Today, I ran across an article concerning old-school arcade games, the likes of Asteroids, Centipede, Super
Breakout, and others—games that kids today would most likely scoff at with
utter disrespect due to the lack of gameplay and challenges, low-end graphics,
and flimsy story lines that those games of old offered up compared to their
high-res, movie-quality combat competitions of now. But for the kids of my
generation, those games are looked upon with sincere and lifelong adulation.
The article took me instantly back to one
of the greatest days of my life, a day when I witnessed a peer no different
than me get every last bit of conceivable joy, pleasure, tension, stress,
fatigue, mental and physical endurance, and hand-eye coordination possible out
of a single, solitary quarter.
Never before or after have I gotten as
much unmitigated happiness and sense of accomplishment out of 25 cents, and all
I did was stand there and watch it all go down.
What I witnessed was absolute magnificence.
A towering accomplishment.
A boy transformed into a conquering
hero.
A small town kid morphed into a valiant
knight.
A warrior in possession of supreme
skills.
A ninja master who effortlessly brought together
his most excellent skills and forged them into a finely honed weapon of
destruction.
What I witnessed that day was the personification
of an ordinary boy overcoming all odds and obstacles relentlessly put in front
of him only set each one aside to climb to the top of the proverbial mountain
and reign supreme among all.
What I’m talking about, good people, is
the day I witnessed my friend, a boy named Chris, plug a quarter into the Dig
Dug machine at the Gas N’ Shop on the corner of Main Street and proceed to
spend the next several hours in complete and total domination, until in the
end, he rolled that machine, humbling it and all who watched in the process.
It was an epic day. A magical day. A moment
I’ll never forget. There was no indication of what was to come. There were
trumpets sounding. There was no parade. There were no screaming crowds. But
damn it if the world didn’t stand still ever so briefly that late afternoon as
that period after school slowly faded into supper time and then beyond.
Level after level, tunnel after tunnel,
pattern after pattern, Chris wore that joystick out. Though his legs were
fatigued (as were mine), though his throat grew dry, though his forehead sweat
bullets like never before, he persevered. I was in awe.
Chris was the undoubted master of arcade
games among my click. While Tim was the undisputed Gorf master, winning free
pizza after free pizza at Buck’s Place each week for charting the high score,
Chris was a master of all games. He always got his quarter’s worth, unlike me
who might as well of had “Sucker Coming” plastered to his forehead. I sucked,
but I sucked equally at all games. That was my calling card.
Chris, though, he was pure. Defender,
Asteroids, whatever the game, he was fluid and unflappable. That day on the Dig
Dug machine, though, he was in the zone. He was not to be f*cked with. He might
have been among the shortest of my friends, but he stood tallest that day.
Hour after hour he went on and on. Soon,
I realized I would either have to make the long walk home in order to make it
in time for supper and miss the epic achievement that was happening before my
eyes as a result, or I could accept that I was going to be in trouble and stay
and revel in Chris’ glory. I stayed. I’ve never regretted the decision. I’ve
never seen a machine rolled since.
Today, when I drive past that lot where
that Gas N’ Shop used to stand this is the memory I attach most greatly to the
empty space. A boy. An arcade game. And one quarter.
