[OSL] Jin Air OSL Grand Final - Page 27

The Teacher's Heart, the Master's Craft



No you idiot, not like that!

The teacher's shout was strong enough to echo in the classroom. It was Monday morning in Busan, South Korea. The school year had just started, and the air had begun to stink of sweat – a nervous, excited sweat of children whose parents pushed too hard, and by acquiescence pushed themselves too hard. Some were already thinking of suicide if they failed to get into a top 3 university at some discernible future point. Some were simply dreaming.

The students in Room 12E turned their heads in curiosity. The teacher was berating the thin boy at the back of the class. It was chemistry class, and once more, Jung Myung Hoon was in trouble. He was seated on a plastic stool, behind a black desk far too large for his diminutive frame. His short black hair was haphazardly worn, having no clear pattern of combing. The combination of his pasty white complexion and his thinness made him appear like a skeleton child. His eyes stared a midnight black, lost in thought.

He was daydreaming again, the test tube above the Bunsen burner tilted towards his right. The milky substance inside the tube was already boiling, and the girl beside him had already passed out from the fumes.

Hey, are you listening?!?

As the teacher ran towards the table, the daydreaming young boy stood up. He couldn’t see the teacher, who was waving a ruler at him in a menacing way. Rather, he was looking outside the window, towards the grassy football field where a group of school children were playing football while on break. A pass, a feint, a goal! Jung Myung Hoon smiled. In his mind, he saw them playing, but they weren't playing with a ball. They were playing with a bomb, a large cartoonish black bomb, like the ones seen on Saturday morning cartoons. The fuse was lit, and the way the sparks flew made the painted white skull on its side seem comical. His eyes grew wider as the fuse shrunk quickly.

Boom! He laughed a hysterical, high-pitched laugh of macabre humor and sadistic joy. He just couldn’t stop laughing, it was just so funny! Why didn’t they understand it? The other students wore blank stares, and for a moment he pitied them. He was still laughing when he passed out, while the others watched in horror as the teacher continued to beat the crazy, laughing boy on the head with the bloody ruler.

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No you idiot, not like that!

Choi Yun Sung slapped the boy on the back of his head. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon at the practice house. Outside, the sun was unbearably hot, and the resulting heat had broken the air conditioning. Someone had been sent to fix it, but for now the natural ventilation of the open windows would have to do. The heat gave everyone a short fuse, none shorter than the giant gorilla of a man glowering behind the boy.

The boy, now known to most as Fantasy, rubbed the back of his head where the giant hands had left a stinging pain.

But coach, he exclaimed, I won!

The slap came again, even stronger than the first. The force of the blow sent Fantasy's face and forehead crashing down on his keyboard. Dazed, he grabbed his forehead and sat up, pink marks of inverse letters all over his face.

You didn't win the right way! Stupid idiot. You played like a pig. Did you see how clumsy your army movement was? How lucky for you that your opponent was a bigger idiot and threw his hydras away to your mines. If he had muta-switched, what then? JulyZerg would have feasted on your nat with his muta micro. You think Jaedong would do any less? Jaedong would have sent his drones to humiliate you with proxy hatches.

Sorry coach...

This time, the slap hit his cheeks. It was weaker than the previous two blows, but had the added effect of throwing his glasses on the floor. As he bent down to pick them up, Coach Choi deliberately stepped down hard on the glasses. The crunch of the glass was heard throughout the empty practice room.

Play without your glasses.

But coach I can't see without my glasses!

You don't need to see anything if you're just going to play like that. Play without your glasses.

Meekly, Fantasy turned back to the monitor and placed his hand on the familiar keyboard and mouse. His thumb grazed the dilapidated black mousepad bearing the SKT T1 logo. As he prepared for another game, his thoughts drifted to the mousepad, and to the logo, and to the team. SKT T1 was the greatest team of all time. Its history was replete with individual and team championships. Its players were the greatest champions. Among their champions, none stood higher than the Terrans Lim Yo Hwan and Choi Yun Sung. Emperor and Heir. Micro and macro. He imagined himself with them, holding up a trophy and grinning from ear to ear, soaked in wine and sweat and tears. He imagined the roar of the crowd and the voice of commentator Um Jae Gyung and Kim Carrier praising him. He imagined kissing a golden mouse amidst the flash of pictures. For a brief moment he forgot that the game had started.

His SCVs were idle.

You fucking idiot!

Fantasy was oblivious to the incoming size 12 shoes. As the white rubber collided with his face, he wondered how pretty it would be if the shoe exploded into bits and pieces, shoelace in flames, cloth and leather flying around in a whirlwind cascade of white and red.

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He stepped down the stage, numb with shock. 2-3. 2-3 with momentum on his side, having equalized the match after being down 0-2. He had crumbled to the pressure. He wilted in the moment. The map was too imbalanced for Protoss. The booth was too cold. His fingers didn't feel right and his wrist was hurting from practicing continuously the past week. Stork cheated.

All that meant nothing against the thought of what awaited him. It meant nothing to the embodiment of doom standing at the edge of the stage. He had risen from his seat in excitement during game 5. Now, Fantasy could only imagine those gorilla hands wrapped around his frail neck, squeezing with fury born of a 5-0 finals record, voicing a flood of criticism between clenched teeth. His abnormally pronounced Adam’s apple bounced in fear.

