Why not to wear heels to a speech and debate tourney...

I am a competitive speaker and debater. I attend at least a few tournaments each year, and I am struck by how incredibly ironic a few of the aspects of the competition really are. Here are a few examples. I apologize to anyone who doesn't get the inside jokes. You'll come to realize that effective communication is a thoroughly alien concept to many speakers, myself included.

We begin with the first day of the tournament. Speakers pour in from several states and are all squeezed into such proximity that spontaneous fusion is real possibility. I thought I saw a petite debater actually be squashed out of existence between two boxes of evidence in Milwaukee. The reason for the crush? Everyone want to reach the table to Sign In. Signing In is a mysterious process, because no matter which line you choose you will be in exactly the worst possible place. If your last name begins with "g" you will end up in the "r" line and vice versa. This problem could be solved with signs, of course, but the signs are at the tables and the tables are inaccessible beginning thirty seconds after the doors unlock. Once one has Signed In one must proceed to Script Submission. Script Submission suffers from similar line confusion, but is made even more complex by the fact that the Submission Personnel must inspect every single script. This is difficult, especially when so many speeches are calculated to cause crying. I kid you not. Half of the speeches I hear at tournaments make Bambi look like a Red Skelton skit. Some of the Interpretives even make A Walk to Remember seem reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's work. I think the people who work this station are either supernaturally gifted or simply fortified by preventative doses of Prozac.

The net effect of this process is to ensure that the tournament starts 20-60 minutes later than planned. Usually these minutes are spent, by the vast majority of the competitors, sitting around and waiting for Postings, the near-mythical sheets of paper that tell us where the rounds are and against whom we are competing. This is especially crucial in debate. Right before the debate rounds start, hundreds of suited teenagers pack the areas where Postings will soon magically appear, a bit like a bunch of giant penguins around a pile of decomposing fish. Unlike penguins, however, we treat the Bearer of the Postings with an almost eerie respect. Then, when the Posting is complete, we contemplate lifting him or her upon our shoulders and triumphantly parading him/her around the building, but mostly we just bolt for the competition rooms.

This activity deserves a paragraph to itself. Put yourself in my black dress shoes. The Postings go up. I am in Room SF 163 and up against a ferocious debater. Now, three factors come into play. First is the need for raw speed. Never underestimate the psychological advantage of being set up and coolly jotting down your value arguments as your opponent scrambles into the room. Second is the fact that the room is some distance across campus and on the far side of the building in which the Postings were placed. Third is the fact that both buildings involved are packed with scrambling people. The secret is to move fast and to never stop moving. I start down the first hallway, neatly dodging the first of two 12 year olds carrying unprotected chocolate ice cream cones randomly amongst the suits. The rest of the hall simply calls for footwork until I reach the first choke point. This is where LD debaters (who really don't carry much evidence) have a huge advantage over TPers who frequently have evidence crates the size of Chevy Impalas. I use my briefcase to wedge through the mass. Another debater uses my wake to slide through even faster. No matter. He tries to pass me as I clear the other side. I clothesline him with my Apologetics bag as we exit the clot. Splash one. The first point cleared, I head for the door. Like all doors in this building it is wheelchair friendly, meaning it is almost impossible to open the first few inches, after which it springs open and stays that way for a few seconds. I time my approach. The nearest debaters are six, maybe seven seconds behind me. I wait a half-second, trigger the door and dart through. I hear footsteps behind me quicken to a run, but I am down to the walkway and on the sidewalk by the time I hear a faint swoosh as the door suddenly closes, followed by a double thump. Splash two more. I approach the other building and see the unthinkable: the other debater is a girl and is almost as close to the building. Direct tactics of the type appropriate against male opponents are out of the question; chivalry is not completely dead, but I have options. I turn and detour across the still-soft ground, darting along a shortcut between buildings. She follows, and quickly pulls ahead as she follows an even more direct line along the wet surface. I see her high heels penetrate damp soil and hear the gunshot-like crack as one sheers off, followed by a bellow of rage. Splash another. I duck just in time as her briefcase whistles through the space previously occupied by my head. I am not quick enough to avoid the flung wreckage of a shoe, but by now I have a sizeable lead. I run up the steps to the destination building and manage to throw my case into the gap in the automatic door as it swings shut, holding it long enough to scramble through. More people are rapidly dispersing inside. One has a wingtip shoe protruding from his ear. I dive around a corner and tuck and roll as two TP teams collide and their evidence collections reach critical mass. The ensuing blast throws open the door to my room. I whip out my flowpad and notes, sit, and manage to scrape together my composure. One point three seconds later my opponent walks in. "Hello," she says, smiling. "Hope you haven't been waiting long." Both her shoes are intact. Spares, of course, but all in all a successful run. I was doing pretty well to take out one set. "Hi," I reply. "Not too long. Glad to see you got here okay. Some of these folks are barbarians."

