Good Vibrations

Back when mastodons roamed the land, when I was a kid, mine was a world of Making Plans and Biding My Time. This was especially true if I got the fever over a toy or game that went way beyond any amount of allowance-saving. (Please. Allowance? Those quarters went straight into my pocket for a trip to Judd’s Superette to buy baseball cards, candy cigarettes, and wax lips.) No, the big toys and games were always gifts—and there were only two opportunities a year to acquire them: my birthday and Christmas.

My choices were solid—but I will admit to a few duds.

One year I begged for a remote-control car—a giant thing, at least two feet long—certain that it would become the best toy I would ever own. I played with it for a day. Then I abandoned it. If it was an actual car it would have been on blocks in the back yard with weeds growing through the floorboards. Mom rightfully banished it to the attic—where the only creatures ever to play with it would be dust mites and the occasional mouse.

I asked for a chemistry set one Christmas. Yikes, what a mistake. I felt like I was in school when I played with that thing.

I never bothered asking for a baseball glove because my birthday was in November. (Still is.) Why put myself through the torture of staring at a brand-new baseball glove that couldn’t be played with for half-a-year?

But let’s not lament bad choices and unfortunate timing. I’m here to rejoice in the three classic games of my youth. The Triple Crown of indoor-kid games that I played with my brother Edward. The games he and I would always return to after the lure of shiny new ones quickly lost their luster:

Hot Wheels. Pro-Shot Golf. Electric Football.

If I’m going to shoehorn a Triple Crown analogy into this story, then Hot Wheels is the Kentucky Derby. All the kids I knew had Hot Wheels (except those oddballs who thought that Matchbox cars were somehow better). Edward and I had hundreds of Hot Wheels cars and miles of that orange Hot Wheels track—so much track that the layout possibilities were endless. And like the Kentucky Derby, the anticipation was always high. The race was always exciting. We played constantly. Hot Wheels never disappointed.

Then there is the second jewel of my Triple Crown of Kid Games. Much like the Preakness Stakes, where there is always a chance that the Derby winner might triumph and have a shot at immortality, that same possibility for greatness awaited with Pro-Shot Golf.

The game consisted of a little golfer mounted at the end of a stick that you held like a golf club. At your hands there was a trigger that first brought back the little golfer’s own little golf club, and then—snap!—it would strike a tiny plastic ball and launch it across the living room, over the cat, and onto the specially-designed Pro-Shot Golf foam putting green you had placed between the piano and the coffee table. 

After that description you might think Pro-Shot Golf would have joined my remote-control car for a lonely life in the attic … but you would be wrong. Because believe it or not, Pro-Shot Golf worked. You could even swap out clubs for the little golfer—a driver, an iron, a putter—and they shockingly performed like they were supposed to. Even when Edward and I lost the official Pro-Shot Golf tiny golf ball, we carefully carved a new one out of old Styrofoam we found in the basement. It was better than the original. The Pro-Shot Golf gods would not be denied.

(I thought of Googling Pro-Shot Golf, but I decided against it. I don’t want to see images of anyone else playing that game. I want to remember it as I see it in my rosy-hued memory. That game was mine and Edward’s. And nobody else’s.)

Finally, there is the Triple Crown’s final jewel. In the horse-racing world it is the Belmont Stakes. An event that can create legends … but more likely will end up being just another horse race because the Derby winner choked at the Preakness. Everything … or everyday. That, ladies and gentlemen, is Electric Football. Maybe the stupidest game ever invented. But it’s legendarily stupid. And because of that, I cannot help but hold Electric Football in high esteem and appreciation. 

Maybe you understand the basics of how the game works. (Or doesn’t.) How you have this metal football field on which you place your team of one-inch tall plastic football players. How, with a flip of a switch, a motor vibrates the field, magically sending your players off in the direction in which they’ve been pointed. (Or not.)

Increase the vibration and the players go faster. Reduce it and they slow down. Our game had three vibration settings: Low, Medium, and High … which should have been more accurately labeled The Flapping of a Butterfly’s Wings, Earthquake, and Meteor Strike.

Every Electric Football game (note: always capitalize Electric Football) began with high expectations, only to quickly dissolve into bitterness and acrimony:

“Aaaand, hike!” (Power on. Run a play. Power off. Adjust.)

