EPT
Esports was dead to begin with, there could be no doubt about that. It had been put to death by the weight of negative sentiment stacked against such otherwise reputable bodies as Gom and MLG, whose miscommunications and misdealings had, at the height of the festive season, caused a drama so great that to merely attempt to read about other topics has become an uphill struggle.
There was a time when good men would use their positions of authority to relieve the strain; if they could not bring us news of some new drama to prevent the stagnation of the conversation, they could at least bring us word of what the Korean contingent was making of the current drama.
There was a man who used to run one of the most efficient and productive esports dramamills of all time, a man for whom there once was a tremendous amount of good sentiment. Toward the end of his career though, he had grown withdrawn and miserly, refusing to share with others the esports gold he hoarded for himself. Instead, he would perch like some wicked dragon, glutting on his drama cache. His avarice knew no bounds.
He had shut down his Esports Dramamill, and fired me. Now, my son, Tiny Timplar, would not be able to afford the amulet he'd so desperately wanted for Christmas.
That man was Ebenezer Milkis, and he was preparing for bed.
![[image loading]](http://i.imgur.com/qPJab.jpg)
It was that night that Ebenezer Milkis bedded down on his fine feather bed, stuffed and overstuffed with page upon page of printouts, endless scripts and translations of Korean responses to different dramas - dramas never to be shared with the rest of the foreign community. On that night, Milkis lit himself a candle and took out his laptop, browsed to PlayXP and began the evening's translation, preparing already to stow the precious english-language drama away under his bed.
Slowly, softly, he started to slip into a sound sleep, but just as he did the candle guttered out.
![[image loading]](http://i.imgur.com/4AGQc.jpg)
He found himself suddenly confronted by an apparition, a glowing, howling spectre, a figure from the distant past. Drifting and white, flowing and ghostly, the figure announced itself to be the ghost of esports past. Understanding well that the ghost had existed since the time of Quake, Ebenezer Milkis scrunched up his face and, with only a regretful glance at his vital translations, asked the ghost why it had come to him.
It explained that the work of the esports was not yet done. He had seen the rockets and the rails, the boom times and the bust; if esports were to survive it would need brave, selfless men, men who would work to serve something bigger than themselves - to make great things happen. Through it all, the ghost of esports past showed Milkis a vision of Counter-Strike tournaments packed to the rafters, and eventually of those same tournaments with no attendants at all.
It's message delivered, the ghost shrank away, and all at once old Ebenezer woke in his bed, his laptop beside him, translations unfinished.
Though Ebenezer was moved by the lengthy speech the ghost of esports past had given him, he was undeterred from his niggardly course. He had been down that road before, you understand, and it had earned him nothing but fame, notoriety and power, and at what cost!? He had had to share all the precious drama out; everyone knew what he had known.
"No, that simply wouldn't do," he said to himself as he turned back to his translation, "I must keep all the drama for myself. What if we should run out? It's too precious a resource to simply share out with everyone else."
He went back to his translation work, and as before he began to nod off, his head slowly dipping toward his chest as the wind howled through the boughs of trees outside.
![[image loading]](http://i.imgur.com/2owBC.jpg)
He was awakened by a crash and the rattling of chains, and when he glanced up from the soft glow of his display he saw two white figures hovering in the air above him. Their chains rattled as they declared themselves to be, combined, the ghosts of esports present.
They rambled on, at great length, often off topic and occasionally with sidelong references to one another's fine looks and masculinity. One announced that he'd had some form of chills because of the burgeoning state of esports, but that esports would surely be killed stone dead by the actions of greedy men like wise old Ebenezer Milkis, whose stranglehold on the world of translation would damn them all. "We know this," they said, "because we are former Brood War progamers."
He woke again, this time with less of a fit, and consulted with growing guilt his stack of papers. The candles around him had burnt down nearly to the stump, and yet he felt the dull weight of sleep pull his eyelids down again.
Before him appeared the ghost of esports future, a towering figure in a dust-grey robe.
![[image loading]](http://i.imgur.com/G41DL.jpg)
He leaned in close to old Ebenezer's shoulder, and brought him forward through time, showing him a vision of a day when the good work of Starcraft hopefuls was undone, a day when esports still lived, but all the world was League of Legends tournaments and Brood War was just a distant memory.
He took him to see his own grave, the headstone printed in one language only.
Here Lies Milkis
Who Could Have Translated, but Didn't
Who Could Have Translated, but Didn't
He woke with a start, and as he did the church bell outside rang out, crying out to all who heard that Christmas had arrived at last. He rose, papers fluttering in all directions and laptop crashing to the floor, to spread the good word of esports to all who'd listen.
When he got out into the street, he clutched me close in a powerful hug and bade me,
"Chronicle this night, old friend, and your son Tiny Timplar will have his amulet this day."
So it happened that I came to write this blog, and perhaps one day my Tiny Timplar will have his amulet...
Big thanks to Milkis for not getting even a little bit mad at me for writing this :D
![[image loading]](http://dl.dropbox.com/u/42425448/SirJolt-1874.jpg)
