FSP- Round Two!

I'm happy to report that the Favorite Song Project is a success. Three weeks ago I shared my quest for that perfect list of my favorite songs and asked readers to share their favorites. The response, both locally and from far away, has been impressive. From Seattle to Sun Valley, from Vermont to Virginia, and from New York to North Carolina, with lots of places in between, you shared your favorite songs.

Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.

Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."

People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.

Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.

The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!

Favorite Song Project

Got a favorite song? Better yet, got fifteen? It’s been more than thirty years, but I think I finally have my list. Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve tried to create my list of favorite songs. For a long time, I searched for the definitive song – that one song I could claim as my favorite - the one that played in my head in a constant loop of self-reassurance, the soundtrack for my life. This song, I would tell myself – this song is me!

I mulled it over incessantly – in my room listening to records, riding the bus to school, while my friends and I debated Lennon versus McCartney, whether Jim Morrison was alive and selling burritos from the trunk of his car at Dead shows, or how Run DMC sold out the day they let Steven Tyler into the recording studio. I first chose a Beatles song (“I Feel Fine”), then the Doors (“The Soft Parade”), then moved to “The Lemon Song,” by Led Zeppelin until, while listening to the record in my friend’s bedroom, his mom walked in, heard the lyrics, turned the record player off and sent me home in shame. Her concern was that Robert Plant, while exhorting the baby in the song to squeeze his lemon, was apparently referring neither to an infant nor citrus fruit.

Then I discovered The Clash, The Ramones, Joe Jackson and The Jam. It’s tough to pick a favorite when they’re all less than two minutes long. On I searched, spending much of my formative years listening in vain for my favorite song. Flirtations with Foreigner, Frank Sinatra, Linda Ronstadt, Talking Heads, Devo, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Hank Williams yielded no success. Even month-long obsessions with Patsy Cline, Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell left me no closer.

I now know choosing just one song is a fool’s errand. I’ve dedicated a better part of my life trying to craft that one perfect collection of my favorite songs – the mix partygoers would hear next to the keg, nodding subtle approvals to each other over the din of the bass and drums, or the collection my friends would play at my funeral, or as the soundtrack for the video tribute charities would commission in my honor for all the nice stuff I did for sea birds and trees. Cue the video of me nursing diseased conifers back to health as Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” fades into Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” while I scrub oil off a pelican’s soiled beak. And just before the screen fades to black, I shed my hazmat coveralls and look off across the calm sea while Hall and Oates’ “Your Kiss Is On My List” plays softly in the background.

The truth is I made those mixes with the hope others would hear them and judge me – that somehow an O’Shea Original Mix would show up backstage in the hands of ZZ Top or the surviving members of The Who. They’d hear it and send forth their roadie minions to locate the true genius who captured the perfect combination of songs, showering me with praise, front row seats and a black concert tee shirt for free. Alas, roadies don’t ring my house, and my music snob friend Don still reminds me of the mix I shared with him ten summers ago that had the temerity to include Skid Row, Journey and Ratt songs. Our friendship’s never been the same since he learned I knew all the words to “I Remember You.”

Once I dismissed the idea of happiness through others’ approval, I found the path to success in this life-long quest. The songs I’ll choose will be my favorites, and they’ll tell a story about me and no one else. I’m not alone in this idea, and to prove it, I’ve asked dozens of friends to share their favorite songs with me. What an education! I have lists upon lists - everything from U2’s “One” to Jerry Vale’s “Old Cape Cod,” to “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses to “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.”

I’ve learned that an ex-Marine named Rufus loves “I Like My Women on the Trashy Side,” that Roberta Flack still has one big fan in Vermont, and that the Rolling Stones make most lists but the Beatles make almost none! I found out that my buddy Ed - the guy who once swore Kiss was the greatest band of all time - has refined tastes that run from John Prine to Graham Parsons and Tom Waits, but “Love Gun” is nowhere to be seen. And I know my pal Don won’t accept the idea that .38 Special’s “Hold on Loosely” could be on anyone’s favorite list. “There’s something wrong with you if you put it on your list,” he warned me, a look of crazy lurking behind his music-snob eyes.

