I don't often visit ESPN.com these days. Too many bells, too many whistles, too many video files that seem to start playing the minute I see the first headline; quite frankly, it's completely overwhelming for my antiquated home PC, which can barely run Microsoft Word and the calculator program at the same time without slowing to Cecil-Fielder-rounding-third-base levels.
But I also feel like the Worldwide Leader doesn't speak to my fan interests any longer. Perhaps it's the alienated hockey fan in me, but when I do log on to the front page, the major story being pimped is something that's either been overplayed or is something for which I have zero interest (i.e. anything that includes the word "Boston.") Maybe as a 30-year-old fan, I'm out of their age bracket. Hey, it happens: there comes a point in everyone's life when they realize they can no longer apply to be on "The Real World."
There is no greater evidence of this disconnect than the link at the top of the ESPN mothership to "video games," which is pretty much as generational a litmus test as I can imagine.
(If the Internet was as viable in the early '90s as it is today, do you think there would there have been coverage of "Blades of Steel" and "Double Dribble" on ESPN.com?)
Obviously, ESPN has been involved in its own brands of gaming, and has openly embraced "Madden Nation" to the point where there are more video game competitions than track-and-field competitions on the networks. So video games are as viable a link as the ones for "Page 2," "blogs," and the most important word on ESPN.com, "shop."
This is usually where I'd go into a rant about how video games can't be considered a sport. But I can't. Not after watching "The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters" this week. Not after experiencing what is the greatest sports documentary since "When We Were Kings."
"The King of Kong" is, for the uninitiated, an engrossing look into the world of classic video gaming. Specifically, it follows two men (and sometimes more) who are battling to secure the highest score in the history of coin-operated "Donkey Kong" arcade games. One of those men is Billy Mitchell, considered the "gamer of the century" and the man who scored 874,300 on "Kong" in 1982 to solidify his legend. And what a legend: Mitchell became the face of classic gaming, owning other records and appearing as the swaggering public liaison for the entire subculture — thanks to the enthusiastic backing of "Twin Galaxies," the organization that oversees and regulates classic gaming records.
How does Twin Galaxies do this? By inviting gamers to video tape their exploits, send them in, and have them verified by a panel of experts; or by breaking a record live under the rules and regulations of the organization.
Steve Wiebe was 35 years old in 2003 when he lost his job. A father and a husband with a heart-breaking back-story of unfulfilled potential, Wiebe decided to dedicate his time towards breaking Mitchell's long-standing record on "Kong" after finding the mark — which he deemed beatable — on the Internet. He purchased a game for his garage, and played for hours, days, weeks and months. His mind, which family members felt was a little O.C.D. to begin with, broke the game down into rhythms and sequences, as he literally diagramed levels like Madden with a telestrator. Finally, on one fateful day, he shattered Mitchell's record, scoring over 1,000,000 points and becoming an unlikely celebrity.
Where the film goes from being an interesting chronicle to an outstanding documentary is when the plot twists like a pretzel for these two men.
Wiebe, it seems, had been in league with another gamer with a grudge against Mitchell, one who helped provide Wiebe with his home game. Twin Galaxies suspected that the coin-op game could have been tinkered with — unbeknownst to Wiebe — to allow him to set the record (and knock Mitchell down a peg) through illegal means. That fact that the officials judging this video-taped effort included not only Mitchell-acolytes but also Mitchell himself stacked the deck against Wiebe. His record clouded in controversy, Wiebe began traveling the classic gaming circuit; not only to prove his record and abilities were valid, but to eventually get a mano-y-mano showdown with Mitchell to settle their high-score.
To call the rest of the film an unpredictable delight would be an understatement. The thing plays out in a geekdom of classic gamers playing "Joust" and wearing joystick shirts. Guys who have special gloves they wear for games with a trackball controller. Grown men who are aroused by a "Donkey Kong kill-screen" in the same way they were probably aroused by Halle Berry in "Swordfish." You want to learn about these people, understand them; you want to know the roots of their nostalgia and obsession.
That's never more evident than with Mitchell, the unequaled star of the film. He's a Christ-like visage with a God complex, oozing the kind of frightening confidence you usually need to pay to see in a motivational seminar. His life isn't his "Donkey Kong" record; rather, his life as a restaurateur, entrepreneur, and small-scale icon is built upon that celebrity. Losing the record would be like pulling all the Jenga tiles from the bottom of the stack: if the entire tower doesn't topple over, at least most of it would. For Mitchell, as well as for the people within the classic gaming subculture who revere him and endorse him, the "Donkey Kong" record is a historic accomplishment reserved for their greatest competitor.
So what makes this a sports documentary, besides the incredible athletic achievements of Mario the Plumber as he leaps over hundreds of barrels and fireballs?
First off, there's no denying the sort of mental and, yes, physical stamina displayed by a guy like Steve Wiebe in setting a video game record. Witness his intense focus when everyone at the gaming convention is crowded around his seat. Anyone who's played an arcade game has eventually had someone breathing down their back, ready to pop his quarter in next. It ain't easy.
But I think "The King of Kong" works as a sports documentary because it perfectly captures the fleeting celebrity of competition. While not a perfect comparison, Billy Mitchell was Roger Maris. Without their respective records, DiMaggio, Ripken and Rose (until the betting) would have been in the Hall of Fame anyway. Maris WAS the home-run record. That's why we talked about him 30 years later. Then came the challengers to that title: McGwire, Sosa, Bonds. There went Maris's celebrity. Hello, cloud of controversy over the records that replaced his.
Like I said, not a perfect comparison — Wiebe is portrayed as someone slightly more virtuous than a Boy Scout here — but the point still stands. Whether you consider video gaming to be a sport or a skill or a hobby or a waste of time, there's no denying the competition, the intensity, and the diminutive glory on the line within that subculture for these individuals.
"The King of Kong" gives us a glimpse into that world. I never once broke my stare to check my watch while glued to my theater seat.
Maybe it's time I click that "video games" link on ESPN.com...
Greg Wyshynski is also a weekly columnist for SportsFan Magazine. His columns appear every Saturday on Sports Central. You can e-mail Greg at [email protected].
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