BY12 - Since the Beginning of Time




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March 26-28, 2010

The Killer of Hopes and Dreams.

Edward de Guzman, "The Killer of Hopes and Dreams". Has a nice ring, doesn't it. But how did our young Californian-via-Jersey friend come to acquire this nickname, you ask? Well, how about this for starters?

Annotated Game

Both blanks!!! Puta madre! Again with the accursed double-blanking! After being double-blanked and nutsacked by Cap'n Smurf-a-lot, and after the four blanks in eight games I drew on Sunday in Florida, I was 4/20 on blanks and suffering for my paucity. Sure I lost a turn with NONE(R)ASE*, but after Ed played that first blank I could just see myself being outdrawn and needed to get something going with that perfectly plausible phony. My mistake. A couple of turns later Ed went on to make a silly mistake of his own, playing HA(I)RY in the wrong spot, but he wasn't punished for it.

I beat him on Friday night, and thought I had put him in his place, but Ed bided his time, knowing all along that his unforgiving spirit would resurface at the 11th hour to kill my hopes and dreams of winning my first multi-day since Austen. I can win all the one-days in the world, but the top players are not going to respect me unless I start winning multi-days. That's probably why I still can't get laid despite hitting 1900.

Granted I played pretty poorly in that final game of the event, but I should have been playing Scott for first, not having my hopes and dreams killed for measily second place. It was the 14th game that was critical, and I was done in by Killer Gooze's relentless sscoring. Not a bad rack for 8 straight turns, and when I felt the game slipping away with his 3rd bingo on turn 6, I felt I had no choice but to challenge the unfamiliar UNOILED.

Annotated Game

So, yes, Edward killed my hopes and dreams that weekend, but the real shame is that the scruffy young lad did not kill me in the real world. Oh, sure, baby-faced Ed is the last person you'd suspect to be possess the assassin's heart, but anything is possible.

Anything, that is, except for dying by own hand.

I'm often tempted to wonder if the tendency towards suicide is hereditary. That doesn't seem to make sense, though, because naturally those people who succeed at killing themselves are less likely to procreate. No, it's more likely that suicide is a learned behaviour, and from whom do children learn the most than their parents.

By the time I was old enough to understand the concept of suicide, my mother had already made several failed attempts at same. Fortunately, she wasn't very good at it. Slashing her wrists in the bathroom--fail. Pills--fail. Gun--fail. Jumping out of a moving car--fail. Years later, when I finally decided it was time to end it all, I could not help but thing about my mother, and about how I was a much more intelligent person. Clearly when I decided it was time to go, I would not fail.

Thing of it is, while they might say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, suicide was never my thing. Frankly, my ego is much too strong. The idea of not being in the center of the action is fairly unbearable, and every indication I've ever had is that you've gotta be alive to play. That all changed one night in 1997 when, in a fit of stress and caffeine-induced hypomania, I believed that I had discovered what it all meant, and that the answer was... nothing. The world, the universe, existence, meant nothing, and I was the only person on the planet who realized this. I started screaming, screaming so hard and so loud that I hyperventilated to the point that my fingers felt numb. Frightened, I rushed to an emergency room where the best I could manage to tell the doctor (nurse?) who attended me was that I had seen the face of god. I quickly realized that I had said too much, that I would be thought mad, and I left before I could be stopped.

So what do you do when you realize existence is meaningless? I suppose living a life of self-indulgence makes sense under those circumstances, but I guess I was feeling particularly weak, and that's the moment I decided to end it all. Already in my car, all I could thing of at the time was to find a parking lot, one with a lot of pavement between the street and the building's brick wall.

I can only imagine the crash would have seemed spectacular, had there been any onlookers. My Integra was totalled, or course. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you see it), while I had had the presence of mind to remove my seat belt, I had forgotten about the air bag. I ended up severely injured, and in the hospital for three days, but I lived. Regardless of how you feel about living, what was unquestionably fortunate was that the same doctor who had attended me earlier had already finished his shift. Otherwise, he would have reported our encounter to the police, and I would not have been able to convince them that I had just been testing the acceleration when the pedal got stuck.

The doctors were suspicious, no doubt, but they did release me. I took a taxi to the local dealership, David McDavid Acura, and bought a new '98 model Integra. Given what I had in mind, the expense did not really matter. That night I drove downtown, to the Crowne Plaza hotel in Dallas. I chose that particularly hotel on the assumption that it was designed similarly to the one in Houston, where I on several occasions went up to the top floor and managed to get onto the roof. That was years earlier, before they started locking those top doors. For all I know, it was that time a maintenance worker caught me and a girlfriend in the act that led to the tighter security.