This process repeats six times during prelim rounds for debates and four times for speech. The mood is less frantic on the subsequent days when we usually run on time. This allows for more effective use of elbows. There are also great shows of heroism and courage. Consider, for example, protecting the timers. Almost everything in this post is either hyperbole or mere fiction. Not this. Some guy off the street showed up after the end of a competition day and tried to steal the timepieces we need for both speech and debate. One of the moms, a small but evidently quite ferocious woman, managed to retain the timers. This cleptomaniacal creep is lucky, though, that he did not run afoul of either the tournament director or my mother. Remember the scene and the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? These ladies have a stare that can melt your face clean off. Tournament directors deserve medals. If we ever get serious about negotiating with North Korea we should send in the Indy tournament director. She could stare steadily into Kim Jong Il's eyes and say, "You don't want to do that, Kim. I have the power to make you miss your round. I don't want to have to do that, Kim. So just shut the reactors down." It would work instantly, and the only thing we'd have to concede to North Korea would be a new pair of pants for Mr. Il.

Not everyone associated with our tournament has the Stare, but some other intimidating individuals are the judges. There are two types of judges: parent and community. Parent judges are people with kids in the tournament (but in a different event than the one being judged). Community judges are volunteers. Let me be clear here. Few judges are mean and without these fine volunteers tournaments would be impossible. The problem is that, while judging, judges often look quite intent. A lot of concentration is usually in evidence, and this frequently prevents laughter, a major downside when one's speech is meant to be funny. Nothing tops letting loose a joke that has three judges thrashing in their seats with laughter while the fourth clearly does not get it and the last is wearing an expression that implies he hates his life and speaker is Not Helping. Even worse is going immediately after a speech calculated to make the judges cry. Especially when yours is a funny speech. Here you are, telling funny stories and jokes to illustrate your points even as the tear stains are just beginning to dry. Just great.

Responsive judges are more fun in every event, but especially debate. My favorite judges are ones who nod when they like or agree with a point. This way, I have a good idea of how I'm doing relative to my opponent. A bit stranger, but still encouraging, are judges who nod all the time. I can say, "Hundreds of thousands are dying in Darfur because of blind idealism," and he just nods, slowly. My opponent says, "Well, millions are dying in Darfur because of evil pragmatism." He nods at exactly the same rate. I say, "The petaflop barrier has been broken because of Darfurian idealistic analysis of the Categorical Imperative's effect on climate change in conjunction with the ban on CFC's but only in months not containing the letter "e" and due to the increased levels of awesome following the release of Halo 3." He keeps nodding. Cautious probing with a pen reveals that the judge is animatronic. The real one is somewhere else in the room. She is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and has already handed me the win because she likes my tie.

The last tournament went pretty well for me. I won Apologetics, Impromptu, LD debate, placed in a few other things, and got first overall. I love these events, but that doesn't mean they make sense. Still, hard to top in terms of sheer intensity, eh? Football has nothing on this...