For about two decades, I have kept quiet.
I didn’t tell my story. I didn’t correct the record. I didn’t chase interviews, start a podcast, or build a personal brand. I didn’t post screenshots or old trophies. I didn’t reach for the limelight that others—justifiably—used to build careers, businesses, or recognition. I disappeared from esports almost entirely — as I quietly built a life elsewhere.
And for the most part, I told myself that was okay. I walked away on my own terms, still whole. I had my reasons. Some of them practical. Some emotional. Some I couldn’t have explained even if I’d tried. I made peace with the idea that my name would slowly fade. That is the natural order of things. The people who were there knew my contributions, and that was what mattered.
But that peace came at a cost.
Because as the years passed, I watched others tell versions of the story. They weren’t malicious. Most weren’t even wrong, not entirely. But they were incomplete. Missing context. Missing weight. Missing the truth of what it felt like to be standing on that edge — when everything was just beginning. When the dream of esports was still fragile and uncertain, and we had to will it into existence with nothing but passion, sacrifice, and relentless drive.
The Myth of “If It Mattered, They’d Remember”
There’s this unspoken belief — especially among old-school competitors — that if what you did was truly great, history will remember.
But here’s the truth: history doesn’t remember what isn’t told.
It remembers what’s written down. What’s shared. What’s repeated. It remembers who speaks up.
I didn’t.
I was there. I was not a mere spectator, some player who happened to be there. I helped make it happen.
From dial-up, to the first international duels and the rise of global organizations — I was both one of esports’ first true ambassadors and the first international FPS duel champion. A pioneer who showed the world what it meant to be a professional gamer.
And for years, I let that go unspoken.
“He didn’t just knock on the door of greatness anymore—he kicked it down.”
— Dennis “Thresh” Fong (Winner of Red Annihilation, PGL Champion, Recognized as the World’s First Professional Gamer)
What changed? I suppose I did. The youthful gamer chasing a dream gave way to a reflective father and IT professional — someone who’s built a life far from the spotlight, but never forgot where it all started.
After so much time away, I reconnected with a few of the people from that era. Legends. Rivals. Brothers. People who still carried the memory of what we built — and who reminded me that my part in it mattered.
“Victor stood out for his humility, mentoring emerging talents like myself…”
— John “ZeRo4” Hill (Quake 3 World Champion, Bethesda Esports Manager, BGS Business Director)
That it wasn’t arrogant or attention-seeking to want the story told properly. It was necessary. For the scene. For the record. And to be honest, for my children. I want to leave them with the knowledge that I was a part of something special, from the very beginning. Not as a story casually passed down from Dad, but carved into the bedrock of the industry I helped build.
Preserving History and Reclaiming My Voice
So I’ve written something. A private document. A personal effort to gather testimony, context, and truth about my journey — not to convince the world I was the greatest, but to preserve what we built.
I’m not releasing it publicly. At least, not yet. But I’ve shared it with a few people I trust. And I’m sharing glimpses now, bit by bit, not to build hype, but to offer clarity.
Because if people are going to remember me at all, I’d rather it be for the right reasons.
Not because I came back for another run. Not because I suddenly decided to become a content creator or streamer. But because I finally decided it was time to stop letting others define my legacy for me. I am reclaiming my voice — because some things deserve to be remembered.
“He helped build the foundation that many of us, including myself, would later stand on.”
— Shane “Rapha” Hendrixson (Quake Pro League Champion, 7x QuakeCon Winner)
Let me be clear: I’m not looking for a second act. I have a life I’m proud of. A family I love. A stable career that has nothing to do with esports. I’m not coming back — not really.
But I care about this scene. I always have. It will always be a part of my identity. And if I played even a small role in shaping the foundation it now stands on, I think it’s time to make that known — not for recognition, but for truth.
This isn’t a PR campaign. It’s not a comeback tour. It’s an act of historical preservation. I’m not here for applause—but I won’t let my story be erased from the record.
Perhaps it’s also a message to the new generation:
You don’t always have to monetize your past.
You don’t always have to turn your story into a product.
Sometimes, it’s enough to simply remember — and be remembered.
“He has always been a legend to me—and he always will be.”
— Alexei "cYpheR" Yanushevsky (4× QuakeCon Champion, ESWC & DreamHack Winner)
If you see pieces of the document, hear whispers, or come across reflections from those who’ve read it, know this:
It came from a place of love, loss, and respect.
And maybe, just maybe, from the part of me that never stopped being a competitor — even if I no longer play under the lights.
“The games are over. The lights have dimmed. But the friendships, the legacy, and the love for this scene remain. I was there — and I never stopped believing in what we built.”
— Victor “Makaveli” Cuadra
Former Quake 2 World Champion | Founding Member, NA vs EU | Esports Pioneer
I was there on the other side of the pond, and this post has reminded me of how much history of those early days now just lost. It makes me think of how history in the "real world" fades. We know little about the real origins of many mainstream sports today, because the written record only contains the highlights.
I started out playing Doom on the BBS's, where you would literally find other peoples phone numbers to direct dial them from messageboards and primitive live apps.
Quake and home dialup internet came around the same time to me, but it was virtually unplayable due to my modem having an 8250 UART, introducing even MORE latency than was typical. NetQuake on 300ms and a 486 just wasn't a great experience.
But teenage me loved it so much I put all my money into getting multiplayer quake playable other than at LAN parties I lugged my computer and monitor half way across the country to attend. I upgraded to ISDN and used an elaborate "scheme" to get always on internet.
I got involved in the community, I helped to run UK leagues including the UKCL and MCW (which was the Modem's Clan War, not the Modern Clan War like Google AI suggests !).
Much like you, this got me into the tech industry. I was always destined to do tech for a living I guess, but this shaped what KIND of tech. I learned about BGP and how internet routing worked, and where to strategically locate Qizmo proxies to stop internet routing bouncing UK players through New York to reach servers in Amsterdam. I learned a bunch of stuff about linux server administration so I could run game servers more efficiently on the same hardware, and I went on to run a Quakenet IRC server for about 15 years.
This post has taught me something very important. History will be forgotten if you don't write it down. I was more someone that greased the wheels than a superstar (in UKCL terms I'd have been a "solid div1 player"), but I should write down my memories of those early days in the 90's before they become even more foggy and corrupted in my mind.
Here is someone else that has (https://dondeq2.com/2017/12/25/memoirs-of-a-failed-quake-god-by-nanzinjal), and I'd love more of us that were around then to use this as an example and commit our memories to the record for future historians to pick over and argue about.
Pumpkin.