In Dallas, I found the door locked, but I had expected this, and I had come prepared. The lock was nothing that a bolt-cutter couldn't handle. What happened next happened quickly, and I scarcely remember the details. I peered over the edge and took a look at the street thirty stories below. I steeled myself, backed up, and took a running leap right over the wall. I can't really explain what happened next, but I remember feeling a strong wind slam into me as I fell, push me quickly, towards the other side of the street. Next thing I knew, I was dazed and bleeding, covered in cuts, and hurting like hell. I quickly figured out that I must have smashed through a window of the building across the street, and had I not recovered my wits, or had I injured my leg instead of my arm, I might not have been able to find my way to the ground floor and out an emergency exit before security found me.

I chalked the failure of my first two attempts to freak luck, and I remained undeterred. I decided to take a more direct approach. Living in Texas, it was of course easy to buy a handgun on short notice. Less easy was figuring out how to actually use a Beretta. I'd never held a gun before, and that's the only thing that kept me from pulling the trigger out in the parking lot. I didn't know how to load the weapon, I didn't know how to undo the safety--I didn't know anything. I ended up having to go back to the gun shop and sign up for a class the next day. Geez, can you believe that, having to take a class on how to use a gun before being able to off yourself???

Of course I should have known that the gun wasn't going to do any good. As I left the shooting range/classroom, I really thought I had learned in the three -hour class to get the job done Unfortunately, the critical piece of information about my predicament was not to be found in a booko rinstructional video, but rather in the deep recesses of my memory. An hour later, when I reached an appropriately secluded wood north of the city, that memory was finally triggered as I placed the Beretta to my temple and tried to fire... and nothing happened. Just a click, and nothing. I double checked that the weapon was loaded, that there was a round in the chamber, and I tried again. Nothing. I got out of the car and fired into the ground, several rounds, but whenever I aimed the gun at myself, nothing. That's when I remembered my encounter with the monster all those years ago, a memory long repressed, a memory that explained everything.

Speaking of monsters, Killer Gooze was not the only player who frustrated me in Princeton. No, the Frankentang Monster also made a return appearance, frustrating my efforts both in the early bird and the main event.

Almost as monstrous was my loss to Dave Cullen. He had expressed reluctance to play in the top Division to even out the field, and yet he ended up with two wins, one at my expense.

I suppose it's a bit of an exaggeration to describe my miss in the first game of the main event, against Mitch Brook, as a monstrosity, but it was pretty bad nonetheless. The entire game I'd been bitching about Mitch's luck, and in the end I could have won the game if I had found AADEIPS through the open U! I've drilled those 5-vowel 8s, what, three times? Four? Apparently not enough.

Of course it is hyperbolic to describe the above situations and persons as monstrous in the context of that night in August of 1987, when I met the real monster, in the most mundane of places, the woods behind my house. I found myself running through those woods after an act of shocking violence, an act that haunts me to this day. Backing up a bit, you have to understand that from a young age, even as young as elementary school, I was girl-obsessed. White girls, mostly, because those were the only girls I saw where I grew up, but that's not important. I felt such jealousy, even at that age, because all the other boys seemed to gain the attention of the girls, while I never could. I remember one time in first or second grade when I witnessed a boy, sitting at his desk in a long row, lean his head back to receive a kiss from the girl sitting behind him. I was so jealous, I immediately ran up to tell the teacher. That younger version of myself reminds me of a character from television, a young Colombian boy named Manny on the ABC show Modern Family. He, too, is a chess whiz, girl-obsessed, and often frustrated.

That jealousy and obsession persisted into my teenage years, only then, after the onset of puberty, my emotions were magnified exponentially. I sometimes blew off steam by retreating into the woods behind the house, where I had memories of more carefree days. Occasionally I would venture further and seek out contruction sites, usually neighborhoods in progress, and explore the unfinished houses.

