ESPORTS

mind to,” he says.

By that point, he had played casually with friends for years. But for a month or two, he grinded. Not just played. Grinded. He studied his moves, rewatched games and stayed up deep into the night. A friend said they were looking for players at Converse College. Leathe didn’t know anything about the school –– but he accepted the $2,000 scholarship. At Converse, he reached the top .5 percent of players in the entire world.

The game didn’t just provide him with a scholarship. It changed him.

“It gives you a purpose every day,” he says. “It gives you a reason to wake up.”

He has catapulted up in the rankings. In March, he ranked as the 103rd best player in North America. Now he hovers in the top 30 –– just a few months away from earning a professional contract.

But Leathe’s not so sure he wants to go pro. Yes, that’s always been the dream, but he doesn’t know if he wants to leave Maryville. He likes the collegiate space. These are his friends, the kids he eats pizza and plays basketball with. He can take breaks and go rock climbing. He can get his degree in cybersecurity. College has given him the support he needs, and he doesn’t want to lose that coveted spot at Maryville by jumping pro.

Plus, the professional scene is also ruthless. The League of Legends Championship Series, for example, has only 10 teams and five players per team. People live in facilities, where they play video games every moment of every day.

With so few spots, players constantly look over their shoulders in fear of being replaced. This is not basketball, where players can make solid money playing overseas or in the minor leagues. If they don’t make the top levels, they’re stuck earning just a few hundred dollars a month.

Even for those who hit the big time, the esports field is unstable, with recent investigations revealing that the industry’s once-gaudy revenue numbers are over-inflated. “Esports is looking like a bubble ready to pop,” wrote Cecilia D’Anastasio of gaming news site Kotaku. Windows for playing careers are tight, too –– most players peak in their early 20s, if not earlier, before their reflexes or wrists give out. After just a few years, almost all are out of the sport.

One of Leathe’s teammates,

Aiden Tidwell, made the leap to pro after two years at Maryville. Nine months later, he retired and returned to Maryville. It wasn’t like he’d dreamed. No class, no mini-hoops — just video games, all the time, with no guarantee of a job next year. “Doing that much of one thing, it’s just so much,” Tidwell says. “It gets taxing.”

Leathe faces similar decisions in the future. But for now, he has a home –– and it’s at Maryville.

Afew years ago, someone asked Andrew Smith, Maryville’s esports assistant director, a question. Who holds the first 30 NCAA football championships?

It’s not Alabama. Not Michigan. Not Clemson.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It’s Ivy League schools. Harvard, Yale, Princeton and Penn (with the exception of 1870, where no champion was selected). Where are those football teams now? They aren’t even in the top level of Division I football –– let alone competing for a national championship.

“And nobody remembers that,” Smith says.

The implication is obvious ––how much longer can Maryville survive as the beast of esports?

Some experts will tell you that Maryville is doomed to be squashed by schools with more resources, money and prestige.

“I would say definitely ––‘Maryville, enjoy the success while you’ve got it. This is not going to last forever,’” says Shelton, the professor at Boise State, with a hint of friendly competition.

Others say Maryville beat them to the punch, and the program will reign for years as slow-moving public institutions lag behind. They’ll note that collegiate esports have grown –– and Maryville hasn’t lost its footing. Last week, the university’s League of Legends team became the first collegiate program to qualify for the Legends Championship Series Challenge League — equivalent to Triple A in professional baseball or the second division behind the Premier League. Their Overwatch team scrimmages against –– and beats –– professional teams. A documentary film crew spent the last year following them around. Players from Arizona, California, Canada and Australia move across the world to play for Maryville.

But really, no one knows what will happen because collegiate esports are just starting. Imagine rewinding to the start of college football, back when they didn’t even wear helmets or pads and dressed like they were going to church in turtlenecks and khaki pants. That’s where we are in collegiate esports –– at the beginning.

“I’m not even sure if we’ve hit the crest of the wave yet,” Shelton says.

Yet this time, the people starting these programs are fully aware of the potential. They know collegiate sports can be hugely lucrative. They just don’t know, yet, how to get esports there.

“The world knows that people are interested in video games and interested in esports,” Smith says. “But the world hasn’t figured out how you make money off of it. Or how you become the biggest and the best. … What is the ruling system like? What are the do’s and don’ts?”

Almost everyone uses the phrase “wild, wild West” to describe collegiate esports. There are no divisions. Schools are scrambling to create world-class teams and state-of-the-art facilities –– without any sort of roadmap. There are dozens of video game titles for schools to invest in. There is no uniform governing body like the NCAA making sure teams stay in line. Problems abound, from players failing class to a lack of diversity, with most teams overwhelmingly white and male. Just 8 percent of collegiate players nationwide are women. Maryville, for example, has no women on its teams.

At first, Clerke ran Maryville like he ran his professional teams. He recruited players and focused on winning games. They did, but there were hiccups. His first team was disqualified for using an ineligible player. Students struggled to maintain good grades. He juggled managing another professional team, eUnited, while running Maryville.

“I had to learn how to be a college administrator,” Clerke says.

The program has evolved. As of 2019, Maryville is Clerke’s fulltime job. Students have to maintain a 2.5 GPA. Smith, the assistant director, has weekly check-ins with players. They are encouraged to get physical exercise, and they climb as a team three times a week. They also host weekly events for a collegewide gaming club that includes Super Smash Bros. tournaments.

The goal is still to win. But what happens if Maryville stops winning? Does all of this disappear?

The program has been careful about not expanding too quickly. But next year, they will add Valorant and Rocket League teams.

They plan to create an all-women Valorant team in the following years.

In recent years, Clerke has shifted his focus outside Maryville to local youth and high school development. He has helped high schools found teams and Missouri create an esports governing system. Most recently, Maryville proposed a 3,000-seat arena in Town and Country dedicated to esports. The arena wouldn’t just serve Maryville –– it will be a space for the entire community. He wants to design camps, teams and leagues in St. Louis where kids can improve their skills, manage their time and work as a team in a structured environment –– just like in traditional sports.

“Our industry has done a pretty good job of growing up,” Clerke says. “But I’ve always thought that in order for this to be fiscally sustainable and for this to reach its potential, it needs to grow down. It needs to grow roots. There’s no youth ecosystem at all.”

Maryville expects to win. But the goal isn’t just to become a collegiate esports dynasty. Clerke hopes to turn St. Louis into a hub for esports, where there is no way Maryville or esports can ever disappear.

Hours after the commanding win over Contingent Esport, Maryville loses –– to the lowly 21st seed.

One player instantly rips off his headphones, pushes out his chair and bounds out the door.

“Should we wait to talk about it? Because I’m pretty frustrated,” another player asks. Then he too walks out.

The room is quiet. Dead quiet –– outside of the clacking of keyboards and mouses.

After about 10 minutes, a teammate walks over to Leathe. Leathe’s eyes haven’t left the screen. The teammate doesn’t say anything. He just leans over Leathe’s chair, puts his hands on Leathe’s shoulders and pats them softly.

Leathe doesn’t get up. He stares at the game footage, his back arched forward, his hands stroking his chin and his finger over his lips, combing through the clips. Skipping, pausing. Reverse, fastforward. Trying to find any kernel of what went wrong, if he clicked the wrong special ability, if he went down the wrong lane, anything.

He will analyze and analyze for the next 30 minutes –– until his next game starts, and the process repeats. That is what they do at nationally ranked esports schools like Maryville. At least for now. n