A certain pattern emerged. The first matches in a tournament tended to be sloppy and unsatisfying, and then, once the most inexperienced knights had been eliminated, the action turned crisper, culminating in a series of swift, beautifully executed collisions punctuated by helicoptering lance shards and the occasional flying knight. At the end of each session, there were first-, second-, third- and fourth-place winners — including Adams, Andrews and Lambke in some order — and afterward the knights took off their helmets, signed lance shards in black Sharpie and answered questions from the spectators about the hotness and heaviness of their armor.

Back in the stable area, other dramas were unfolding. Several jousters were complaining that Lambke was “ducking out” — failing to pre­sent an adequate target for his opponents — and, indeed, the field marshal had taken him aside to warn him that he would be disqualified if he continued. (Lambke insists that he simply shifts his weight into his legs to brace for the hit, and that if the other knights had better aim they could adjust.) His teammate, Dustin Stephens, who has been jousting for 25 years, was struggling with every kind of humiliation: his horse was shying out of the list, his armor was malfunctioning and in more than one match he had committed the cardinal sin of visibly flinching away from the oncoming blow. Andrews made it clear that he thought Stephens was out of his depth. You stink, he told him, or words to that effect. “Go home and get better.” (Stephens, for his part, accuses them of trying to rig the tournament.)

Meanwhile, Adams and Andrews were watching the gate. Friday night’s crowd of 750 spectators was the largest of the weekend, but many in attendance had free tickets. The event cost about $25,000 to put on, and the first two sessions brought in a little under $8,000 each. “If we can get this amount one more time, we might — we might — kind of break even,” Andrews said on Saturday afternoon. “I don’t know. You keep thinking, One of these times, it’s going to take off. Somebody’s going to see it that’s going to get behind it, and we’ll be fine.”

Two producers did in fact make their way back to the horse stalls during the weekend. One, a portly, white-bearded fellow named Dennis White, handed out brochures for his venture, Medieval Knights of Honor Tournament Promotions Inc. The fliers were spottily punctuated and full of slightly off-kilter references to “morals” and “pride in ones family name” [sic], but they promised $12,000 in purse money at each tournament, and that was enough to earn him a hearing. “If you’ve got money, I’m there to fight,” Adams told him. “I’m a prize jouster.”

The second was Gustavo Sanchez, a producer of Latin American music who came on Sunday to scout for a traveling show he planned to produce, a kind of medieval-themed Cirque du Soleil. It wasn’t the best atmosphere for an audition. Only a few hundred spectators were present. The announcer was telling the audience for the third time that the joust had been delayed, although he didn’t explain that this was because Andrews was throwing a tantrum in one of the stalls over a judge’s call the day before. Sanchez watched everything with analytical curiosity: the intensity of the competitors, the bleakness of the arena, the often lackadaisical pace of the proceedings and the way Lambke won over the spectators with his hammy Black Knight persona. He noted how tough the sport was, and how expensive, and how difficult it is to do anything with horses. He understood that the men cared more about proving themselves on the list than about décor or costumes. “This is not what I’m looking for,” he said at last. “I need a show. This is not a show — it’s a competition.”

Certainly a show would have built to a more satisfying climax than Sunday’s tournament. First, Stephens was disqualified in a match against Andrews for failing to drop the reins at the start of a pass, a requirement meant to keep competitors from yanking on the horse’s mouth if they’re knocked off. Later, Lambke was disqualified for failing to present a target. The crowd was mystified, and its confusion made the awarding of trophies to the weekend’s champions feel hollow and anticlimactic. After three days of competition, Adams came in first, Andrews second and Lambke — despite losing all his points for the final day — third.

That evening, some of the competitors and their squires gathered at McGuire’s, a Pensacola pub and steakhouse. Everyone was sweaty and sore and more or less broke, and nobody could seem to talk about anything but horses and armor and lances. If the championships were held again tomorrow, you knew they would all be there.