Backing up a bit more, besides being girl-obsessed, I was also knife-obsessed at that age. I think it was a documentary about the Australian outback, and the tradition of the walkabout, that turned me into a knife enthusiast. After seeing the bold hunters use large knives to bring down animals, like boar, and survive in the woods, I began pestering my parents to buy me knives. My parents were not insane, of course, and I had to wait until I was older and had some allowance money before I could start collecting knives. Most boys at that age hide nudie magazines in their rooms--I hid knives. The pride of my collection was a silver blade, long and ornately decorated, with an air of history about it, that I had bought, for every penny I had at the time, at a collectors show that happened to be located in a building across the street from a local shopping mall. My mother thought I was playing video games, and she would have flipped out if she had ever found that ancient knife I bought.

That ornate blade was the one I had with me on that August night when I entered the skeleton of an unfinished house to see what I could find. The wind was strong that night, and during a brief lull I heard what sounded like music coming from inside the house. I walked around, and then up the stairs, and the music became louder--a song by Chicago, I think it was. I soon found the room that held the boombox and the young couple laying on a blanket and passionately making love. They could not hear me, because of the music, and because they were preoccupied, but as my heart filled up with rage and jealousy over the fact that this boy was able to get what I could not. I screamed, and the boy, startled, turned. Without thinking I ran up to him, blade already in hand, and plunged the knife into his chest with all the strength I could muster. The girl screamed, and I quickly silenced her by slashing her throat, just like I had seen in countless movies (let it never be said that TV is not educational).

It took me some time to realize what I had done, but when I did I acted quickly. I returned the knife to my bag (I had not yet learned that you always leave the murder weapon at the scene of the crime), and ran. Moments after reaching the woods, I heard voices emanating from the darkness. Next thing I knew, the black became blacker as I ran into what appeared to be odorless smoke. I had to stop--I could not see even inches ahead of me. I wondered what I could do, what was happening, and then the black smoke began to dissipate, then coalesce in front of me to take the shape of a man.

I might have passed out from fright right then and there had the man not immediately begun speaking: "Since the beginning of time I have existed. For most of that time I have walked the earth, until an evil man trapped me in the form you saw before. The only thing that could release me was the blood of an innocent, drawn by the sacred blade you now possess. Now that I have been released, I am able to exercise my power in full, and I grant you a gift."

The men then put his hand upon my shoulder and continued: "I go now, to finish what was started long ago. I may call upon you for aid once more, and until then no harm will befall you."

The monster disappeared into the darkness. After some time I repressed my memories of him and the murder that freed him, and I went on to live a fairly ordinary life until that night when I realized why I had been so unsuccessful at killing myself.

Dark as this blog is, I don't wish to imply that the tournament was a complete wreck. I did manage to beat Ian Weinstein to avoid the dreaded shutout, something that has never happened to me in my entire tournament career. And of course I did win second place in the main event, racking up wins against Scott, Dominic (twice), Ian, and Jan in the process.

Not sure about Dominic, since he's been away so long, but I guess it's okay to count Jan among my top wins since she seems to be trying to mount a comeback. Plus, she has given me such trouble in the past, as the player that I went the longest without beaten, eight or nine games I think. I called her the She Wolf, but she was really like a disease, man. A disease you can't shake, like AIDS or something like that. Except that's a really bad analogy because AIDS, or HIV rather, is totally shakeable, under the right circumstances. If you have money, Magic Johnson-type money, for example. Or, if you have been given a "gift".

That night so many years ago in the car, in the woods, when I could not manage to shoot myself, I remembered my encounter with the monster, and I realized the "gift" he had given me was immortality. Well, technically, immortality until such time as he needed me again. Given that I did not want to continue living in a meaningless world, I was in a bit of denial, and I proceeded to try and deal with my predicament in the best way I know how, by intellectualizing it. I rationalized that this monster must have been a demon of some sort, and after some research I learned that demons must operate under strict rules. With any rule, however, especially supernatural rules, there are loopholes. Though it was clear that I could not kill myself, but perhaps someone, or something, else could do it for me.

Catching HIV seemed an obvious way to go about it, although perhaps I got the idea from an some TV show, NYPD Blue I think. Regardless where I learned about the little-known subculture of people known as "bug chasers", I immediately latched on to the idea. If I was going to try to contract some disease that will kill me, I figured I might as well have some fun doing it. I thus flung myself headlong into a world of having as much dangerous sex as possible. I spent hours every day on the Internet looking for casual encounters with random women. It didn't take me long to realize that was a low-probability approach, so I switched to offering my ass up to random men. Loathesome as that approach felt to me, I had a much greater contact rate--nearly every night I was able to find multiple men who were willing to pound my ass, no strings attached. But that started to really hurt after a while, so I changed my approach again and started trolling the Dallas streets for the skankiest, nastiest, most drug-addled prostitutes I could find.

