Offseason (6)
They played like shit.
Word has it that this curse—meant as high praise for opponents who dominate—was born back in the days of old PC games, or even earlier in the arcade era.
Hearing it from the players' mouths meant our team's macro play was frustrating enough to piss off a men's Division 3 squad.
Of course, it wasn't enough to overcome their fundamental edge in raw power.
We succeeded in grabbing them by the throat, but we didn't have the grip strength to hold on yet.
Thanks to watching TIC matches every day and spending hours analyzing them together, exchanging ideas, our macro and team synergy were starting to click. We definitely had the upper hand there.
But they outclassed us in basic mechanics, champion mastery, and skill specialization. So whenever we pulled ahead on macro, they'd claw back with teamfights. Rinse and repeat.
No matter how sharp your macro, it fades if your teamfights don't hold up.
One teamfight at a time, we got pushed around by their brute force, and gradually our macro crumbled too. In the end, we lost the series.
It wasn't unexpected. Before scrims, I'd pegged it at best 3:7 in their favor. Considering men's Div 3 roughly matched women's Div 2, beating them right after promoting from Div 3 ourselves was greedy.
But we didn't come away empty-handed.
In just a week, the players could mimic world-class TIC macro to a degree—and execute it in-game with solid synergy.
During matches, they'd actively discuss: what did the top teams decide in similar spots? If it worked, copy it. If not, debate their own conclusion and test it.
Even in defeat, it was a game with tons gained. That's what they mean by that phrase.
We dropped the first three scrim games 0:3, losing the afternoon session, but the vibe wasn't as sour as past losses.
Yuna emerged from her pod, scratching her sweat-matted hair, full of regret.
"Ah, damn, they're good. We could've won. Ugh."
"3-0 and you're not even mad today?"
She shot me a playful glare at my tease.
"What? You think I live to rage? I'm not that girl anymore."
"Yeah, Unnie's been way chiller lately."
"Hayoung, think about it—after she cried her eyes out last loss, her edge dulled. To fix her for real, we gotta make her bawl like three more times."
"What?! Hey, Kim Seona, you wanna die?!"
"Cut the chit-chat and head to the meeting room. Time for feedback. Where's Eunjae?"
"Eunjae Unnie's grabbing a smoke."
"Ugh... Left her unchecked and now this minor's chain-smoking like it's nothing? Gotta chew her out later. Tell Eunjae we're doing feedback when she gets back. Everyone else, meeting room now."
The four headed off, chatting about the match, while I waited in the practice room hallway for Eunjae.
Two minutes later, she stepped out of the elevator.
"Huh? What're ya doin' here, Coach?"
"Waiting for feedback to start, 'cause you weren't here. Why?"
"Eek... I'da gone right in if you'd just stayed put..."
"Jesus, smell that smoke on you. You're barely 18—why chain-smoke like that?"
"I-I picked it up way back... But do I really stink?"
She sniffed her arm and shrugged. Like she'd know her own scent.
"You smoke that much, what'd you expect? Now that we're Div 3, try quitting. If they catch a minor smoking, it'll blow up into a scandal later."
"Tried a few times, but..."
"Hold off till you're legal. Won't nag after. Your lung capacity's already shot from it— you wilt after long practices."
"...You want me to quit, Coach?"
"Yeah. Stinks, looks bad, hurts your health right now. Makes keeping up with training harder. And it'll only get tougher."
Eunjae locked eyes with me silently for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Got it. Let's do feedback."
She hurried back to the practice room ahead of me.
I followed and joined the five for post-game feedback: what improved vs. past scrims/pracs, where we fell short of TIC macro, weaknesses vs. opponents and fixes.
The players felt the macro gains despite 0:3—no defeatist vibes.
"Alright, dinner time. Eat, rest, then evening scrims. We'll focus new champs for winter season. Give it your all, but don't obsess over wins/losses—master those picks first. Got it?"
"Yes!"
After that, our pick pool steadily expanded.
Some champs from academy league days, plus recent additions—players were swamped.
At least half seemed ready for immediate Div 3 rotation once regular season hit.
The rest needed more grind.
TIC main event kicked off; we watched from dawn till dusk, building personal checklists, sharing insights.
Then replay one match daily, swapping sides to play enemy perspectives, hunting improvements.
Kids weren't absorbing everything from TIC yet, but no Div 3 team drilled like this—I was sure.
Proof: scrim results soared, even holding our own vs. men's Div 3.
Men's leagues outclass women's overall; matching men's Div 3 meant top-tier women's Div 3.
And today: perfect benchmark for our growth.
"Bot game today?"
I nodded at Yuna's question.
"Yeah. Testing your skills with this instead of scrims."
"I like crushing humans more."
"Me too."
"Scrims next time. Just today to check progress."
We faced AI bots trained on millions of games.
Smoother than expected.
They poked sharp, landing hits sometimes, but we struck back hard.
Even mostly new-practice picks for training—they held.
They swung, we swung. Turtled when needed, poked gaps when they did, exploited weaknesses ruthlessly.
Grueling 40+ minute slugfest; we finally nexused them.
With mains? Faster win.
"How was it?"
"Tough but doable. Difficulty's spot-on."
Yuna wiped sweat; she thrived on close wins.
"Others? Good difficulty?"
"Just right."
"Feels fair."
"Good. Like vs. men's Div 3."
"Same here. Mid-tier."
"C'mere, check the difficulty."
They crowded my screen.
Grandmaster low.
Academy days, same bots crushed us pre-20 min, 0:3 sobfest.
Now? Hard-fought win.
Seeing it, grins split wide—they got it.
"Beat Grandmaster? We're really there?"
"No worries for Div 3 then?"
"Proof your skills jumped. No complacency—cocky teams choke in tourneys, right?"
"Yes!"
"Oh, group interview tomorrow. First team one—not solo. Dress up if you want."
"Ooh, fun! Like a talk show with us five?"
"Six."
"Six?"
I pointed at myself.
"They want me too. So I'm in."