Childhood Memory Revisted

I think I was seven when my dad brought home the Super Nintendo video game system.

It was an important moment for me, especially at that young age, because I had no idea how important playing games would become to me (well, as important as any hobby can be.) I hadn't really played games before that, except for bits and pieces here and there. I was already well on my way to being a complete nerd though, blissfully unaware of the social stigmas associated with introspection and a preference for books over ball games.

I gave sports the customary try. I wasn't too bad at them, actually. Certainly not gifted; there was never talk of a sports scholarship in my future (as has become the case with my younger brother). I just didn't really see the appeal. There were books to read. Things to imagine. Thoughts to be, well, thought.

This, of course, means that an important avenue of the whole "father-son" bonding experience was never really explored. My dad and I didn't go out and throw a baseball around; if we ever did, I certainly don't remember it. It simply wasn't something I wanted to do, and for better or worse, he left me to my own devices. This suited both of us very well.

However, I mentioned the Nintendo game system earlier. It would, inevitably, become a fixture for a younger me, a trait that probably won't reserve itself in this modern age of ever-fancier electronic toys. But this story isn't about video games, but one of those moments that pass through your notice as fleetingly as a dream, a moment that wouldn't become important to me until many years later, as I thought back to my childhood and wondered if I missed it.

When Dad brought home the Nintendo, he had two games along with him. One was for the kids, my brother and me, a Super Mario game. Bright, colorful, cartoony; from the moment we turned it on, it was an instant favorite. But there was also another game that Dad had with him, and though he'll never admit it, I know that he picked it up for himself. Perhaps this sounds selfish; I personally consider it endearing. It was a game based on the movie Jurassic Park. Your character was trapped on an island filled with hungry dinosaurs and you had to explore the world, completing a series of tasks before you could hope to escape with nothing but your wits, a rocket launcher, and a cool, electric-death-ray guy thingy to protect you from the ravenous hordes. It was, and still is, an extremely challenging game. I've never beaten it.

So, anyway, we had these two games, and whenever Dad could get a moment when we weren't playing around with the console, he'd sneak into the den and fire up his game. At first, I would get annoyed in the typical, childhood fashion. I wanted to play, it was my turn (even though I'd just finished playing) and Dad was being selfish. But after a while, I stopped complaining and started watching him play. I remember the dinosaurs being extremely scary, especially the Tyrannosaurus Rex, who would tear through the jungle, causing the screen to shake as it charged towards my dad's on-screen character, chasing him down until it inevitably devoured him and he'd had to start the game over.

For some reason, though, even though the Tyrannosaurus always won, it made it less scary when it was my dad there playing.

In addition to watching my dad play, I also found myself watching how he played. Since the game was a huge island, filled with jungles and caves and various buildings, there were a lot of hidden areas to explore. So my dad always played with a notebook and pen next to him, taking detailed notes about various important items and things needed to complete the game.

Time passed, as it tends to do, and eventually, Dad lost interest in the Jurassic Park game and it would eventually become a forgotten relic, tucked into a corner of the entertainment center alongside the VHS tapes and other such things.

Several years had passed. Newer, shinier video game systems had come out, and I was old enough that watching my dad play a game was no longer cool. In fact, this was an age when parents themselves were not cool. Teenage years, of course.

One day, while I was bored, I remember digging out the old, forgotten Super Nintendo and the copy of Jurassic Park. I remembered watching Dad struggle to get through it. In my teenage arrogance, I decided that my game playing skills were more than honed to beat this thing and I set about to the task of doing what my father could not, which I believe is a recurring trope in literature, if I'm not mistaken.

I gave up after about an hour, frustrated. Goddamn game was hard. As I was sitting there, looking at the game in disgust, I saw the old yellow notebook with my dad's carefully detailed notes, locations, maps... the guide he had written for himself to get through the game. I started to read, picking up tips, pointers, and even notes about which weapons were most effective against which dinosaurs.

I played the game again, my father's notes on the ground beside me, and though I would never actually get around to beating the game, for the next few days, I felt this sense of connection, a bond, of sorts. I remember feeling moments of gratitude as I found helpful hints when I found myself stuck, and I remember feeling myself swell with pride as I overcame a few puzzles that had stymied my father.

It sounds silly now, to make so much out of a silly video game. But if the games we play are, sometimes, a reflection of the world around us, how often do we wish that we could find, especially as we begin to take our own first steps in adulthood, how often do we long for a helpful notebook from our parents to guide us along the way?

I never realized how much the memory of watching my dad play that game, and using his notes years later to try and beat the same game myself, until I almost lost him. I was sitting in the hospital waiting room, trying to figure out whatever it is people do in waiting rooms, aside from wait.

We may never have had games of catch in the backyard the way my dad and my brother did. In fact, I was often in my own world for long stretches of my childhood, and I find myself wondering now if it makes my dad sad, that he didn't get a chance to do those things with me.

But the truth is, we did have those moments, him and I, but we had them in a way that was meaningful to me. And to this day, although it's not the most impressive story I can tell about my life growing up, it remains one of my fondest memories of time I spent with my father, even if all we were doing back then was playing a video game.