Meditations on the games we play
by Stephanie Piper
I hear them faintly in the darkness, a gaggle of neighborhood children lured away from their Nintendos for a boisterous game of backyard hide-and-go-seek.
We lament the meager imaginations of the video generation. We fear the death of creativity at the hands of Stuntman and a host of other virtual playmates. But even they are no match for the charms of a summer evening.
"Playing out," we used to call it in the velvety twilights of my 1950s childhood. It was different from the playing we did all day. "Playing out" meant you were allowed to go outside after dinner, catching the screen door before it slammed, promising to stay in shouting distance. "Playing out" meant you could wait on the curb for the Good Humor man, or catch fireflies in a mayonnaise jar, or maybe join the crowd two houses up for Prisoner's Base.
Tolerance seemed to increase with the onset of daylight savings time. Ten-year-olds mellowed enough to let the small fry tag along. Even the really big junior high kids let us watch their water fights.
No one knew who invented the games we played, but everyone knew the rules. Like their electronic successors, the games were about power. The difference was that they were also about real, live, sneaker-wearing people.
In "Giant Steps," also called "Mother May I," the giant stood at one end of the yard and gave players permission to advance or retreat. It was a delicious moment of control: "You may take one baby step." If you failed to say "May I," it was back to the starting line.
"Statues" was a dizzying spin across the lawn, followed by a command: "You're a witch!" "You're a dog!" You arranged yourself in the appropriate posture and awaited the judgment of the statue-maker.
Stoop tag had a number of variations. Our neighborhood played the "Movie Star" version, in which you had to simultaneously stoop and call out the name of a star or be tagged. To me, it was the ultimate summer high—crouching hot and breathless, gasping "Gregory Peck!" "Debbie Reynolds!" or my personal favorite: "Cornel Wilde!" Cornel never failed me. No one else ever invoked his name.
Nintendo, the experts tell us, has to do with testing one's skills against a relentless adversary. The thrill is in beating the system. But I wonder, on this still August evening, if the high-tech game mavens have gotten it wrong. No video game can duplicate the smell of trampled grass or the rush of making it back to base and shouting "Home Free All."
I go and sit on the front step, listening to the kids in the next yard, watching their flashlights play through the pin oaks and magnolias. It's fully dark now. Soon the mothers will begin to call, their voices floating on the sweet, heavy air. Doors will slam. Lights will go on. The beep-beep of indoor games will begin again.
Just for a moment, I'd like to take one giant step. Backwards.
August 15, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 33
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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