memory of madlife, 1


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First he was an alien. A more advanced species. He looked human, but the truth was clear as day: He was an extragalactic missionary sent to Earth to show how support should be played. Everything he did was new and groundbreaking, yet surprisingly easy to imitate at our own level; and this was a good thing, for we couldn’t help but try and mimic in thrall. His plays were less performances than revivals. He hadn’t come here to teach; he was here to preach — and lord, were his sermons electric.

On his more inspired nights, by the end of which we’d be drooling with wonder in front of our screens, we would queue up for ranked as soon as his match was over. We would pick Janna; try to initiate with Flash Monsoon; fail; get flamed; try again; fail again; fail even harder; start receiving death threats in team chat (the Jobian test of faith)… But then, in the next teamfight, we would actually pull it off (HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!!!), and in that euphoric moment of divine reflection, of becoming the 1500 ELO MadLife, we would fall in love with League of Legends again and for the first time.

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