I am often asked in interviews why I am pursuing this project to visit every Starbucks in the world. My more-or-less standard reply is that I just wanted to do something different, and that the idea came to me at random. Well, the truth is there was nothing random about it. As big a city as Dallas is, it has a fairly unique quality in that the prostitutes in the red light district do not actually walk the streets but rather drive around and honk at prospective clients. Aside from officially-sanctioned red light districts in Europe, the only other place I've encountered anything like this is at the South Bay Drive-In Theatre in the Nestor neighborhood of San Diego where if you go mid-week, in the middle of the afternoon, and buy a ticket for the least-popular film, from a cashier name Miles, and ask specifically for "an extra ticket for my grandmother", Miles the pimp will send a girl up to the rearmost corner parking space to take care of you. Anyway, getting back to these Dallas car hos, they are extremely paranoid and won't do anything without a condom. For that I needed to find drug-addicted prostitutes, and that proved much harder than I had expected, based on what I had learned from instructional shows such as NYPD Blue. That's when I decided I need to start traveling around to country to increase my chances of finding the crack-ho who would give me HIV, and that's when I came up with the cover story of Starbucking so that my friends, family, and colleagues would not suspect anything untoward.

For years I followed the same pattern. I went out on a road trip, had sex with as many crack-hos as possible, sometimes even found ones holding dirty heroin needles that I could poke into my arm, and then I returned home and waited six months for my HIV test. Time and again, for years, these tests came up negative. I kept trying, though, and eventually I got that magic piece of paper that I'd been waiting for, the positive HIV test!!! I actually blogged about this, with the actual result reversed, in a blog from early 2008 and another player expressed shock about this, although Richard would have been truly shocked had he known the full story.

I was so excited and hopeful that I would soon contract AIDS and die (although it actually takes a long time), and I couldn't wait to go back to the clinic in a few months and see how my viral load was progressing. Imagine, then, the shock that I felt when, after six months of picking up my prescription for antiretrovirals but just reselling the pills, I went in to the clinic to discover that my viral load was... ZERO!!! I had the lab redo the test, as well as the HIV test, multiple times, and it always came back negative. I could hardly believe it. All that time and effort, for nothing. Oh, yeah, lot's of sex, but who gives a fuck. What I needed was real death, not the Shakespearean metaphorical variety, and I saw myself no closer to that than I ever was.

I guess that's kind of how I felt after having fought myself into second place only to find myself facing 1st-place Scott Appel in round 12, sooner than I had expected. I'd beaten him once already, true, but I thought I'd have to get pretty lucky to manage that second win. Going into the game, I would have thought it impossible if I was double-blanked, which is exactly what happened. However, I did have my chance, and I could have won despite Scott's three wins to my one, but I choked at a critical moment, turn as I often do (turn 9).

Choky as I am, I wonder if I was subconsciouly sabotaging my efforts to find the loophole I'd been looking for. I think tried hard enough, but who knows. For example, I figured the monster's spell might be very specific, intended to protect me from actions directed directly at me. But if I was in a plane crash--that might be the loophole. So I started flying a lot, nearly every weekend, so much so that I eventually maxed out all my credit cards and had to file for bankruptcy. One weekend, when I was just too exhausted to fly, I went back to my usual Starbucks in Plano. My friend Kate had been e-mailing me, wondering why I hadn't been coming around, and I finally decided it was time to tell her how unhappy I was. Not the whole truth, about the monster, because who would believe that, but just an explanation she could understand.

"Been flying a lot," I said. "Every Friday night I fly from LA to Tokyo or Singapore or Sydney, and then I get off and I have a drink and then I fly home."

"Why, " Kate asked.

"Because I want it to crash, Kate. I don't care about anybody else on board. Every little bump we hit, or turbulence, and I, I actually close my eyes and I pray."

Kate, bless her heart, understood. She didn't agree, but she understood, having gone through her own suicidal spells herself. I guess the only reason she let it go was that she didn't think I was serious, because flying on planes is really not the most effective way to commit suicide. Not even when you try to be a bit more proactive about it. Yeah, of course it occurred to me to try and help myself out by forcing one of the plane's emergency doors open so I would be sucked out, but each time I found myself seated in an exit row I convinced myself this couldn't possibly work, that the airplane would have safeguards against this. Maybe planes don't--who knows--I never chanced it.

