S
moke curled up from his cigarette. Palms planted on
the corners of the machine, his fingers flicked, electrified.
I looked at the score-ball 2-1,550,000 points. This
guy was good. F-14 Tomcat. It's a hectic game with the fastest
shot in pinball. He worked the table like it wasn't slanted.
I laid a quarter on the glass. He didn't even look up. I knew
I had a while to wait so I grabbed a stool at the bar. I had
pocketed a fat hipper earlier that day. It throbbed. My hands
twitched. My thoughts turned inward. Why do I do it? Why
do I abuse myself daily in the name of fun and spend hours
at night "relaxing" in front of the pinball machine. Machine-
hah! It's a whole world of challenge that I launch myself into
for less than the price of a couple bushings. I pay my quarter,
pull the plunger and my destiny is in my own hands. If I don't
shoot straight and react quickly, my ball's gone and I'm wat-
ching someone else lock and load.
of his body was bowed to within inches of the glass surface.
It was his fifth ball and he had 2,055,000 points. This game
popped at 2,700,000.
Both remaining balls ricocheted off the upper left bumper
and careened toward his right flipper. He held it up to catch
them, but made no paddle-to-ball contact and both orbs disap-
peared into the lower wasteland. He slammed his fist into the
side of the machine. I reached for my quarter.
"Bad break, dude. Want to play for beers? He turned and
leered at me.
"Hey, it's your money if you want to lose it, pal."
Great attitude. It was the exact same kind of cocky arro-
gance I had experienced countless dimes at skate spots all over
the state. He was good, no doubt, but he was so busy being
aware of that fact he had lost touch with the pure thrill of the
game. I slid my quarter in after his, pressed the start button
I looked back at him and the game. His hips jerked to the twice and stepped back. Light and noise erupted from the game.
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left as his right hand smacked the button and shoved the
machine. Too hard, I thought. The game's lights dimmed. TILT
flashed on the score display. He cussed and slapped the top
of the glass. I turned back to my Miller. It's the nature of the
game-you get so stoked while playing that you lose your
perspective on the laws of physics and bail. Bail! My brain stuck
on the word like a wheel on a crack. A major concept was
coagulating in my cranium.
I listened to the screams of the F-14. Suddenly, the parallels
between skateboarding and pinball became crystal clear. They
both demand intense concentration and immediate reaction.
You've got to retain control and maintain your flow in the face
of incessant, unpredictable hazards. Lose control and you lose
your turn, it's as simple as that. This constant flirtation with
danger is what fans the flames of excitement in both activities
(though the pain factor is much higher in skateboarding). Both
skateboarding and pinball grab your adrenal gland and mash
it against your heart till your veins fill with natural narcotics.
Once
you feel the rush, the craving never leaves.
Sirens and flashing red and blue lights woke me from my
reverie. I knew exactly what had happened-he had the multi-
ball. I jumped to the game and stared over his shoulder. He
was working four balls at a time, till one drained down the side
before he had a chance to bump the machine. Another shot
back out of General Yagov's chamber, straight between his flip-
pers. All the veins stood out on his forearms. The upper half
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He took the first player spot and let the plunger rip. I coul
see that the top right flipper was sticking and he was
trouble hitting all the "lock-in" targets. Pinball is like that.
can play the same game in three separate arcades and e
one will be slightly different. Skate three different halfpipes (even
if they're the exact same dimensions) and you'll experience the
same phenomenon. Kinked transitions, broken coping, sticky
flippers and dead bumpers-the important thing in all of these
situations is that you adapt to adversity while remaining ag-
gressive. Keep your focus and you'll make the big shots and
the rad tricks. It's all about mayhem and survival, speed and
danger, spontaneous frenetic control...
"Hey, come on, man. It's your turn." He was tugging my sleeve.
Leaning forward, I grabbed both sides of the game and planted
my right foot in front of ony left. I destroyed most of the of the
lock-in targets and took a couple of trips up Yagov's alley. The
rhythm started to take hold. I was shaking and bumping the
machine, but my style remained fluid. It felt just like pumping
long speed carves on the sides of a ditch I waited the perfect
extra split second needed to gain maximum power from each
shot. I was one lock-in away from multi action when I lost my
ball down the side
I could feel him smirk as idled out of his way 80,000 points
behind. By the third ball, my jaw was a vice. Drops of sweat
crawled down my forehead, His hostile tension was rubbing off
on me. Pinball, just like skateboarding, is meant to enjoyed
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in the company of cohorts. It's a social acti
vity; one that stokes onlookers and encourages
vocal response. My current situation, however,
was far from social. I wanted to beat this guy
just to prove the inferiority of a bad attitude.
His last turn was a total multi-ball blitzkreig
He kept four balls in play for what seemed like
fifteen minutes. Finally everything drained. He had 3,855,000
points. I stepped up to the machine, down by over a million.
My first shot was rock solid and I knew I had a chance. As
I worked the flippers, the surrounding noise faded away. All
I could feel and hear was the game I was channelling energy
directly durough my fingertips, completely focused. I had multi-
ball within a odrade-four balls in a frenzy, desperately trying
my influence. I glued my eyes to about a foot of table
space directly surtounding the flippers and started slapping. Two,
SAY
NO TO
DRUGS
three, sometimes all four balls at a time would attempt to breach
my line and leave the field of play, but I held on strong. My
whole chest vibrated. I was kicking ass and it was the ultimate
dizzy head rush. I looked up to check my score. 3,220,000
points. My eyes shot back to the table, but I had already lost
a ball off the tip of my right flipper. My concentration was blown.
One by one, my silver score-spheres slipped away. After the
bonus, my final score was 3,695,000. He snorted and demanded
his drink. "Better luck next time, pal."
My hip ached as I skated away from the bar. It was one a.m.
I would be exhausted at work the next day. Even so, I was going
to shred the death ditch with Trevor in the afternoon. Later
we'd probably hit up Slade's Arcade or the Cyclone game at
Frightquake. A gust of wind puffed my sweatshirt as I ollied
into the street, smiling.
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