When we were kids, the little league coach would line us up after every game. The other team would line up in opposition, and we’d pass them, our hands extended to greet theirs. “Good game,” we were forced to say, but if we said what was really on our minds, it would’ve been more like, “Haha, loser,” or “[expletive] you; we’ll beat y’all next time.” It was supposed to be a lesson in sportsmanship, but our well-intended coaches never explained why that line-up was important after every game, so those unsportsmanlike thoughts persisted, took root.
Thirty-some-odd years later, my shoulders sank as the ball drained, and I watched the pinball machine count up my score: base bonus, bonus multiplier, bonus held, total bonus. Is it enough? I wondered. I could see other games alive with strobes and life. I could hear the other games at the arcade — alive with the clack of flippers, the balls caught in an array of bumpers, the high thwang of slingshots, modes and multi-balls, the scratch of pinball machine legs across concrete, bells, whistles, the electromechanical score reels clicking over by the thousands. My game, finished. No more balls to play; my score fixed wherever it stopped. Was it enough? I was in fourth place going into that ball, and I needed to move mountains to come in first. If I had first place, I would qualify for finals and top the cutline. All four of us were in the same boat. ‘It’s not enough,’ I thought. ‘No way is it enough.’ I turned around before the scores flashed. I didn’t think I’d made it, but I was greeted by the other three players — all of them with a hand ready to shake, a fist ready to bump; all of them with big smiles and congratulatory words. I took first. I qualified. I was still alive in the tournament, and the three people I bested were just as happy for me as I was for myself, even if I had just stopped them from qualifying. That’s a far cry from those mandatory little league lines and empty “good games.”
This was not an isolated incident. I’ve been playing competitive pinball for two years, and I have seen this scenario play out dozens of times. I have been on both sides of it — the congratulator and the one receiving congratulations. The pinball community embraces these moments of victory because we all recognize that one good ball can change the trajectory of a game, and it can happen for any of us. A lot of times, it’s a new player “leveling up” and figuring out something about the game, about their play. A lot of times, it’s hours and hours (and quarters and quarters) invested in practice, but sometimes it’s the No. 1 player in the state hitting shots and starting modes some of us wouldn’t dream of achieving. We’re all playing the same game; we’re all getting the same opportunity. The machine doesn’t care if I am a 12-year-old on summer break and out late with my parents, or if I’m a retired ombudsman for the VA. The machine never asks if I’m qualified, if I teach English, if I’m a diesel mechanic, a recovering addict, or if I invested early in crypto. It never asks my religion, my politics, or my gender. The machine does care if I have coined up, or (in the game) how hard I nudge, shake, or scoot it across the floor — don’t do that, though. When we revel in the success of others, then, it’s sincere. It’s not forced like those little league lines without explanation.
And while we’re playing, all the other chaos we bring to the table fades away; we’re forced into controlling the silver-ball chaos in front of us. We control it as long as we can because pinball suspends all the other things: the bills, the politics, the news reels, the work and family stress … not gone, certainly not solved, but irrelevant to the game. It forces a change in focus, and we’re reminded to control the controllables. On tournament nights, a lot of the things that usually divide us get suspended, too, and we’re all on common ground. We’re all on an even playing field, and we all get the same opportunities to run up the score and control the chaos. Each ball is an opportunity.
Of course, we would all love to win every tournament, but that isn’t the way life goes. It’s unfair and messy and scary and stress-filled, but pinball offers a break from that and gives us a community that reminds us we’re not alone in it. Competitive pinball offers the chance for conversations with people we otherwise wouldn’t greet on the street. It is an opportunity to cheer for someone when they have a good ball, a good game, or a good night. It’s an opportunity to shake hands and bump fists.
Michael Adams teaches English at a local college and plays pinball every chance he gets. He and his family live in Fayette County, but he has considered himself a Memphian since he learned to drive.
