Game Banter: To Beat a Game

  • Growing up, I was HUGE on beating games. I remember pumping quarter after quarter into SoulCalibur at the Randolph Air Force Base arcade, getting to the final level but never beating that soap-bubble headed final boss. At that same arcade I beat my first-ever standalone arcade game: Street Fighter Alpha.

    Mostly, the only games I cared about beating were RPG games (Final Fantasy III, Chrono Trigger, Wild Arms, etc.) and my Blizzard RTS games (StarCraft, WarCraft II, etc.). Now, I’m almost strictly online multiplayer because I LOVE the challenge. For me to want to be a game, I’d have to have a COMPELLING storyline and some sort of measurable (i.e. worldwide scoreboard). I’m all about the competition!

  • Could never stay focused enough to platinum anything. Gonna talk about this on tonight’s podcast!

  • baldy eire

    Cause it seems once there is one news story or someone comes up with a smart piece of banter, the rest of you latch on to it and milk it til the cow turns into a bull[sh!t]. So few of you new users here possess originality…

    Might as well I hop on the milk cart too..
    If Barcelona does not beat Arsenal, will the fans be able to celebrate like they won the whole tournament without getting any flack? Cause at this moment, one would think they made special arrangements and already played both legs of the game this morning and lost.
    touzie, it just shows that most of the other fans just wannabe big kids

    This ad may appeal to them: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZH6YKmtQV8

  • Joe M

    He strode into the stadium, flanked on either side by his teammates. It was warm and the sky was dark, holding the promise of rain. Each step felt like he was restraining the spring of the grass, and the child whose hand he was holding felt like his only lifeline to the real world. Beside him, there were other men – men who spoke a different language, who wore a different uniform, who looked upon him as though he was some sort of alien. They didn’t matter to him; they weren’t half the men that the rest of his team were.

    As they walked onto the field, he saw out of the corner of his eye everyone in the stadium rising to their feet; he could hear their deafening cheers. It was enough to make his heart beat out of rhythm, enough for his steps to falter a little, although he was able to line up with the rest of the team and stare straight forwards as the flag was displayed in front of them. The wind tousled with his hair, but he hardly noticed it. His fists clenched at his sides as he stared straight ahead.

    If this was not the most important moment of his life, he couldn’t imagine what would be. The thin uniform clung to him with sweat; it was neither cool nor breezy enough for the wind to blow that away. He didn’t dare look to either side of him to see what his teammates were feeling; to know if they saw the same thing in these few moments.

    Everyone was watching them. Those in the stadium and millions around the world. Terror was working his way up through his stomach, and he knew that at any moment, it would hit the back of his throat and make it into his head. There was nothing he could do to stop it; it felt this way at every appearance on the field. The only way to master it was to not acknowledge it. To stare straight forwards and to not look at all at the people who were staring at them; to pretend that they didn’t exist; to pretend that he was on the fields two blocks away from his hometown, playing rough football with anyone who brought shin guards and a rough attitude. Where the rules didn’t matter, and the only thing that did was that you got up and kept playing no matter the blows you took on the field.

    The anthem began to play, and he mouthed the words. It wasn’t that he didn’t know them, or didn’t want to sing them, but he didn’t want to say them. Saying them would make them real; saying them would contract him to be as good as the promises the anthem made. Even as he mouthed them, tears came to his eyes, and he knew that he’d have been unable to speak even if he’d tried.

    Abruptly, the anthem ended, and he felt strangely empty. The child whose hand he was holding seemed less. Seemed unimportant.

    He breathed.

    Slowly, he walked to the bench.

    He watched as the captain walked to the center of the pitch; to either side, he heard his teammates talking. They were the same idle boasts that he’d heard in the locker room, and the same mindless banter that they used to combat the fear all of them felt.

    One of his teammates spoke to him; he didn’t hear what was asked, and simply grunted in response. That seemed to be enough.

    He closed his eyes and thought about all that had brought him here; he thought about the hours of childhood play that had turned into weeks of schooltime practice which had brought him to the attention of the minor teams which had brought him to the national team, until he couldn’t remember the last time when he’d had the slightest inclination to play the game. All he knew was that this was all he was supposed to be good at – and he was good at it.

    A cheer rose from those to either side of him; he supposed they’d won the coin toss.

    As an automaton, he walked alongside them to line up on the field. There was fine mist in the air which hinted at rain.

    All around him, the crowd was chanting; he couldn’t make out the words, but it felt as though all of them were looking straight at him. To his right, he caught the glance of his teammate, and managed to flash a smile. They worked well together; this would be an easy victory, as long as they played to their usual standard.

    He breathed.

    The whistle blew and he remained frozen in place.

    Every muscle in his body was tensed; his eyes watching as the ball darted across the pitch. Soon, it would be at him.

    This was what he had worked his whole life towards. A million hours of practice, muscles worked until they ached for days, lying in ice baths in the hopes that the ache would ease enough for him to sleep, coaches shouting at him until he was ready to scream back at him and quit the whole damn thing because there couldn’t be anything harder in the world than this.

    But this was what it all came down to.

    The rain began to fall, pattering down on his slicked-back hair, and into his eyes and mouth. He spat and didn’t close his eyes, keeping his gaze on the ball on the opposite end of the pitch.


    Soon, it would be his moment.
    Once, when he was too young to know what anything in the world meant, he had watched a game with his father, and heard his father cheer and chant. That was when he’d know this was what he wanted to do.

    Once, when he was too young to know what anything in the world meant, he had thought this was a good idea.

    The anthem echoed in the back of his head.

  • Michael K

    embarrassment for him to come ?

    If spurs get relegated what does the future hold for the messiah, and secondly the liverpool fans who called him the “missing piece of the jigsaw” or “the messiah” are any of you going to night school to learn about the game or are you still going to shout your mouths off about something you evidently know nothing about !

    To the educated liverpool fans, is it a wonder WHY we call you deluded, especially when you had won the league in september after beating UNITED 2-1, btw, this is banter, maybe you could take a few tips from this as well.
    I AM AN IDIOT, i’m not the one calling you idiots only myself. (just try and digest that)TOFFEES good luck tonight.