I had plenty of time to practice, support my friends and play in the Skullgirls tournament that I had completely forgotten signing up for. This had been happening for over a year now: I would sign up for Skullgirls at a major, thinking I’d make the time to practice, and then just … not. Still, the bracket was a fun time, as I got to fuck around in a game I still love even if I don’t really compete in it anymore. I showed off my horrendously boring playstyle to my friend and hotel roommate Nahida then got to bask in the glorious horror of the Super Smash Bros. room’s overbearing heat and stench. Afterward, a few friends and I went to the mall (the only landmark in Lombard aside from Frosty Faustings itself), and I practiced Strive as much as I could. I went to bed early, feeling calm — for once — and ready to tackle my bracket and prove myself as a competitor.
I had gotten close before. My results at other majors had been good, if not spectacular. I had come close to beating top-level players before, but never quite managed to. For the entirety of my Strive career, my greatest enemy (aside from sinusitis) had been the game five set: Oktoberfist II, CEO 2023, Frosty Faustings XVI, Roundhouse 2024, CEOTaku 2024. Dozens of locals and online tournaments in between. Runs lost to the critical do-or-die moment when, regardless of how well I had played beforehand, I would invariably freeze up, make amateur mistakes and fumble each and every opportunity I had. But I had practiced and knew I had the skill and motivation to break through. I had learned about the psychology behind these mistakes. It wouldn’t happen again.
My bracket started off without a hitch — I was flying high, pulling off cool combos while my friends watched, absolutely destroying my first two opponents, hardly having to try. My third opponent was Kyet, as I had expected. I was already out of pools by that point, but my goal was bigger than that. While I was seeded to lose to Kyet, I had practiced the Axl matchup for hours and knew that I was, simply put, the better player. I went into the set with a confidence that was, while reckless, certainly earned from the rest of my performance.
I lost the first game. I was pissed off; I was playing like an idiot. I took a deep breath and immediately proceeded to lose the second game. I had to get a reverse 3-0 to win now, so I adjusted my headset, drank my water and locked in. It was 2-1, then 2-2. I was confident, once again flying high. My practice was paying off, and I was dismantling Kyet — only one more game remained. We reached the last possible round. Seeing his resources, I improvised a combo, hoping to bait out a nervous misplay.
Instead, I gave him one last chance to breathe, which he took, promptly winning the set.
I stayed there, with my head in my hands, for what felt like forever. I wanted to go back and win, wanted nothing more than to amend the three games worth of mistakes that I knew I was too good to make.
We fist-bumped, and I went to the bathroom to try and calm down. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted nothing more than to have the space and time to cry, but I didn’t. I washed my face, returned to the ballroom, checked in for my next matches and sat down. Then, I started crying.
I could feel my body shrinking into itself. I felt horribly alone, but even more than that, horribly embarrassed. I was crying, in public, over a video game. Over the fact that I had spent a month (and many more before that) grinding just to consistently fail right before the finish line. Why did I waste so much time preparing to lose like this? For the first time in forever, I feared the future. Everything’s falling apart. Not one thing is going well for me. I thought about all the work I had postponed for this, the hours I had spent on that bus, all the time I had thrown away. I can’t even take a break without ruining everything.
I don’t know how many people noticed me crying. (I can only hope it wasn’t too many). One person that did notice though — the one person I needed to notice — was Nahida. And as she hugged me, I kept sniffling out words just like I had when I was sick a month before, telling her that there was no point, that I should just head back to the hotel and rest. But, as she reminded me, I still had to play: fighting game brackets are double elimination, and I had top 196 to go and make her proud. I did not for one second believe that I could do that, and I told her as such; all she responded with was, “Trust yourself.”
My first set in top 196 was against another Axl. My face still felt sticky from the tears, and as I locked in my character selection, I was ready to lose and vanish from the venue as quickly as humanly possible. I won the first game, though, and the second, so I couldn’t leave just yet. I took a deep breath and, in the most ironic turn of events possible, promptly lost games three and four. I was about to get double eliminated by the character I had practiced the most against, in the way that I had lost almost every chance I was given in the game. But then I thought about what Nahida told me and tried to trust myself. If I was going to lose regardless, I might as well do it with a smile.
I don’t remember exactly how I won. All I remember was the shock and relief I felt as I hit my arcade stick (which didn’t damage the aluminum shell but did hurt my hand quite a bit). I sat with my head in my hands, in complete disbelief at what I had just done.
It was just a stupid competition in a stupid game, and yet it had turned the deepest despair into a profound, serene joy. I did it. Even if I couldn’t replicate it, I had won a game five set. It wasn’t a set I was slated to lose, nor was it against a top player, but I had shown that I could continue to fight even when I thought I couldn’t. After that, two swift and confident 3-0 victories left me only one set from making it to top 48, a set against Anji player EN#, who is relatively well known in the community and was seeded much higher than I was that day. But I was very experienced against Anji, and I had all the momentum on my side, so I thought, why not. Let’s win this thing.
