I tried to imagine poor Tim, or poor Jaz, left helpless by an early cloaked Banshee rush, single tears rolling down their cheeks. Man, some of those Bronze league guys were my friends. I'd closed the game down in disgust on Sunday evening, my burgeoning pride dented by the realisation I'd been bullying lowly Bronzers.
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I still had an open chat window to my previous opponent, the one who'd nearly thrashed me. Until that point I'd assumed selected opponents from the same league bracket as you. It took me half an hour to deliver a killing blow. My foe, who'd held me up with competent macro-management and neat Roach control, had played four games of StarCraft II in his entire life. I brought it to a close after half an hour. My next game was simpler, with a chattier opponent. I stood and punched the air, my mouse hand sweaty. His production crippled, he thanked me for a good game, and quit. Through sneaky medivac work, I managed to drop grenade-launching Marauders into my foe's largest concentration of harvester Probes. My attempt to transition back into a troop-heavy force was lanced by a quadrupedal Colossus. When I tried to harass my Protoss opponent's secondary bases with Banshee gunships, they were met by a weighty Stalker force, the anti-air robo-bastards using their blink ability to teleport into shooting range. I'd soon totted up eight wins on the bounce, pushing my ranking from the mid-teens to a serviceable tenth in my division. Even my Terran opponents seemed to be lagging in production or direct unit management. Versus Zerg: a set of Hellions to roast my opponent's vital drones. Versus Protoss: three barracks and a ball of troops. Tick, build more workers, tock, check supply depots, tick, OH GOD DARK TEMPLAR, tock, expand to your natural. I'd developed an internal metronome that regulated the basic tenets. In seven days, I will be in the gold league.” Day 2Ĭlever silver league play is about fundamentals, and I'd spent nearly 200 matches nailing them down. By the end of this week, I will have slipped the surly bonds of this silver league and risen. “But marines, we have a greater challenge, and I need your help. I stood as my opponent signified his destruction with a curt 'gg'. We've punched through wall-ins together, we've fallen to mutalisk harassments together. We've risen from a midtable placement, across 200 matches in this silver league.
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You have done your job, killing everything I've pointed you at and injecting yourself willingly with confusing green goo whenever I press T – and I press T a lot.” I was wearing my most warlike dressing gown, so they knew I was serious. “Marines, I am unhappy.” I aimed my criticism at my monitor. I spoke to the people who'd understand me. Standing astride Kulas Ravine, my little Terran command centres occupying nine of the map's 14 resource points, I should've been happy. Saturday was the day my plan came together. Silver, in the face of this stratification, was a slight. My placement in the silver league made me inordinately happy for a short time – exactly as long as it took me to realise that 'silver' is shorthand for 'might as well be last.' Even the worst generals get to play in bronze. I am a competitive man and I will fight you if you say otherwise.