The Classic Misadventures in Gaming #7

By Dan Bosley
July 5, 2006 (Originally Posted on January 29, 2003)

My wife, Diane, works at an elementary school as a teacher’s assistant.  And twice a year, the staff of the school get together for a staff party at one of the teacher’s houses.  And the spouses (or significant others, as the case may be), get invited too.

I’ve been to lots of these staff parties over the years.  There’s always lots of food (it always seems to be a Greek food theme - I don’t really know why, but it just is.  “Hey, let’s have a school staff party.  What kind of food should we bring?  How about Greek?  Greek?  Didn’t we have Greek last time?  We did Greek last time. Yes, we did, and it was good, so let’s do it again.  O.K., Greek it is this time, too.â€?).  And the conversation at these get-togethers always tends to be about school and students and other work-related activities.

And meanwhile, all the non-teacher husbands just smile and nod and stand around uncomfortably (hmmm, he looks familiar, I think I met him last time...) and finally out of desperation start talking about sports and cars and other sweaty, manly topics.....

So that’s what we always do for the first hour or so.

And at every other staff party I’ve been to, that’s also what we do for the next 3 or 4 hours as well.  And then we all go home until 6 months later, when we all get together and do the exact same thing all over again.

But this last time, a couple of different things happened, both gaming-related......

I’d already eaten my Spanakopitas and Moussaka and Souvlaki.  It was very tasty.  I’ve been sitting beside Len, whose hobby, as far as I can tell, is yawning.  He does it very well.  Something about practice making perfect, I guess.  And his yawning is really pretty good, I must admit.  If he wanted to, I’m sure he could turn professional.

Anyhow, there I am, trying not to yawn back, when suddenly Bill (whose house we are at) announces that if anyone wants to play Foosball, there’s a table in the garage.

I leave Len in mid-yawn.  By the time he is finished, and looking back at me, I’m not there anymore.  Poof, gone!  Just like David Copperfield.

I head into the garage, which Bill has thoughtfully not bothered to heat, even though it’s winter and a very cold night.  I can see my breath.  I don’t care.  It’s better than seeing Len’s breath.  Or where Len’s breath is coming from.

Conveniently, only 4 of us have showed up in the garage.  Bill, Parminder, Alex, and little old me.

“Has anyone played before?� asks Bill.

Neither Parminder nor Alex has ever played before.  I have played Foosball before - but not for a verrrrrrrrryyyyyyy long time - back in University days.  And I ain’t no spring chicken anymore.  We’re talking RUSTY!

“Let’s have a few warm-upshots and get loosened up before we play a game,â€? suggests Bill. 

Sounds good to me.  Parminder and I team up against Bill and Alex. 

In the first 10 seconds, I realize something is not right.  I feel totally awkward pushing and pulling and twisting the rods holding my soccer players.  Yes, I know I haven’t played for 20 years, but it’s more than just that.  Everything feels.....backwards.

And that’s indeed what it is.  My hands have “memoryâ€?.  I used to be pretty good at Foosball, way back when.  But on that long-ago table, the one I used to play on back in my University days, when you were on offence, you had to send the ball from right to left.  It didn’t matter which side of the table you were on, it was always the same - if you were on offence, you had to shoot the ball from YOUR right to YOUR left to try to score goals.

But THIS table in this freezing garage is built mirror-image or something - when you’re on offence, you have to send the ball from left to right!  The opposite of what my hands’ memory wanted to do!

Yes, you may scoff.  Ha-Ha, you may say.  How could it make that much difference, especially since you haven’t played in 20 years?  You were just slow and rusty and out of practice, that’s all.

Ha-Ha, right back at you, I respond.  The hands DO have memory.  Yes, I was slower, I can’t deny that.  But everything just FELT wrong.  It was like having to do everything while looking in a mirror.  Imagine if you had to, oh I don’t know, maybe if you had to shave while looking in a mirror!  Imagine how hard that would be!

Oh, wait a minute....

Anyhow, it felt very odd having to go in the opposite direction.  But being slightly wiser than a jar of marmalade, I managed to persevere and kept with it, gradually getting the hang of the game again.

The door opens.  It’s Ed.  “Hi guys.  I guess you’re full up, hey?â€?

