Jonny McCambridge: Gaming dad sticks out like a sore thumb

There is nothing which provides me with more emotional nourishment than being with my family.
The experienced gamer in actionThe experienced gamer in action
The experienced gamer in action

However, within the family, there is also space for individual hobbies, ways of spending time which are particular to one member. Interests not shared by the others.

For my son, it is computer games. He would happily sit, if permitted, from dawn to dusk excitedly manoeuvring little animated characters on a screen. When not playing computer games, he is equally content to watch videos of other people playing computer games. It is all an impenetrable mystery to me.

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My hobbies are different. I enjoy cooking and baking, going for walks while wearing my flat cap, and playing the occasional game of tennis.

Some of my interests may be considered difficult to reconcile with each other. I like to watch darts on the telly. I also enjoy listening to classical music when relaxing.

Recently, I have discovered that I can bring the two pursuits together. I have decided there is nothing to be lost by turning down the volume of the telly when the darts is on, so I don’t have to listen to the annoying commentary or the chants of the inebriated crowd. Instead, I can watch the action at the oche, while listening to the soothing melodies of Classic FM.

There is something in the throwing action of the more fluid players which almost suggests the rhythmic movements of a great conductor leading an orchestra’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.

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I have tried to get my son interested in darts. He has resisted. I have tried to get him interested in classical music. He has resisted. I have tried to get him interested in watching darts while listening to classical music. He has strongly resisted.

And so, we pursue our chosen interests alone. I am watching Peter ‘Snakebite’ Wright and Michael ‘Bully Boy’ Smith battling to become darts world champion in early January. I am at the same time listening to the Adagio un poco mosso from Beethoven’s ‘Emperor’ Piano Concerto.

Smith seems stressed because he is consistently missing his doubles. The piano and flute complement each other, as if woven together in an exquisite dance.

My son enters the room.

‘Daddy, I need your help.’

‘Help with what?’ I grumble, unhappy at my serenity being disturbed.

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‘There’s a bit on my game that I just can’t get past. Can you have a look?’

I realise immediately that he must be desperate to have turned to me. While still young, my boy is a competent operator at the games. Repetition has taught him many of the tricks needed to succeed. When he does get stuck, he often calls his uncle or merely Googles the problem, and it is usually overcome.

He knows that I am wretched at electronic games. As I said, he must be desperate.

It is a variation of a Super Mario game and the task which has stumped him is a simple looking tug-of-war challenge against a character who seems to be wearing a dress and a tiara. My son explains that if he can get past this challenge then he can complete the game.

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I figure that the likely problem is that his fingers are simply not strong or fast enough to hit the buttons with sufficient force to win the tug of war. I take the controller, wait until the contest starts and then begin to hit the ‘A’ button repeatedly. I lose comprehensively.

I compete in the test of strength against the girl in the dress and tiara perhaps 20 times – and lose on every occasion.

My son is dispirited at my weak efforts and informs me that there is another method which he saw on YouTube. He shows me the clip.

I watch as an American teenager, with all the seriousness of a physicist, explains that it is impossible to win this Super Mario challenge by pressing the button, no matter how much force is used. He says that the momentum that is lost when the button is not being compressed will ensure that you are always defeated.

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Instead, he says, the correct method is to rub the knuckle of your thumb at great speed across the face of the button, using the same motion you might do with a coin and a scratch card. I nod appreciatively at the logic, although I don’t want to appear overly impressed.

I try the new method and continue to lose, although not as decisively as before. My son is encouraged. But there is an unexpected consequence. I notice that the knuckle of my thumb is becoming red and sore.

I know that people who partake in a task often enough can become immune to its physical strains. Chefs develop hands with a high tolerance for heat, guitarists have fingers which become resistant to the strain of plucking the strings. I suppose it is the same for seasoned gamers.

But I have developed no such proficiency. The closest I could claim is some loss of feeling in my backside from sitting for hours every day in front of a computer screen.

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My son asks me to keep trying. I attack the tug of war contest with new vigour and come very close to defeating the girl in the dress and tiara. My son is jumping up and down.

‘One more time daddy! You’re nearly there!’

I notice that my thumb is now bleeding.

I swallow the pain and make one last big effort. I close my eyes, tense my muscles and rub my thumb across the ‘A’ button with demented ferocity. I begin to roar, similar to the way that a javelin or discus thrower may do in the Olympics.

I have no sense of anything to do with the game anymore. There is just darkness, pain and the frenzied movement of my thumb.

‘RAAAAAAAAAARRRRR!!!!!!’

I am only disturbed when I realise that my son is hugging me while simultaneously jumping up and down.

‘You did it, daddy! You won!’

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I have a swelling of parental pride and hug him back. It lasts for just a second, until I notice the huge flap of skin which is now hanging from my thumb.

I run from the room, calling for my wife.

Behind me I can hear the reproachful words of my son.

‘Aw daddy! You got blood all over my new controller!’