Each generation is destined to rise up, challenge, and ultimately prevail over the generation that gave it life, nurtured it, and offered it the world as its inheritance. Each generation finds a new way of challenging the old. It has happened or will happen to many men of my generation in a uniquely humiliating fashion.
Men of my age went to school during the heady beginnings of the digital age. Sure, I took high school keyboarding on an IBM electric typewriter, but a new computer lab was just next door. How can I ever forget the moment when my dad hooked up Pong on a spare TV in the bonus room? When I got home from school I spent much of my time on my Intellivision, my friend's Atari, or, later, a Commodore-64. I took a computer to college. As an adult, I continued playing games, but not as often nor as obsessively as before since the demands of adult living rightfully took precedence over leveling up my Diablo character or building the perfect Sim City.
With delight I introduced the joys and mysteries of gaming to my eldest boy as soon as he was able to hold a PS1 controller. This process was gratifying and ego-building as I, the master, instructed my apprentice in the many ways of defeating a slippery AI or a quick-fingered human opponent.
Two weeks ago my son invited me to play a head t0 head arena battle of Hot Wheels: Beat That! on the PS2. I walked into the room and picked up a controller, wondering, in the interest of avoiding tears, how many time I would have to let him get me before I destroyed him. Thirty seconds later, with the smell of burning flesh and twisted metal rising from my virtual Hot Wheel and my mind still trying to catch up to how in the world he got me, my son informed me that he smoked me like a cheap cigar (had he really learned that from me?). And then came the dance. The victory dance.
Two arena battles later brought no better results. Indeed, after feeling the tell-tale vibration in my controller and seeing my Hot Wheel burst into flame for the fifteenth time, victory was becoming routine for my son. I congratulated him, told him that I was impressed with him, and left the room.
He hasn't said anything to me since then, but I think he knows how big of a moment he just had. Sure, I have let him win past contests, but those victories had always been tempered with the drubbings I gave him before and after his wins. On this day, he had tasted only victory and I, only defeat.
I apologize that I must cut this miscellany short at one item as the kids are in bed and I need to play a few rounds of Hot Wheels Beat That! to figure out how he got me.
Peace
..._
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Yes, we've been here for quite some time. The Playstation hasn't been mine for years and all of my records are surpassed.
Getting smashed by my colorblind son at Super Puzzle Fighter 2 Turbo is bad enough. But when he's better than me at Rock Band while he plays left handed and doesn't flip the screen (and is still colorblind) . . . that hurts inside.
My only solace is in the violent games I won't let them play yet. But one day they're going to headshot me before I can even tell where they are. On that day I'll hang up my controller and start wearing cardigans.
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