Over a Barrel

But like everything else, it takes lots and lots of practice. My scores slowly climb toward 300,000. Weeks become months, and my unfortunate addiction continues. I come to realize that the game has turned into a ready excuse for avoiding things I don't feel like doing. My laundry piles up. The kitchen counters become covered with splatters and crumbs. Dust gathers along the floor to the point of easy visibility. Yet I play on. I break 300,000. I continue to learn new tricks.

And then, one night after work, I sit down and play a game that lasts 62 minutes. A score of 510,500. According to Twin Galaxies, the official records repository for all things video game, the score would have put me, at that time, at No. 9 in the list of all-time greatest Donkey Kong players. From an announcement on Twin Galaxies' home page, I see that the next "International Classic Video Game & Pinball Tournament" is at the end of May, up in New Hampshire at Funspot Arcade, where, in "King of Kong," Wiebe was filmed achieving the then-highest score ever reached in public.

With less than three weeks until the tournament, I decide to try to replicate my top 10 score at an official venue; even if Donkey Kong isn't in the tournament, I know that any score I receive at Funspot can be authenticated by tournament officials. I'm not sure how tough the transition will be, playing on an actual cabinet with a joystick, when I'm used to the PC's arrow keys. But I need to go. Aside from the allure of officially breaking into Donkey Kong's all-time top 10, I need to get this cursed game out of my system.

One night, in horror, I discover that MAME keeps track of not only how many times you've played each of its games, but how long you've played each game. Wincing, I scroll to the right and look at the column for Donkey Kong: 135 hours. In three months.

But now I'm training. There's a purpose to playing every chance I can. Unfortunately, Donkey Kong doesn't cooperate. I get close to my high score only once. I gradually realize part of the problem is that, to my relief, I'm actually getting sick of the game. Donkey Kong was never meant to be played for hours straight; it was meant to entertain for a minute or two and take your quarter. The true genius of the game is in the million ways Mario can get killed. After all this time, the challenge of keeping him alive is finally starting to wear thin.

I arrive in New Hampshire a day before the tournament starts, hoping to give myself a chance to acclimate to playing on an actual cabinet. First, I run off excess energy on the hotel's treadmill. Then I take a shower, get dressed and do something I haven't done since I was a teenager. I go to the arcade.

The interior of Funspot is cavernous and dimly lit, as an arcade should be -- with row after row of cabinets I haven't seen in decades. There are flashbacks every few feet: Hogan's Alley. Punch-Out!! Crazy Climber. Robotron. Battlezone. The place is mostly empty, which I'm grateful for. I finally find Donkey Kong; there are three people gathered around it who have the pale, somewhat disheveled look of hard-core gamers. There is also a subtle indication that the game has special status here: It's the only one with a stool in front of it.

I don't want to appear too eager, so I continue past Donkey Kong to another flashback: Crossbow. This is one of the few games I had mastered to the point of playing indefinitely on a single quarter. I remember a date when we strolled to the arcade from the movie theater and the poor girl watched me play the game for at least half an hour. Whatever kept her smiling and serene that entire time, standing beside my scrawny, 17-year-old shoulder, remains a mystery. I only wish I could inspire that kind of devotion in my current relationships. I put in a token and start, keeping an eye on Donkey Kong.

When the gamers surrounding Donkey Kong eventually leave, I approach the cabinet with reverence. I was hoping that Steve Wiebe's 900,000+ point game was still immortalized in the high scores, but they've been reset and his initials are long gone. Worse still, there are alien initials: SDK, and they're next to scores such as 611,700 and 765,400. Better than I could ever hope for.

Sighing, I sag onto the stool and start playing. The joystick feels awkward, like a loose tooth clunking around. I play hesitantly and stiffly, which I know from experience that the game can sense and will punish severely. Level 2, screen 1, Kong hurls a rogue barrel that crushes Mario's noggin. I have 12,000 points.

I gradually get used to the joystick and the "jump" button. My score increases to 138,000, but considering my intentions, that is downright embarrassing. I play again. Arcade rats shuffle by and watch for a few minutes, then leave. One guy compliments me on getting past the elevator board on level 5, then tells me he's from New York, here for the tournament, and his Donkey Kong high score is 370,000.

It occurs to me I'm likely just one of a hundred nerds out there, third-tier players riding a renewed wave of enthusiasm for the game after "King of Kong" came out.