I think I tried everything else, though. Electrocution, poison, hanging, cutting, crawling into a tiger cage at the zoon, suicide by cop, walking into a bar in the wrong part of town and slugging the biggest guy--you name it, I tried it. No matter what, I always got out alive. Maybe a little scratched up, but alive. Not even seriously injured--I guess whatever it was that the Smoke Monster needed me for, it required me to be able-bodied.

Though I went on to beat Dominic and Marjorie, I would have needed to beat Gooze in the 14th round, and for Scott to lose, in order to have a crack at first. Neither of those came to pass, and I had to settle for second place. Not that $270 was small potatoes, and along with that check came a trophy in the shape of a cup. Upon seeing the cup I could not help but immediately visualize it filled with poison. Not that it would do any good--been there, done that.

I'll keep trying, though. Anybody who knows me knows that I'm one persistent sonufabitch. I don't know how long it's going to take Smokey to call upon me and finally release me, and I have no intention of waiting for what could be hundreds of years. I'm going to find that loophole, and I'm going to shuffle off this mortal coil if it's the last thing I do!


#1 - L - Keller    
0.4 DOUX 8F  
10.2 C(U)BING  
0 WAD(I)  
0 FRO  
1.6 VOMER  
0 TRO(O)Z  
0 (W)AUL  
18.4 ILL LIMO underlap
4 HOMO  
#2 - L - De Guzman    
0 NA(M)E  
21.2 lose turn (NONE(R)ASE*)  
0 ONE  
1.6 BR(I)EF  
0 OUCH  
0 B(E)ZIL  
7.9 (T)ESTY (NAME)LY (leaves EINST)
10.6 (A)WL UNW(I)T/T(OUCH)
7 UNIT  
0 (L)ITU  
#3 - L - Cullen    
0 SO  
9.1 (Y)ANK  
6.2 B(R)IT  
4.1 ZONE  
0 (P)AW  
0 VUM  
12.2 (F)ROG  
0 VO(I)D  
8.2 WIRRA  
3 ES  
0* E(D) push Dave over time
0 (A)T  
0 (OPE)N  
0 (C)E(E)  
0 T(RAD)  
#4 - L - Tangredi    
0.9 DE(F)INE  
5.5 QAID(S)  
0 NOT(A)TE  
7.6 SOFTE(N)  
6.3 (F)AIRER  
13 OOH  
22.6 U(R)EI(C)  
33.6 (O)P(E)  
48 (V)IA  
#5 - W - Weinstein    
3 BOHO  
0 XI(S)  
10.8 I(N)DRI  
4.8 IMP(A)LE G(A)MP (unsure)
0 LIGA(T)E  
0 QAT  
3.7 ECHT  
7.2 BR(ED) B(H)A(N)G,C(H)A(N)G
0 (H)A(N)G  
18 COVE(N)  
0 (T)RiG  

1 - L - 5.2 (62.3)
2 - L - 4.3 (51.4)
3 - L - 2.8 (51.4)
4 - L - 11.8 (141.9)
5 - W - 3.8 (49.5)