“Asking to pick a favorite song is like asking to pick a favorite brother,” wrote my second favorite brother Mike. He had some trouble with this assignment because, “You can really only pick your final list if you stop listening to music or just before you croak.” He then shared his top fifteen and did a nice job of combining Bach, The Bogmen, Radiohead and The Ventures into an eclectic sonic stew.

So today I launch the Favorite Song Project, an effort to share our favorite songs, to remember why we love them, and to tell each other what makes them our favorites. The Favorite Song Project, or FSP, is simple. Write down your favorite songs, narrow them to fifteen and share them – you can share with me, your buddies, your family, your co-workers, or complete strangers. Nothing says, “Understand me for who I really am” by baring your soul through fifteen song titles that help define you. Sure, your mother-in-law may not know a crunk cup from a sitz bath, but that’s OK – if Lil’ John’s opus “Get Low” is on your list, then pass the crunk juice and write it down!

We don’t judge in the FSP. If your top songs include the chorale version of Psalm 87 as sung by the Gelding, Indiana Men’s Choir, go ahead and write it down, even if the next guy’s favorite song is “Jesus Christ Pose” by Soundgarden. There are no bad songs or bad choices in the FSP – except for a cappella Billy Joel songs. The FSP draws the line at “For the Longest Time.”

So join the FSP and share your favorites with others. You can email them to the project’s mailbox (favoritesongproject@gmail.com) or you can join the new Favorite Song Project group on Facebook.

So what’s a favorite? It’s a song that makes you smile, cry or remember a time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. A favorite song is one that reminds you to call a friend from grade school, hoist another beer or brew a second cup of tea, the ones that have you wondering what happened to that girlfriend from eleventh grade, the one who dumped you because you loved the Stray Cats more than her. My favorite songs are the ones that make me feel alive. They set a groove, move me, ease my mind and remind me how much love, hate, pleasure and pain there is in the world. My favorite songs help me make sense of my life, in all its good and bad.

So give it some thought – post your fifteen favorite songs on Facebook (search on “Favorite Song Project”), or send an email to favoritesongproject@gmail.com, or just write them down and listen to them. It’s a good thing to feel alive. Cue the music.

Tim’s Favorite Songs, in no particular order

Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright – Mike Ness
Blank Generation – Richard Hell and the Voidoids
Rosalita – Bruce Springsteen
Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose – Dwight Yoakam
Let It Bleed – The Rolling Stones
The Pretender – Jackson Browne
English Civil War – The Clash
Buick City Complex – The Old 97’s
Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who
The Seed 2.0 – The Roots
Custard Pie – Led Zeppelin
Me and Bobby McGee – Janis Joplin
Fly Me to the Moon – Frank Sinatra
I Call Your Name – The Beatles
What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace, Love and Understanding – Elvis Costello

Fire House Rules

“Are you ready?” the Battalion Chief asks me as I lurch towards the smoke-filled room. I’m dressed in firefighter’s gear, the helmet strapped on my head, the oxygen tank’s harness pinching my shoulders, the air mask covering my face. I must look like somebody’s fifth grader on “Take your Child to your Dangerous Job” day – my boots are three sizes too big, the helmet slides back and forth, and I’ve resisted the urge to ask for a pair of pants with cuffs so I won’t trip on the bottoms. I don’t know if I’m sweating from nerves or from the 95 degree heat, aided by the twenty pounds of gear I’m wearing. Firefighter outfits don’t necessarily “breathe.”

