RIP Circa Survivor

I’ll write a separate Week 1 Observations later, but I wanted to dedicate this space solely to mourning my Circa Survivor entry.

Circa Survivor costs $1000 to enter and has a $10M prize for the winner, usually split by several as things get down to the wire. Three years ago, when the prize was $6M Dalton Del Don and I — the first time we ever entered — made it to the final 23 in Week 12. The value of our share was something like $260K at that point, but we got bounced by the Lions who beat the 12-point favored Cardinals and took home nothing.

When you enter a large survivor pool, the overwhelming likelihood is you’ll meet this fate at some point, whether in Week 1 or 12. So it’s not really the loss that’s painful, so much as not getting to live and die each week with a chosen team. You lose your status as “the man in the arena whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood” and become just an observer watching and commentating on the games without the overarching purpose of surviving each week.

This year was also different due to the lengths to which I went to sign up. It’s not just the $1000 fee, it’s getting to Vegas in person, the $400 in proxy fees (you need locals to input your picks for you if you don’t live there), the $60 credit card fee, the $200 crappy hotel I booked at the last minute, the flights (one of which was cancelled due to heat), the rental car that necessitated, the gas, getting lost in the desert, the entire odyssey while sick and still jet-lagged in 122-degree heat.

But it’s not about the money, and it’s not even about the herculean effort per se, but the feeling and narrative I crafted around it. I was the guy who got this done. I flew from Portugal to San Francisco for 12 hours, two days later from SF to Palm Springs to help my 87-YO uncle with his affairs, improvised to get from Palm Springs to Vegas, which took six hours due to road closures, signed up for the contests, made the flight back to San Francisco, flew to Denver at 7 am the next day, took my daughter the Rockies game in the afternoon and then on to Boulder the following day. Maybe that’s not so impressive to some of you, but for me, an idle ideas person, a thinker, observer, someone who likes to express himself via a keyboard, it was like Alexander the Great conquering Persia.

And it’s not only about that smaller mission, or the narrative I crafted around it, but a larger one which was to bring sports content to nostr which I vowed to do before the summer which is why I felt I had to make the effort to get to Vegas to sign up for the contests, to have sufficient skin in the game, to have something real about which to write.

And I got the idea to do this seriously because Heather wrote a guide to Lisbon which I posted on nostr, and a few prominent developers there were surprisingly excited about getting that kind of quality content on the protocol. And I thought — if they’re this excited about a (very in-depth) guide to one particular city in Europe, how much more value could I create posting about a hobby shared by 50-odd million Americans? And that thought (and the fact I had to go to Palm Springs anyway) is what set me off on the mission in the first place and got me thinking this would be Team of Destiny, Part 2, only to discover, disappointingly, its real destiny was not to make it out of the first week.

. . .

While my overwhelming emotion is one of disappointment, there’s a small element of relief. Survivor is a form of self-inflicted torture that probably subtracts years from one’s life. Every time Rhamondre Stevenson broke the initial tackle yesterday was like someone tightening a vice around my internal organs. There was nothing I could do but watch, and I even thought about turning it off. At one point, I was so enraged, I had to calm down consciously and refuse to get further embittered by events going against me. Mike Gesicki had a TD catch overturned because he didn’t hold the ball to the ground, The next play Tanner Hudson fumbled while running unimpeded to the end zone. I kept posting, “Don’t tilt” after every negative play.

There’s a perverse enjoyment to getting enraged about what’s going on, out of your control, on a TV screen, but when you examine the experience, it really isn’t good or wholesome. I become like a spoiled child, ungrateful for everything, miserable and indignant at myriad injustices and wrongs I’m powerless to prevent.

At one point Sasha came in to tell me she had downloaded some random game from the app store on her Raspberry Pi computer. I had no interest in this as I was living and dying with every play, but I had forced myself to calm down so much already, I actually went into her room to check it out, not a trace of annoyance in my voice or demeanor.

I don’t think she cared about the game, or about showing it to me, but had stayed with her friends most of the weekend and was just using it as an excuse to spend a moment together with her dad. I scratched her back for a couple seconds while standing behind her desk chair. The game was still going on, and even though I was probably going to lose, and I was still sick about it, I was glad to have diverted a moment’s attention from it to Sasha.

. . .

In last week’s Survivor post, I wrote:

What method do I propose to see into the future? Only my imagination. I’m going to spend a lot of time imagining what might happen, turn my brain into a quantum device, break space-time and come to the right answers. Easier said than done, but I’m committed.

It’s possible I did this, but simply retrieved my information from the wrong branch of the multiverse. It happens.

. . .

I picked the Bengals knowing full well the Bills were the correct “pot odds” play which is my usual method. Maybe when the pot-odds are close, I might go with my gut, but they were not especially close this week, and yet I still stuck with Cincinnati because they were the team I trusted more.

And despite it being a bad pick — there are no excuses in Survivor, no matter what happens in the game, if you win it’s good, and lose it’s bad — I don’t feel that badly about it.

I regret it only because I wish I were still alive, but it was my error. I went with what I believed, and it was wrong. That I can live with 100 times better than swapping out my belief for someone else’s and losing. Had I done that I’d be inconsolable.

. . .

I won’t let the Survivor debacle undermine my real mission to bring sports to nostr. Team of Destiny 2 would have been a compelling story, but it was never essential. After all, my flight was cancelled and I had to improvise, so now my Survivor entry is cancelled, and I’ll have to improvise again. The branch of the multiverse where the Bengals won didn’t give me the information I wanted, but maybe it was what I really needed to know. That I am the man in the arena yet, the battle was ever against myself, and for a brief moment, while my team was losing, I prevailed.