Bill says, “No worries, Ed.  You can play in the next game.â€?

“Great,â€? says Ed.  “I’ll just watch this one, then.  Check out the competition, you know.â€?

“O.K.,â€? says Bill.  “That’s enough practice.  Time for a game.â€?

Bill picks up the little plastic soccer ball.  He then rubs the ball on his shirt in an attempt to clean off the frost that has accumulated on it.  Most of the frost does come off, but there are a couple of icy patches that are a bit stubborn, and Bill has to really work at it to get the ball ready for the big game.  Yes, it is definitely a little chilly in the ol’ garage....

“Everybody ready?� he asks.

We all nod in agreement.  Unlike Bill, we are all afraid to open our mouths in case our tongues freeze.  That would not be a good thing.  So nodding seems to be the safest thing to do.  The action is about to begin. The adrenaline is beginning to flow.  Bill is pumped.  Alex is pumped.  Parminder is pumped.  I am pumped.  The crowd is pumped.  We are all pumped.  Even the tires in the garage are pumped.  There is no doubt about it, there’s a heck of a lot of pumpedness going on in this room.

Suddenly, the crowd starts doing the wave.  It’s always exciting in a stadium or in an arena when the “waveâ€? gets going.  Seeing everybody in a section stand up and wave their arms in the air and sit down again, followed immediately by the next section doing the same thing a split second later, and then the next section after that, and so on, all around the whole stadium, is truly a gosh-darn-wow moment. 

However, we’re not quite in a stadium.  There doesn’t seem to be any gorgeous 20-something cheerleaders around, shaking their pom-poms.  Or teenage guys with acne selling popcorn.  Or any overweight beer vendors hawking the most expensive beer in the city.  Or anyone at all selling 50-50 tickets. 

And the crowd IS a little small.

I must say that the “waveâ€? really loses something when the crowd doing the wave consists of only one person.  And good old Ed doesn’t appear to be any too coordinated while he’s doing the wave, either. He keeps slapping his cheeks and rubbing his arms and chattering his teeth and jumping up and down on the spot.  Which usually isn’t part of any wave I’ve ever seen in a stadium.  I guess he’s improvising.  Creative waving or something.

We players stamp our feet to keep the circulation going.  Cold doesn’t bother us.  We are foosball players.  We are glad it isn’t any warmer.  If it was, our palms would be sweaty.  As it is, they are just numb.  Along with the rest of our hands, wrists, and forearms.

Parminder and I are in control of the blue team.  We are the good guys.  Bill and Alex are in control of the red team.  They are the bad guys.  Parminder is controlling our goalie and our 2 defensemen.  My left hand is in charge of our 5 mid-fielders, and my right hand is in charge of our 3 forwards. 

I am head to head, face to face with Bill across the table.  Bill is controlling their goalie and their 2 defensemen.  We will be butting heads and our foosball players’ mutant cyclops-legs the whole game.

“First team to score 10 goals wins,â€? states Bill.  And then he reaches over the centre of the table and drops the soccer ball in between the two opposing centre mid-fieldmen. 

There’s a CLASH of legs and the ball careens down the field towards our goal.  Fortunately, it bangs into one of our blue defensemen, and bounces off to the corner.  Parminder gets control of it, and shoots it down the field......where it hits one of my mid-fieldmen, since I have stupidly forgot to make him (and the rest of his joined-at-the-hip compatriots) float horizontally in the air.

One thing I used to always do in Foosball (and which I had totally forgotten about until I suddenly started playing again) was to keep my offensive men hovering horizontally in the air whenever the ball was in our end.  That way, if my fellow team-member (Parminder, in this game) got a snappy shot off, it had a good chance of making it all the way down towards the opponents’ goal without having to avoid both the opponents’ AND our own feet.  With my players’ feet down, there would suddenly be a lot more obstacles in the way of the ball.

And of course, the opposite was true once the ball WAS in the opposing team’s goal-area. Then I’d want my men to all have their feet on the ground - so I could block outward-bound shots and get a better chance of booting a goal in.

Now I’m not quite sure how the horizontal floating technique translates over into real-life soccer - I’ve certainly not seen it used by real humans in any soccer games - but it seems to work well enough in Foosball.