We’re in downtown Concord just off Main Street, outside one of the Sanel Block buildings, slated for demolition in the coming days. The owner’s given the Concord Fire Department permission to use the buildings for training until they’re torn down. With no money in the budget for a new training facility, the Fire Department takes every opportunity it finds to practice its skills, and tonight it’s Engine 4 and its five firefighters’ turn.

Jim Freitas, Engine 4’s knob guy (he controls the flow of water from the truck), gives me advice as I wait my turn. “Remember – it’s all about the couplings,” Jim tells me. Jim’s been with the Department for a little more than five years. He found me my gear when I arrived, showed me the fire station’s layout and was the assistant chef who served dinner a few hours ago. That dinner’s about to make a special, one-time only reverse appearance if I’m not careful, so I listen to Jim explain. “It’s all about the male and female couplings. The female end will always lead you back to the truck – the male end heads towards the fire,” Jim explains as he shows me the difference in the male and female hose ends. “Feel for those metal bumps and then the hose, and you’ve found it.”

“Bumps to the pump,” Chief Ken Folsom reminds me, “Once you find the hose, don’t let go of it. Follow it like a clothes line until you get out.” I try to say something funny like, “Hey, ‘Female Coupling’ would be a great name for an all-woman heavy metal band,” but Ken and Jim are focused on the tasks at hand, and I probably should be too – besides, with the air mask covering my face and the nascent signs of heat stroke gnawing at my brain, it would’ve sounded like, “Tell my wife to remember me fondly.”

This drill’s designed to test firefighters’ ability to evacuate a smoke-filled, pitch-black burning room while flames rage nearby – the key is to find the female coupling and follow the right hose to safety. I have an advantage over Engine 4 – I watched the first few go through the drill earlier, standing in the corner with a thermal imaging camera, seeing them fumble in the rubble-strewn darkness for the exit. The room was completely dark, any chance for the twilight to make it through the one window erased by the smoke pouring from the machine on the floor. Taking my eyes off the camera meant instant midnight, so I kept my eyes fixed on the ghostly image on the tiny screen.

“Your air is on,” Chief Folsom tells me as he hits a button on the side of my mask, the cool air bathing my sweaty face. He leads me to the room, and I begin. I’m seconds into the exercise, and any appreciation I’d had for the work firefighters do has increased tenfold. I can’t see a thing, my gear is heavy, and I’m crawling on my hands and knees searching for the metal sections of the hose. Add a screaming citizen and actual fire into the mix, and I’d be the last person you’d want to see coming to your rescue.

Lieutenant Alan Robidas, and firefighter Dan Bickers, from Central, are running the exercise and coach me as I go. “So what are you looking for?” “What will you do once you find it?” “Where’s the wall? Have you found it yet?” I find the couplings underneath broken ceiling tiles, heed the Chief’s advice and grasp onto the hose, following it to the end.

Outside, the Chief and the men from Central debrief Engine 4, reminding them not to be fooled by the overlapping hoses. Moments later, I’m in the fire engine, Jim sitting next to me as we drive back to the station. Chief Ken treats us all to ice cream for a training exercise well done. It may be the first time in my life I actually earned a bowl of ice cream. It was delicious.

I’d arrived at the station hours earlier, right at the start of the thirteen-hour night shift. Lieutenant Merle DeWitt greeted me at the door and introduced me to Paul Sirois. Paul’s been a firefighter in Concord for almost eight years and will be riding in the ambulance tonight. This team of five firefighters works four days in a row with four days off – two day shifts of eleven hours and two night shifts of thirteen. Scott Marcotte, a third-generation Concord firefighter, on the job since 1987, provides a primer in the city’s firefighting footprint. “We have three stations plus the ladder truck on duty all the time. Each station has five firefighters, an engine and an ambulance, and Central has the ladder truck. One of the five firefighters in each fire house is also a paramedic, so we’re usually pretty busy.”