The first two games were as swift as the matchup allowed. I won easily, flawlessly. The only obstacle in my path was the jeering of EN#’s friends, who I could hear, clear as day, through my headset-earplug combination. All I could think while I was winning was “shut the fuck up.” Crowd noise had distracted me to the point of losing before, so I had started to wear earplugs under my headset to try and reduce its impact — it wasn’t working that day, though. I was angry and distracted, and I lost games three and four. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.
I felt Nahida touching my shoulder. I didn’t realize it, perhaps because of how damn loud the other side was, but a bunch of my friends were watching and cheering for me, too. I put on Denzel Curry, took a deep breath and trusted myself. You know what happens next.
Once again, I reflexively punched my fight stick, leaving my hands bruised for the rest of the weekend. I fist-bumped my opponent, got up, walked toward my friend John and shook him by the shoulders. Did you see that? I’m BETTER. It was the most euphoric I have ever felt. It was almost scary, but I didn’t care. I let him take two games to let him think he had a chance (not true — I was scared shitless). I just kept repeating the unbelievable fact that I had won not one but two game five sets, that I had beaten a player seeded to eliminate me, that I had won four sets in a row to make it to top 48. I had trusted myself, and I had done it.
What happened in top 48 hardly matters to this story. I had to play against EVO winner Leffen, and at that point, I just wanted to put on a good show. That I did: with much of the Central Florida Strive community watching, I won a game and made a player 100 times better than me fight for a victory instead of just letting him take it. I placed 33 out of 701 entrants. I had proven, as I had set out to, that I was good enough to make it to the later stages of a major — even playing the worst character in the game, even while having a complete mental breakdown halfway through my run. I had proven to myself that I was good enough.
We celebrated my placing and my friends’ similarly great performances with conveyor belt sushi. I ate 10 plates. My phone was completely drained of battery by this point, and I chatted my friends’ ears off, excited as I was. We returned to the venue to watch Strive Top Eight, the conclusion of the actual tournament portion of the event, which was in all honesty kind of boring; nowhere near as exciting as my matches, nor the matches I had watched my friends play, crowded around monitors and shouting until my throat was sore again.
There was too much adrenaline in my system for me to sleep. We didn’t have any plans for Sunday — traditionally, the hangout-and-casuals portion of the event — so I slept in. Nahida and I left the room to play in a 2v2 Strive bracket (which sucked) and spent the next few hours playing casuals at the venue; I even got to have dinner with my girlfriend in Chicago proper. Later that night, Nahida and I went to my friend Brandon’s hotel room; the room, meant to house six occupants, was filled with a who’s who of Central Florida Strive players (and a few unfamiliar faces), with whom I shot the shit for hours and hours. We played a lot of Strive, but more importantly we had a hell of a time hanging out. My laptop, precariously placed on the corner of the TV table to serve as an additional Strive setup, ended the weekend with a dented fan that made me fall even further behind on my work. People trickled out, but I stayed until well past 4 a.m., at which point Nahida basically dragged me back to our room, even though I could have kept going until sunrise.
Monday, unsurprisingly, sucked. I barely slept and almost didn’t make it in time for the train (which was actually a train this time), and I was way too exhausted to do any of my homework this time, either. All I could think about, on the train and later that day, was the fact that I needed to write about Frosty Faustings again. Something as silly and meaningless as a fighting game tournament had made me feel emotions I would not have allowed myself to feel otherwise — irrational depression, exhilarating relief, unbelievable euphoria. I thought about how much everybody in the fighting game community meant to me: How, without Nahida’s support, I would have crumpled even further after losing to Kyet; how, without the rest of Central Florida watching on, I would have had no one to turn to after I managed to win; how, without all my friends there to cheer me on, I wouldn’t have people that believe in me, as a person and as a player, even when I can’t believe in myself. On the train, I felt hopelessly alone, but it was because I had never before felt so … together. I had never been cheered for like that before. I had never proven my own doubts wrong and my friends’ belief in me right before. But I knew I could again.
The worst part of majors is that, once you’re back home, you miss everything: the heat and gamer stench of the rooms; the shitty hotel breakfast; the awful coffee options; the hair-whitening stress. It’s near-impossible to return to normalcy after that. There’s also the “fighting game bug,” a phenomenon where, after a major, all you want to do is play and continue to improve. It had hit me before, sure, but never as hard as this. I’m writing the initial draft for this article Feb. 22, almost a month after the tournament, because all I’ve been doing with my free time is playing Strive. I’ve continued to improve, placed well in every online tournament I’ve played in, practiced matchups and tech further. And all I want to do right now, as I’m writing this, is to continue to improve — continue to trust myself.
Daily Arts Writer Ariel Litwak can be reached at arilit@umich.edu.