(Repeat several times. Your team has gained one yard. Change of possession.)

(Then: Power on. Start to run a play, and … Power off.) 

“What are you doing?”

“Just a little mid-play adjustment.” (Power on.)

“HEY”! STOP! STOP! You can’t adjust again!” (Power off.)

“Says who?” (Power on.)

“You son-of-a—” (Power off.)

“Mom! David’s cursing!”

I’m getting all riled up just thinking about it. My spectacular prowess on the Electric Football field was constantly tempered by the sight of my arch-rival, Edward, who sat across the great, vibrating gridiron, spouting out rules and unfairly adjusting the plastic prongs on the bases of his players when I looked away.

How else could you explain how he dominated the game with his lineup of Baltimore Colts greats? There was big Bubba Smith, his defensive lineman that would leave my players prone on their backs—twitching in uncontrollable fits. Or halfback Tom Matte, who miraculously traveled in a straight line. And, of course, there was his quarterback: Johnny Unitas. The Arm. 

Quarterbacks in Electric Football games were grossly out of proportion when compared to the rest of the players, with throwing arms the size of redwood trees—and Edward was the master at operating Jonny Unitas’s giant arm. (The manufacturer gave the quarterback some kind of special feature—something like Tru-Trex Technology. I’m guessing “Tru-Trex” came from the original Greek: “tru,” meaning “throw,” and “trex,” meaning “several miles.”)

Now, if I’m being honest, Edward probably wasn’t happy that my kicker—if scaled to human proportions—could kick the ball from the ten-yard line to … well … the Moon.

As time passed, my brother and I weren’t satisfied with having only two teams, so we started collecting more—the object to one day own the entire little plastic NFL. We’d get new teams and hand-paint them ourselves with model airplane paint. (I must admit we did purchase a few “official” pre-painted teams, but no matter how good they looked, whenever I played with those teams it felt like I was cheating myself.)

Anyway, my San Diego Chargers could kick Edward’s pathetic Cleveland Browns straight off the field and right back to their individually labeled plastic bags. Many players on the Buffalo Bills team would link arms—swinging in circles as if attending some demented square dance. My beloved Dallas Cowboys were so horrible I repainted them as the Houston Oilers. 

SIDEBAR:

I was ten. I didn’t know anything about anything. That included the horrible sin of rooting for the Dallas Cowboys. I would soon see the light and learn to hate the Cowboys with every bone in my body.

Edward’s San Francisco 49ers team had a receiver that would spend the entire game humping the goal post. My Chicago Bears could form a perfectly shaped huddle. Unfortunately, the huddle would occur just as opposing halfback Tom Matte was scampering into the end zone for another touchdown. (Damn those plastic Baltimore Colts!) Eventually, some of the weaker players in the league ended up as victims in unfortunate Hot Wheels fatalities.

SECOND SIDEBAR:

Baltimore Colts and not the Ravens? Houston Oilers and not the Texans? Simple explanation, really. For me, football franchises are frozen in the time at the moment that I discovered ice hockey. Football fell by the wayside. Edward and I even went as far as to paint our Electric Football field to look like a hockey rink. Then we repainted the Kansas City Chiefs and the Pittsburgh Steelers—transforming them into the Chicago Blackhawks and Boston Bruins.

I don’t think Edward and I ever finished an Electric Football game. It was too hard. Quarterbacks would fall over. Linemen would block their own teammates. Receivers would run the wrong way. That stupid felt ball would never stay under the running back’s arm. Eventually I came to admit that I liked painting a new team of players rather than actually playing the game.

One fateful day we turned the vibration setting to “Off” (or “Mercifully Quiet”) for the final time. The sheet-metal stadium would never vibrate again. It was time for me to gravitate to much more meaningful activities and pastimes—like watching TV, or being afraid to talk to girls.

Even eons later, in a nostalgic haze, the prospect of revisiting the glory of Electric Football does not call to me. And, like Pro-Shot golf, I will not Google Electric Football either. What would I see? A bunch of hot-shot kids playing high-tech, computerized Electric Football? With teams that actually grunt and yell and pour Electric Gatorade over the Electric Head Coach’s head? Who needs that?

No, I will keep Electric Football firmly in the past—and occasionally remind myself of the only thing I learned from playing that wonderful, stupid game: When you find yourself running in circles, turn off the power and adjust.