EPTMy third love is gaming.
As a child, I loved to play games. My most precious early memory is Playing Ninja Gaiden with my dad. We would take turns playing through the game trying to get to the end. In my mind, I honestly don’t remember whether it was my dad or me holding the controller. We had been playing for my entire childhood. So many games. So many game overs. The first hard boss who jumped around and shot three bullets. The zombie guy with spinning axes. The pixel perfect jumps. Those awful birds.
Somehow we were finally at the end. We were shocked to discover Ryu’s father was still alive. A son, searching for his father. It bound us to each other. We had been on this whole journey together. We persevered. Anyone who played that game knows how hard we persevered. It was grueling and there was no way to cheat. Every inch was earned.
We fought and died. We jumped. And died. We did everything perfectly. Repeatedly. And died. And died. And died. But we didn’t stop, dammit. Stubbornly at times. But persistently and bullishly and tirelessly we pressed start and tried again. It was an impossible game.
But somehow there we were. Elated to have defeated who we thought to be the final boss, knowing we had won. Stunned to learn he was our father. And pissed that another foe yet remained. We were on our last life and we wanted our well earned victory! But we couldn’t have it. Not yet.
And so we fought. Valiantly. Poorly. We started with full health. But we lost it quickly. We had barely scratched him. His random chaotic attacks whittled us down to virtually no life. He continued his relentless attack, unfazed.
We had 2 hit points left. He had so many.
But then something happened. The game seemed to slow. The patterns became recognizable. We had found an answer. Our fireball was doing tremendous damage. We’d stumbled upon a safe way to attack. And the boss was going down fast! One final shot! But... Ammo. A moments realization. A moments hesitation.
Game Over.
A life defining failure.
This game was impossible. We never beat it. We pushed on for as long as we could. But losing like that wasn’t fun.
So we moved on to our next challenge with older, more experienced eyes.
It’s my most precious memory of my father. Not the only one. Admittedly not all of them are good. But so many of them are great. Moments spent gaming, filled with the joy of children. Two of them. Father and son.
Mario Bros and running along the top of the dungeon. Pilot Wings and landing the sky diver. Frogger at the Golden Cadillac. Atari on the floor of our living room. It’s not all we did together. And truth be told, it’s not something we did often. But the joy when we played was constant. And the love was overwhelming.
I fantasize that those tense final moments were played by me. My father proudly witnessing his son overcome some great challenge. The warmth in his eyes at the realization of the greatness unfolding in the moment.
The disappointment of the subsequent failure made worse by the scarcity of the circumstances. The warmth and the love of that instant, cemented in eternity.
In truth, it had to have been my Dad playing. Pushing on. Setting the strong example for his boy. Being the unbeatable giant his son knew him to be. Feeling the failure of falling short. Impossibly and hopelessly, never appreciating or understanding the permanence of the moment. Never playing again. And then never understanding again. And then, so many years later, understanding again.
I’ll never know which memory to be true. They both feel so real. But I’d like to believe in a third possibility. I really hope that he let me start the fight and paused the game when I got down to 2 hit points.
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