"Write about something that happened to you when you were a child."
Growing up on what was, literally, the other economic spectrum of the family marked my brothers and me forever. Here is the context. It was a period before cellphones in every pocket. Before constant anxiety and depression. Where Facebook and Twitter did not exist. A time when, from dawn to dusk, if kids were not in school, they were fooling around outside the house. Some families had the chance to have a video console or a computer of their own. Some others had the opportunity to install a pool or possess a big backyard behind the walls. Our case was neither of them.
For the adventurous-dynamic boys in my family, videogames were a chance, often our only one, to escape our drab houses—full of old books—and go into my grandparents' house to play some Nintendo stuff.
One night in December, dozens of cousins were gathered around the main table in what was my grandparents' old apartment; Christma's eve was coming to an end, we were sleepy, and our parents still had enough battery to talk.
At 11:30 p.m., my uncle Marcos let us turn on the console and play a while. For thirteen anxious-and-passionate kids turning and putting on MarioParty 6 into the cassette slot was glory. The chaos and drama were waiting in the corner.
After three hours of playing, we got to the final multiplatform-and-moving-forward level, a lava-covered soil beneath our characters that could kill us immediately if we stayed motionless. I was one of the four children who would play. I won that position because I was number one on general points.
That humid-foggy night I considered giving them what they wanted; a well-deserved ending of the final level. I really did. But my hands were in other frequency.
"No!" crawled the mob behind me.
"Why did you press A? It should have been X, Cesar!" said my oldest cousin.
"Come on, man. You were the last one." muttered someone.
"Let's start all over again..." finished Maria.
Note: If you pressed A, an instant bubble will cover your hero and make him fall into the fire. It was part of the tricky minigame and rules to follow of the ultimate level.
I recalled I made a great mistake; everyone was yelling at me. After a couple of seconds, the screen displayed Bowser—the game's enemy—laughing at us and destroying the remaining platforms. I finished saying: "I confused the button. I made a slip."
The controller I had just grabbed had the potential to be that—a real departure, a sample of my skills. Moreover, that performance was personal for me. I was not going to let it go that easy. Later on, I would discover stressful situations became fun for me. I asked for a second chance.
"Alright, guys, we were about to win. Let him try again." Dario said while rising hid left hand and shutting everyone up. Then, approached my ear, frowned, and quietly said: "If you fail again, you won't play today anymore, alright?"
I think this was the occasion when my stubborn mentality ingrained in my life forever. Although I was six, I recognized myself as a skilled player—especially on Nintendo 64 and GameCube games. For sure, I could do it. I did not notice that comment as a threat, so I continued.
After seven minutes of jumping and avoiding flying traps, the previous situation repeated itself. I was the remaining guy trying to kill Bowser. My entire focus was directed on winning, not in the crowd. Opportunely, I did it. However, a blackout ruined everything.
Yes, that is how everything finished, with a typical Mexican problem—such a funny story.
Onward...
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