I survived the terrible wrestling practices–which remain, without a doubt, among the most painful events I have endured in my lifetime, bar none. I survived the ubiquitous nudity. I survived the terrible locker room smells. And, on the day of our first match, I survived the weigh-in, which took place in the morning, in the dark, before school started, because, as the coach explained to us, people for some reason always weigh less in the morning than they do at any other time in the day.

Weighing in was a mere formality for me. I weighed 190 pounds, but I was wrestling as the school’s heavyweight, which had a weight limit of 225 pounds. I could have kept on my winter coat and snow boots when I stepped onto the scale, and still been underweight by a good 20 pounds.

Other guys on the team went to absurd extremes to make weight. They carried spit cups with them all day in school, spitting into them constantly, the saliva petrifying along the rim. During lunch, instead of eating in the cafeteria like regular students, they’d don several layers of heavy clothing, then cut arm and leg holes in a garbage bag and wear that over the layers. They would turn on the locker room showers at full bore and jump rope in there for hours, in the steam clouds, sweating out the weight they needed to lose.

Me, I never suffered in such a fashion.

The coach had explained to me that the heavyweight is an important part of the team. “Last year, around half of the teams we wrestled didn’t even have a heavyweight,” he said. “When that happens, the other team has to forfeit. You’ll walk out to the middle of the mat. The referee raises your hand. You get the win, and the team gets the points. You won’t even have to break a sweat. How’s that sound to you?”

I told him that it sounded pretty good to me.

And on the rare occasion when I did have to wrestle, he went onto explain, a lot of the guys I’d wrestle would be little fat “butterball types,” without any real athletic ability. “In other words, most of your opponents are guys that were talked into joining the team to pick up those forfeits, guys who aren’t especially good wrestlers and don’t expect to do much real wrestling this year. That’s where you come in, Jones. That’s where I think you can really shine.”

My father’s idol at the time was the great heavyweight boxer, Larry Holmes. Holmes was undefeated–48 wins, zero losses–and on the cusp of tying Rocky Marciano’s great 49-0 record. I thought, Maybe I can become the Larry Holmes of high school wrestling.

The coach then gave me another bit of news that would be the only thing I would be able to think about for the rest of the school day. The team we were wrestling against that night actually did have a heavyweight. “And, I’ll be honest with you,” he said, “he’s a pretty good heavyweight, too. So be ready tonight.”

And now, level 2-10. Recent levels have been clogged with post-industrial revolution crap, i.e. conveyer belts, elevators, portable bridge power-ups, etc. By comparison, today’s level is practically “green.”

There are four vertical tiers to climb, with the “screen cam” panning upwards with me, following my progress. On each tier is an object that appears to be a tulip after a record dose of Miracle Grow plant food. As I come within a couple of paces of the giant tulip on the bottom tier, it suddenly comes to life, revealing that it’s not a tulip at all but a pinch-faced mouse. It turns its head slowly towards me (and by “me” I mean me, not Mario). It taunts me with its pinched face. Then it gives chase after Mario.

The mouse is easily the quickest creature I’ve seen yet. I attempt one of Mario’s less-than-elegant leaps, only to tag the mouse. Note to self: avoid jumping these mice unless you have no other choice.

On my second attempt, I don’t bother trying to jump the mouse on the bottom tier. Instead, I climb the nearby ladder, going after the hammer-time hammer that I can see up there. I grab it, then go after the mouse on tier two. He’s finished. With still plenty of time left on the hammer, I head back to a gap in tier two, and drop back down to tier one. The mouse on tier one? He’s finished, too.

After the hammer-time music runs its course, I climb up to tier three, grabbing the umbrella and handbag along the way. The key, which I need to unlock the door on tier four, is located here. I lure the mouse away from the key. Once I have the key, I need to figure out how I’m going to get it up to tier four. Remember, I can’t climb the ladders while holding the key. So what I do is this: I hit the jump button (A), and at the highest point in the jump, when I can’t be any farther from the ground, I hit the toss button (B) and throw the key high into the air. It lands on the fourth tier above my head. Success.

I quickly climb the ladder to tier four. The key is already starting to blink, threatening to spawn back at its starting point on the tier below. I grab it (B button), then head for the door. Mario zips inside. Today’s level is history, but something tells me that I haven’t seen the last of these tulip mice.