Within the first 3 minutes, it is 3-nothing for the bad guys.  I am feeling very sad at this rather disheartening turn of events.  And I’m still having to cope with the backward (to me) controls.  It’s a little frustrating.

Several more minutes go by.  Some great shots, and some great displays of fancy footwork.  The score is now 8 to 2 for the bad guys.  I am now feeling sadder.

But then, something clicks.  And while it may have just been my teeth, I don’t think it was.  I am in the zone.  I AM IN THE ZONE.  Wherever the ball is, I am there.  I am one with the ball.  The ball and I are in unison.  If the ball is bouncing off the left field-barrier, I am bouncing off the left-field barrier. If the ball ricochets off a defender, I am ricocheting off that defender.  I am one with the ball.  I am ONE with the ball.  Wherever the ball is, I am there. Wherever the ball is thinking about going, I am thinking about going.  Wherever the ball goes, I am there before it.  (Except when it shot off the table once and Bill went and got it and put it into one of his pockets to try to clean it off.  I was not ONE with the ball then.  Time-out from the ZONE, baby.....)

But I AM IN THE ZONE now.  The ball and I decide to score.

It’s now 8 to 3.

The ball and I decide to score again.

It’s now 8 to 4.

And again.  And again.  It is now 8 to 6.  The great comeback is underway.

Bill is starting to sweat.  He can tell that I am in the ZONE.  He’s been there himself before.  And he can now see that I am in it.  And Bill is sweating.  But sweating is a bad thing to do in this hostile who-needs-a-freezer-when-we-have-the-garage environment.  The sweat on Bill’s face quickly turns to little frozen ice-cubes.  And they start to stick all over his face.  Soon, his face is very lumpy.  Ice-cold lumpy.

They score a lucky goal, a real fluke-shot.  The score is 9 to 6 for them.  And unfortunately, the first team to score 10 goals will win the game.  Parminder and I feel a teeny-weeny little bit of pressure.

Parminder makes an incredible banking shot from our goalie that somehow makes it all the way down the field, where it is stopped by their goalie.  Bill has made an equally incredible save!  But then he winds up and kicks it.  And it bounces into one of my forwards.  Before I can even react, it ricochets into their goal, making it 9 to 7.  We are still alive!

But it looks like we will have to interrupt the game for a little First Aid.  Bill’s face is now quite lumpily frozen with all the little sweat-ice-cubes stuck to the skin of his chinny-chin-chin and his forehead.  So we pause the game momentarily, while I run out to my car to get my ice-scraper.  I’m back in a flash.  There’s too much ice on his face to get it all, so I just concentrate on clearing off the frozen little sweat-beads around his eyes.  It’s hard to play Foosball if you can’t see what you’re doing.

We resume the game.  I am BACK IN THE ZONE.  Bang, bang, two quick goals.  And not flukey goals either.  Good, hard-fought for goals!  The score is 9 to 9.  The next goal will win the game.  It’s a tense moment

And the door to the garage opens, letting in a burst of warm air.  It is Mary, Bill’s wife.  “Dan,â€? she says. 

I look up at her framed in the doorway.

She continues, “A lot of people want to play a party game.  But we don’t have any party games here.  Diane says you are Mr. Gamer and know a game called “Werewolfâ€?, and that it’s good for a lot of people and all we need is a deck of cards to play it.  Diane says it is fun.  Come out of the cold and into the house where it’s nice and warm, and show us how.â€?

I’ve been going to these school staff parties for years, and NEVER EVER have any GAMES been played.  And all of a sudden, tonight, everyone wants to play games?!  First, Foosball, and now Werewolf?  Is there something in the water?  Something in the Greek food?  Is it the temperature?  What is going on?

“Werewolf IS fun.â€? I tell her, risking getting my tongue frozen.  “I’ll be there in a minute.  One more goal, and then this game is over.â€?

“Oh good,â€? says Mary.  “We can hardly wait!â€?  And she leaves, closing the door, and ending the warm current of air that had been entering.

“O.K.,â€? says Bill.  “This is it.  The next goal takes it all.  It will be the final and winning goal.  The one that counts.  The one for all the marbles.  This is IT.  The BIG HIPPOPOTAMUS.  Get ready.â€?

And he drops the ball into the centre of the Foosball Table.

To be continued........

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