TEMPE, AZ — The Southwest Regional Open, held last Saturday at Desert Sky Sports Complex, drew 47 registered competitors and 19 actual competitors, according to event director Tara Hollings, who described the turnout as "about what we expected, honestly." The adult male blue belt lightweight division had five registered entries. One showed. He warmed up for forty-five minutes. He stretched. He shadow-rolled in a corner. He did breathing exercises he learned from a YouTube video titled "Competition Mindset: Kill or Be Killed." He paced behind the bullpen barrier, shaking out his arms and staring at the bracket posted on the wall, which showed his name and four blank spaces. He received his gold medal at 10:15 a.m., approximately two hours before he had mentally prepared to compete. He has since posted the medal on Instagram with the caption "the grind pays off" and received 83 likes from people who were not there to witness it. His mother commented "So proud!!!!" His coach commented a fire emoji. Neither acknowledged the circumstances. "I trained twelve weeks for this," said the gold medalist, Derek Lam, 26, a blue belt of two years. "Two-a-days. Diet. I cut six pounds." He paused. "I weighed in. Nobody else weighed in. They gave me a medal. I drove home." He was asked if the medal felt earned. He looked at it for a long time. "It's real gold," he said. It is not real gold. "It's the same medal the other guys would have gotten," he added. There were no other guys. Lam's girlfriend, who had taken the day off work to attend, was photographed holding the medal in front of the venue with a caption that read "My champion." She was asked in the comments how many matches he won. She responded with a heart emoji and did not answer. The purple belt absolute division, which had seven registrants, produced a bracket consisting entirely of byes until two competitors met in the final. One of them had already competed three times that day. The other arrived at 1:30pm despite being scheduled for 9am and was still allowed to compete following a prolonged discussion at the registration table that nobody wants to describe in detail. "He said his phone died and he couldn't check the schedule," said registration volunteer Patricia Quan, 44, who has worked nine of these events. "I asked if he had a computer. He said he did. I asked if he checked on his computer. He said he forgot. I asked what he was doing between 9am and 1:30pm. He said he went to brunch." Quan paused. "I let him compete because I didn't want to argue anymore. It's not worth it. None of this is worth it." "We keep registration open online until Friday," said Hollings, standing near a folding table with a laptop, a printer, and a look of specific exhaustion. "People sign up and then they have a thing. Or they cut weight and then they don't make weight and then they don't want to move up a division. Or they just don't show up and we never find out why. That last one is the most common." Hollings pulled up a spreadsheet she has maintained since 2021 tracking registration-to-appearance ratios across twelve events. The average show rate is 41 percent. The highest was 58 percent, at an event that was free to enter. The lowest was 29 percent, at an event held on a Saturday that was also the first warm weekend of the year. "I lost eleven competitors to a lake," she said. "I know because three of them posted photos from the lake." Three no-shows in the gi women's division cited travel, one cited a family event, and one — who had driven to the venue, parked, and walked to the front door — decided the vibe was off and returned to his car. He was registered in the men's division. He has since re-registered for the next event. When contacted, he explained that the venue "felt too quiet" and that he had "a bad feeling." He was asked to elaborate. "The energy wasn't there," he said. The energy was not there because nobody else had shown up. He was the energy. He left and took it with him. Financial records provided by Hollings show that the event collected $3,760 in registration fees, of which $2,240 came from competitors who did not attend. Refund requests totaled $380. The remaining $1,860 in no-show fees funded the medals, the venue rental, and a portion of the insurance. "The no-shows are subsidizing the tournament," Hollings said. "If everyone who registered actually showed up, I'd need a bigger venue and more staff and the math would break. The system only works because most people bail." She did not seem troubled by this. She seemed like a person who had arrived at a truth she didn't especially enjoy but had made peace with. The absolute division's final match ended in thirty-four seconds via bow-and-arrow choke. Both competitors shook hands. One of them was awarded his medal by a volunteer who had been assigned to a different division and was not sure what was happening. The medal said "2nd Place." The competitor looked at it, looked at the volunteer, and said "thanks." He left it in his car. The kids' divisions ran on schedule and had full brackets. Organizers noted, not for the first time, that this is always the case. "Kids show up," Hollings said. "Their parents drive them. You can't not show up when your mom is already in the parking lot." She looked at the adult brackets. "Maybe we should require all adult competitors to have their parents drop them off." She was joking. Probably. --- *The Porra is a satire publication. Show up to your tournaments. Or don't. The bracket will sort itself out either way.*