Merle then explains the bell system. “One’s for a medical call, two’s for a box alarm, and three bells probably means a building’s on fire.” I’m dizzy with anticipation, and as we sit down for supper, I wonder how fast these guys will bolt from the table at the first sound of bells. Dinner passes with no bells but with a lovely chicken dish and a Swiss chard salad from the station’s garden. “It’s been unusually slow - very quiet this summer so far,” Scott mentions to me after dinner. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t get many calls.” Scott’s an expert as a member of Engine 4, the busiest by far in the city, outpacing the other stations by hundreds of calls each year.

A firefighter waiting for a call is a lot like an ice fisherman waiting for a fish – you sit, you wait, you eat, you chat, and you clean your gear until a fish arrives or the bell rings, and then it’s time to move. About five hours into the shift, as we sit watching TV, Paul and Jim share stories of things they’ve seen on the job and how “Murphy’s Law prevails at a fire.” Paul emphasizes that trust is the key to a firefighter’s success. “We have to have each other’s back – always,” he says to me. It’s a calm scene until a bell rings, and Paul is out of his recliner like he’s been shot out of a water cannon.

Before I realize what’s happening, Scott asks me if I want to join Paul on the “bus,” (what they call the ambulance). I agree and Scott runs down the hallway to catch them. I follow him and make it before the ambulance pulls out, grabbing a seat in the back. Paul’s driving the bus tonight and Keith Richardson, the fifth of tonight’s crew, the team’s paramedic and lead chef, scans his laptop in the front to see where we’re going.

We arrive at a high-rise just off Main Street, and Alan and Dan from Central greet us at the door, their ladder truck parked in the lot next to the building. We move to the elevator, Paul pushing the stretcher and Keith lugging the portable EKG machine. Moments later we’re in a woman’s apartment - she’d called 911, complaining of chest pains, and Keith jumps into action, asking about her ailments and checking her vital signs. Minutes later we’re in the hallway with the woman on the stretcher. Dan asks her if she wants us to shut off her TV, still blaring in her bedroom. “Leave it on for my cat,” she instructs, and we head downstairs. She’s lucid and talks with Keith, who’s a combination of professional, precise and very friendly, asking her, “On a scale of one to ten, where’s your pain now? What did you have to eat tonight? Have you been taking your medication?”

We arrive at the hospital, Paul and Keith wheel the woman inside, and after a brief exchange with the nurse on duty, and we leave and drive to the station. “Calls like that are about seventy percent of what we do,” Paul tells me as he readies the stretcher for the next call. Not quite a scene from ER, but lack of drama at a time like this is a good thing.

Back at the station, it’s well past midnight and the place is quiet. Keith does his paperwork and Paul restocks the ambulance. The others are resting, waiting for those bells to ring. I find a comfortable spot and drift off to sleep, content in the conviction that Concord’s in good hands with people like this down the hallway, ready at a moment’s notice to set things right.

Six Reasons to Love the World Cup! (or at least watch a few games)

I was once like you - sick of people telling me to love soccer. I grew weary of pundits extolling the virtues of “the beautiful game,” how we Americans must embrace it like the rest of the world. Scoldings about soccer were like dental hygienists begging us to floss or our mothers reminding us to eat our kale. For many years, I was a man who swore that a prescription for a joyous sporting life was one part baseball, one part football, one part Indy 500 and no parts soccer. Until I started watching.

When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.

So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.

Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.

Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.

Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.

Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?

Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.

Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.

You Gotta Watch These Games!

USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)

Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)

France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)

Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)

Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)

Free to be Wii

If I ever needed proof I’m no athlete, I think I’ve found it. My shoulders ache, my neck feels like it’s wrapped in cement, and there’s a tingling burn stretching from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My ailments come not from half-nelsons, dodgeball or co-ed karate – they come from a video game. I’ve discovered Wii Tennis, and I don’t care how sore it makes me.

You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.

It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.

My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.

After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.

Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.

This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.

I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.

Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.

The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.

I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.

I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.

I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.

Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.

It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.

But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.

Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.