Guardian

I'm a man of sports-especially when it comes to teamwork. I take video games very seriously as well. There can be times that video games can be just as competitive or perhaps even more than physical sports. I thought I'd experiment with a little compare-contrast narrative with my two favourite hobbies.

Enjoy!



Guardian

      The sound of the bell initiated the match. Like an ever-so coordinated flock of muscular canaries, the two teams leaped into their respective positions. The flawless actions and motions of the players almost resembled that of a super computer. The pigskin would zoom up and down the field with incredible precision and speed.
John and David were comfortably seated. They had practised an obscene amount for this tournament. Every move, rehearsed. As David rushed the corridors in search of the sniper rifle, John made his way to the catwalks for higher ground. Bam! Two shots to take down the shields, and one to the head. David and John had already taken the lead with the first kill. They spared only half a second for a high five; Major League Halo 3 matches wait for no one.

      Jamie McCoy makes the pass to Jarrod Johnson. Breaking every sweat in his body, like an untamed cheetah, Jarrod began to book it up the field! The field lines crossed him by the second. Ten Yards, twenty yards, thirty yards, forty yards, and touchdown! The Pittsburgh Devils had taken the lead. Jarrod had run 80 yards in one motion yet as the rush of excitement and pride filled his body, he couldn't feel a single strain in his tank-armored muscles.

     Ten minutes into the match. John and David feel mildly uneasy. They were in the lead, but not by much. A few slips here and there had given the opposing team enough kills to shorten the comfortable lead. Luckily, John had made it just in time for the battle rifle to respawn. One, two, three, four kills - and he was on a killing spree! The black beauty of the rifle had turned the tides. John was as concentrated as ever. With lightning quick reflexes, he perfectly timed the jumps to dodge the bright pink shards of the enemy needler rifles.  Noobs, he thought. Meanwhile, David was picking off players like an aim-bot.

     Indeed, the Pittsburgh Devils were on their way to victory.  With 5 points ahead and the clock running down, victory seemed almost inevitable. Jarrod had pushed himself to optimum performance. He made the right plays, made the right passes, scored at every chance and always outran his opponents. With one minute left, the two teams had finished taking their strategic time-outs. The ball was starting at half-court. In such scenarios, anything could happen. As the whistle blew, the teams collided and fought for possession like ravaged dogs. Jamie got a hold of the ball. If only he could hold on to it for another 30 seconds he would guarantee the win. Forty seconds remained. He looked left and right, he was surrounded. Most of his teammates were still on the ground or struggling to make way. Twenty seconds remained. Jaime had to make a pass; he was cornered. It was be the only way to keep the play going. In the split second that he pulled his rock-hard biceps to make the pass, Jaime’s heart froze. He realized the horrific truth: his fingers were slipping. The ball flopped out of his hands and the opposing team picked it up. Twenty yards! Eleven seconds! Thirty yards! Eight seconds! Forty yards! Three seconds! Unbelievably, the other team scored a touchdown at 2 seconds remaining.  The game was lost by a devastating one point.

     John’s killing spree had been ended. Only 40 seconds remained but John and David retained the lead by a mere 2 kills. The two knew that this was their only chance. They played defensively when needed, made all the head shots, maintained map control and used the most efficient weapon combos. They gave everything they had. Yet, despite all their effort, they couldn't increase the lead. The opposing team trailed them on every kill. Only thirty seconds remained. Unconsciously, David dropped his hand to reach into the Tandoori Doritos bag for a chip. The moment he chucked the chip into his mouth, he realized his fatal error. With his right thumb and index finger covered in a blanket of sunflower oil and crumbs, he struggled to maintain control over the thumbstick and the trigger of the controller. But it was too late - 10 seconds left, and Jamie was mauled by an enemy rocket, which sent him hurling out of the map. The score was tied. Five seconds remained and David found himself, like the opponent, without a shield. All he needed to win was a headshot - but as his thumb reached for the thumbstick, his finger rolled along like he never made contact: the pitiful dorito grease had layered the grip bumps on the controller - rendering them frictionless. David’s move was delayed unforgivably - he was assassinated an instant later. The end-game report boasted on the wide-screen LCD TV. Far away from Jamie and David, the opposing team was already celebrating, downing Mountain Dew in diabetic amounts. But here, prides were devastated, faces sunk in palms - Mom, now is not the time for our sandwiches, they said. Now is not the time.