“It’s not random” says founding-father Douglas Walker. “It’s chaotic. Random implies that there is no way to predict anything. Chaotic means that there are elements which can be predicted, but there are so many of them and they are so complicated, that it seems random.” Wise words are being poured into . . . . my ear over the din of karaoke and the clink of pint glasses. I soak up this riddle and take in the shadowy heads nodding in agreement. I am in a dark bar in a cold land. Far from my home and well out of my depth. I am among masters.

Once a year, the world’s very best gather in Toronto to embrace the chaos of the World Rock Paper Scissors Championship. Drawn to “the Wimbledon of lazy, drunk decision-making” from as far away as Australia and Norway; wide-eyed youths, professionals, wanna-be’s and dead-eyed veterans all come with one goal in mind:Immortality. And how had I gotten here? As always, the answer was a film.

This summer, four months and a thousand films ago, a disc landed on my desk entitled “Rock Paper Scissors: A Geek Tragedy”. Now, at the risk of sounding callous, I will admit to the slightest of eye-rolls when faced with the prospect of watching a feature documentary about the method I had just recently used to win the last slice of pizza. But, as is so often the case in my line of work, I inserted the DVD, opened my mind and got rewarded handsomely.

The film itself, which releases from IndiePix tomorrow, is a story about two brothers, Douglas and Graham Walker, who capitalized on an idea which had literally been at their fingertips since childhood. Seeing Rock Paper Scissors (RPS) as a way to resolve the world’s dilemas without discord or bloodshed, they set out to spread this “dance of hands” to the world. Through sacrifice and hardship, strained relationships and a lot of fun, they re-envision the “game” to include tournament brackets, referees, rabid fans, fierce competitors, cash prizes and even the sort of sponsorship and coverage traditionally saved for “real sports”. 2003’s Champion went on Conan and ESPN wanted a piece the following year.

Director Mike McKeown has wrought a film which is so funny that you’ll certainly consider whether or not it is a mockumentary. But I can attest that it’s the real deal. The film is packed full of interviews with the legends of the sport such as vaunted guru Master Roshambollah and perennial  heartbreak case C. Urnbanus. It features in-depth strategy and infectious tournament footage, crazed fans and hilarious commentary. But the strength of the film hinges on the simple story of two brothers whose hobby became their life and who wnated nothing more than to bring the joy of a childhood pastime to so many adults.

I could keep on praising the film, but perhaps the best acclaim I could give the work is to say that it hooked me good. They say films can take you places. This one took me to Toronto. To the match of a lifetime.

Back in the dark bar in the cold land, I was staring down the forearm of a master. Master Roshambollah to be exact. The sports most renowned celebrity. The wandering philosopher who coined the phrase “to the beginner the moves are few, but to the master the moves are many”. It was just an exhibition match the night before the big dance, but for me it was a chance to face the best. And I was petrified.

His first throw shattered my concentration. I’m ashamed to say that I actually threw something that might have been confused for jazz hands. The RPS equivalent of a boxer split wide open, I looked to the Master.

Nothing new. He’s seen  it all before.

And then I awoke. My digits began to move on their own and I layed down a furious series of rocks, paper, etc. I clawed my way back and toppled the infamous sensei with lethal precision. I felt the chaos that Doug had hinted at, and I liked it. But how could I have slain this giant; this man they called master? Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was sandbagging me so he could try to win some money off the “new kid” later (which he did try). Or maybe there was more to this master thing than I thought. Any attempt to meditate on this was lost, however, in the raucous mash of laughter and pint glasses that always spells a good night.