My son made the diagnosis. Quickly. After watching me push Mario repeatedly to a premature death, I was declared unworthy.
At first, I denied my disability. I could virtually bowl. I had a decent pretend tennis serve. I twisted, moonwalked, and twerked to Dance Dance Revolution. “But Dad, Wii is not a real game system!”
He was right. When it comes to sit-on-the-buttocks gaming systems, I suck. My thumbs lack independent mobility, which explains why Siri does my texting.
Besides fine-motor limitations, I have cognitive issues. I get that Mario and Luigi are blood relatives. I also don’t understand why plumbers are in such a hurry. Or, why their tools don’t fall out when they leap.
My son intervened. He made me watch YouTube instructional videos. The lessons might have helped if I was stoned as the narrator.
He took me to special services. GameStop. Again, I might have grasped the concepts if the employees shared their pot.
I always knew I would eventually be banned from gaming. The initial warning sign occurred with my son’s first system, the portable PlayStation DS. Besides being frustrated that a tiny cartridge cost $50, my trifocal vision couldn’t view the tiny screen. Hell, I even struggled with the “A” and ”B” button thing.
Presently, the Xbox and PS4 have front row seats in the teen cave while the Wii sits in the corner collecting dust bunnies. That changes when the kid goes to college. The Wii will get top billing and daddy will again be twerking.