Fantasy felt the man’s aura before seeing his face. It was as if the air had turned heavy in a rush of heat. He knew he had to face his coach, it was his duty to. Yet he walked slowly, as if trying to will time to slow down, to give him time to think and room to breathe. Please, I did my best! Please don’t look at me with those eyes, full of anger and disappointment. I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to show you that I’m different now. He was just too good. Finally, the infinite gray stage somehow ended, and his mentor’s shoes came into view. He forced himself to raise his head. The eyes that met his were strangely calm.

You played that game as if it was a science test you wanted to finish right away. Starcraft is art. Winning is art. And art requires time and development and a lot of thought. Execution is just another worry.

I'm s-s-sorry, the young man stammered.

Behind them, the crowd had gone crazy. So had Song Byung Goo. He was drenched, but he had finally done it. He had finally won. A champion's cry erupted from his lips.

Jung Myung Hoon didn't want to stay. He wanted to go back to the dormitory and cry in a corner.

Coach Choi voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. Sorry is for losers. See you tomorrow morning in the practice room. The great Terran coach patted Fantasy firmly on the shoulder and began to walk away.

Fantasy didn’t feel it. With a last, lingering look at the jubilant Stork, he walked backstage, heart in his throat.

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Take advantage of the high ground. But if the situation calls for it, sacrifice a good position to deal the killing blow.

The words ran through his mind in a deep and consistent staccato voice. He closed his eyes and breathed, smelling the air conditioning, the miasma of make up and hair gel, the metallic odor of his blood curdling within his fluttering heart. Fantasy was tying his shoelaces in a knot. That would be symbolic - tie your opponent into a knot. Get inside his head. Abuse your advantages. Flaunt your micro. His fingers slipped and the nail of his index finger hit the side of his shoes. He hissed in momentary pain.

The moment you enter the game, you have to have a mind to turn it into a rape.

Slowly, he shuffled his feet, testing the friction between the shoes and the wooden floor. Satisfied with the stability of his bright red shoes, the young man stood up. He was still as thin as ever, but taller. Jet-black hair was artfully mussed by the stylist, and the framed glasses emphasized his deep black eyes.

You're a champion so act like it. Let the challenger come to you, and react. When he thinks he's gotten away with a strategy, pull out your tricks and force him to react differently. Cheese rarely, but cheese hard, so much so that in your opponent's mind, the 10% chance you have of cheesing is magnified to 90%.

Suddenly, the curtain parted and Fantasy had no more time to think. His feet moved mechanically, and his posture went rigid, as if in a trance. The lights outside were blinding and for a moment he was himself again, a young boy daydreaming about football fields and bombs and pretty explosions. He remembered he loved explosions, and would sit near his window during New Year’s Day and just watch the lights all night long. He vowed long ago to do something just as explosive, to shine just as brightly as those pretty fireworks framed by the night sky.

Focus. First go for a 2 fact timing attack. If you win, second game you can go for a deep six or another timing attack. If he goes double nexus, don't bunker rush. Wait for vultures so that if your marines fall they can still cripple his economy. If his micro is good today, just contain and expand. Siege before mines if not gate expand, mines before siege if DT rush. Focus focus focus.

The voice of Choi Yun Sung was only a whisper in his mind, but they gave him comfort. He remembered the last time they spoke, right after they lost the proleague championship against the Ultimate Weapon. He was already a champion then. He had already avenged his past defeat to Song Byung Goo. He had already been crowned the true heir to the SKTerran throne.

You played well.

Thanks coach.

Iloveoov looked towards the other team. KT Rolster was celebrating already, popping champagne bottles in the euphoria of victory. Strangely, the SKT T1 Coach smiled.

Look at them Fantasy. They have gone through a lot as a team. Violet got ill. Forgg left. And now Flash is injured. They have climbed through the strongest teams in the league with sheer tenacity and will. Look at them, and tell me they have not deserved this championship.

He looked with his vulture eyes. Indeed, he could think of no reason why his good friend Flash and KT did not deserve to win.

Before he could speak, his coach turned to him.

They do not deserve that championship. Flash does not deserve the title for best Terran. They have earned it. Do you know the distinction? You earn something when you work for it, when you labor. Against that, you deserve something when you have a claim to it. Tell me Fantasy, who has the better claim to that Terran throne, to that golden proleague throne? Worth and fitness are made by lineage and by the sweat of your brow. You are Boxer’s heir. You are my student.

Fantasy nodded ever so slightly, the weight of the words pressing down on his lanky back.

Flash is now the greatest player who ever lived. But nothing is immutable in this world, not even him. Do me a favor, Fantasy. Do Broodwar a favor. Bring down the Usurping Weapon from his iron throne.

He left it at that. Nothing else needed to be said.

Fantasy shook the memory from his mind. His eyes turned into liquid steel. His limbs relaxed, and he sauntered off to the booth in that awkward gait so reminiscent of the boy a decade ago, daydreaming of explosions in chemistry class. That boy never truly died, his love for pretty explosions never left his heart. That boy simply grew up, and in growing up had found a role model to follow, a teacher to finally listen to, and an untarnished legacy to uphold.

Coach Choi was leaving for the army. Before he left, Fantasy wanted to show what he could accomplish on his own feet. He wanted to show the coach that all those years had left in him an indelible mark of genius. He wanted to dedicate this OSL to his master, the Cheater Terran, the true Monster, to whom nothing else mattered but victory. And to do that, Fantasy knew that he had to send him off with a bang. On the opposite end of the platform, his opponent, another one of the Protoss dragons, was readying his equipment.

Jung Myung Hoon imagined the explosions, the melted dragoons, the dying probes. Spying his mentor on the front row, he gave him a wave of his hand before entering his booth.

The last thought came unbidden. Time for the Terrorist to go to work.