Avg: 5.6

#1 - L - Brook    
0 A(Z)UKI  
3.4 EURE(K)A  
0 HEI(F)E(R)  
0 (E)JECT  
2.1 VININ(G)  
0 TAB(B)IE*  
6.2 VIM  
4.3 D(OWE)D  
0 AUDI(T)  
0 SEI  
#2 - W - Keller    
0 (E)DDY  
36.8 DUCT(I)NG DUCT(I)NGS (unsure)
5.6 WAB  
4.7 GOT had (DUCTING)S in mind then forgot
5.6 ZIN  
10.6 SO  
2.2 J(O)TA  
0 Q(I)  
0 OVA  
0 FEU  
0 EASed  
#3 - W - De Guzman    
0.9 ObS(I)dIAN vIS(I)IONAl
3.4 DAH  
0 (I)RK  
12.1 V(I)G  
6.5 CALO  
10.7 E(R)A  
0* PU(D)  
0 V(I)S  
#4 - W - Dixon    
15 WAI(T)ERS J(O) (give up 23 pts to leave AEIRSW--what???)
0 J(I)FF  
7.2 P(S)T D(E)M(E) (unsure)
0 R(E)MINDeR  
3.7 QA(D)I  
7.8 (ID)EA  
0 BI  
0 REPO  
21.1 (J)OIN (P)ANgOLIN
0 AU(D)IO  
0 (BIZE)S  
0 (R)AW  
#5 - W - Appel    
1.8 AERIE  
2.9 AX  
2.6 GRI(G)  
0.4 TOD  
23.8 JO FJO(R)D
0 F(E)CK  
4.5* VESTA  
0* HOB  
#6 - W - Bodrazic    
5 MOT  
18.9 ONO (M)OONLETS (convinced myself TOOLMEN* was the right anagram)
5 FLOE  
0 TITI  
0 D(R)IB  
0 GAW(K)ER  
0 BAST  
9.5 PEH focused on wrong spot
11.4 QI focused on Q
8.2 CRAWL CARVEL (thought it was just CARAVEL)
#7 - L - Schoneboom    
4.5 EYE  
0 WOE(F)UL  
4.1 AIDLESS miss (YOK)E hook
0 P(A)WNS  
0 QAT  
0 GRAN(D)  
12 (ADO)RN  
0.5 MAVEN  
5.7 CO(Z)  
11 B(A)TE  
24.8 had to challenge NITRIL  
6 GIE don't see her (E)V(I)TE out play, but neither does she
4 PI(C)  
#8 - L - Tangredi    
0 TYP(O)  
20.6 RUST  
0 FIZ  
0 FUN  
25.6 (A)RC desperation
0.6 (Y)EW  
0 LIS  
#9 - W - Grillo    
3.4 T(E)FF  
7 (OPE)NLY  
0 (F)AQIR  
13.2 TWIER see (REMIX)T hook then immediately forget it
4.6 BO  
0 NEG  
#10 - W - Weinstein    
7.4 COG COGITO (unsure)
0 JIV(E)  
0 (E)XIST  
0 PIT(C)H  
9.1 EME  
22.3 WOO WIFEDO(m)
0.3 DITZ  
10.1 FE(m)E FEM(m)E
0 (O)VUM  
0 QI(S)  
0 UNAI  
#11 - W - Filzer    
5.1 PION  
6.7 B(O)XED  
30 E(X) (U)NEASIER (saw the 8 but missed the open U)
2.6 GYOZ(A)  
7 GADI  
#12 - L - Appel    
1.2 ROTCH  
0 VAW  
2.5 TEIID  
2.2 FOX  
1.6 ET  
10.4 PEA  
25 NEI(F)  
3.7 QU(ID)  
2.9 ZA  
13 J(UP)E  
4 W(I)S  
#13 - W - Grillo    
0 AYIN  
10.1 AIS  
0 BIG  
0 WAW  
65 HANDED HEADEND (unsure)
0 (Z)OON  
0 IF  
9.7 ECU (J)U(I)CE/U(s)/(O)C(A)/(O)E
10.1* (T)rAIPSED  
#14 - W - Schoneboom    
0 ZEK  
3.8 (V)EXT  
0 GOY  
0 PANE  
5 -AELOOW (E) WOOL(ER) (unsure)
0 DR(A)W  
8.7 OE  
8.2 GUT  
0 GUL(L)  
26 ROBER*  
0 EN  
#15 - L - De Guzman    
0 -AEE (ADE?)  
0 DAfFIES*  
2.4 (S)EXY  
0 VINO  
40.3 challenge UNOILED  
0 VIOL  
--- BOGEY miss (M)Y hook to keep E
0 S(O)W  
#16 - L - De Guzman    
6.4 U(N)IT  
0 O(D)E  
0 PO(I)  
12.3 M(U)RID  
12.1 (O)XID  
2.6 P(E)L(E)  
0 TAJ  
2 KO(I)  

1 - L - 5.9 (71.2)
2 - W - 5.1 (71)
3 - W - 3.7 (51.8)
4 - W - 3.9 (54.8)
5 - W - 5.7 (68.7)
6 - W - 8.4 (109.2)
7 - L - 5.6 (77.8)
8 - L - 6.0 (72.1)
9 - W - 6.9 (83.3)
10 - W - 4.4 (57.3)
11 - W - 6.3 (69.1)
12 - L - 5.1 (66.5)
13 - W - 11.5 (138.4)
14 - W - 6.6 (98.5)
15 - L - 5.0 (49.9)
16 - L - 6.2 (74.6)

Avg: 6.0

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