The best thing about the sport is there's no ambiguity. There's no mucking about with the broken BCS system, wondering what the Ukrainian judge was really thinking, or worrying that Vince McMahon rigged the whole thing (which is why I stopped watching college quidditch). Winners are chosen by audience response, and man, does the audience respond. At my first Super Art Fight, the crowd was easily as invested as one would be in the final two minutes of a Ravens playoff game or the ninth inning of the ALCS. People were going nuts, but unlike in baseball or football, there's none of the bitter psychic residue. When Jim Johnson blows a playoff save or Ben Roethlisberger leads the Steelers on a last-minute game-winning drive at M&T Bank Stadium, I have no choice but to kick the dog or buy a telescope on eBay. (On the upside, the dog is still un-kicked, but on the downside, what the hell am I going to do with a telescope in Hampden?). In Super Art Fight, as intense as the moment is, an hour later, it's gone. It was a great time, and over. There's no weeks worth of moaning on sports talk radio, no columnists (well, just one columnist) dissecting every move and misstep, just the purity and joy of sport.