By: Keiji Yamagishi & Ryuichi Nitta: Keiji Yamagishi & Ryuichi Nitta
I remember a rush of energy mostly, that's what stands out. The flicker of memory in my head moves fast, I race the few feet from my bedroom door to the TV, sliding to the blue carpet all in one motion to meet the Nintendo head on. The room is hot, and I can still smell the heaviness of the summer air combining with the musky odor of my discarded shoes. I can hear the 8bit music of the start menu, a slow march that drops out only to slam into an electric jam of keys and drums while I hammer the start key as fast as I can. I remember my anticipation building with the music, simultaneously in love with the sounds, but desperate for it to end so I could start playing. I just rented Tecmo Super Bowl from Blockbuster, the same game I rent every time. I must have rented it 10 times, but in my memory it feels closer to a million.
This memory makes me so completely happy. There is no tinge of that sadness that nostalgia usually brings, it's just me in my room, playing my favorite game. I would later get it for Christmas that year (and I played it until my little heart's content), but I don't remember that moment, rather I remember this specific instance of renting the game only - i think it's the combination of that song, that smell, that rush of euphoria - it was an intoxicating cocktail.
I always loved the idea of sports, or, more specifically, teams. I loved the black and white of teams, of rooting for one side and hating the other. To this day I am less of a sports fan and more of a team fan. I've always liked being a part of something bigger, to feel connected to a past, present, and future outside of my own. To belong.
Playing sports however, always frightened me. My only memory of Kindergarten is playing on our big blacktop playground at Assumption School. All of the boys would play the same game every day - Jackpot. One boy would throw the ball across the yard and it was a free for all who caught it, and if you caught it, it was your turn to throw to the group.
I LOVED that game...but I never once caught the ball that entire year.
Not because I couldn't, but because I was too scared to throw the ball in front of my friends. I’d drop sure catches on purpose. I was too nervous for them to see me throw - no one had ever shown me how and I couldn't fathom being that vulnerable in front of them. Strange what we assign as scary - I didn't mind dropping the ball, I was scared only to throw it.
I wonder how much influence that specific type of insecurity continues to follow me. I feel fine throwing a football nowadays but I still feel a fear of judgement around certain activities - especially those one might consider manly. Coming out of the closet was the ultimate hurdle of this insecurity, but that's probably better left for another day.
But why is this particular memory, this particular game, and this particular song so wonderfully fulfilling? How is it that a random summer day is memorialized but I can't recall that Christmas morning? Is it because it let me belong to a team, or because it gave me a confidence to throw a football, even if just on a screen?
Or did I just like sacking quarterbacks with Lawrence Taylor?
Comments