The Little Falls wrestling team was, at best, mediocre. On paper, we were easily the better team; our wrestlers had the better records, we’d performed better at tournaments, etc. But things began to go wrong for us that night right from the start. As soon as the match began, a fan in the Little Falls bleachers produced an air horn. Within the concrete and wood confines of the gym, the air horn’s bleats echoed endlessly, bouncing from floor to ceiling and back again. The more the bleats bounced, the more they seemed to gain in power, until, finally, they achieved an almost deafening roar which sounded as if Godzilla himself might be about to lift the roof off the gymnasium and peer in at us.
Our 103-pounder was off to a pretty good start in his bout, well ahead on points against the Little Falls 103-pounder. But the referee called a time out, halting the match because of the air horn, which he was deeming a distraction. Using the gym’s P.A. system, he informed the Little Falls fans that the air horn had to stop immediately or else the home team would be penalized. Everyone booed wildly. The crowd, which had been riled up before this, now seemed to acquire a singular purpose. The air horn may have stopped–for now at least–but a newfound mob mentality had taken hold.
With the crowd still roaring, the match resumed, with the Little Falls 103-pounder somehow turning the tables on our 103-pounder. Our 103-pounder, a nice kid named Don Locke, had gone cold during the referee’s timeout. He was taken down and pinned. It had happened so suddenly that, as he walked off the mat after his defeat, he could only say, “I don’t know what happened.”
Our team won the next bout, and the next, then quickly lost the two after that. Back and forth the two teams went, with the momentum shifting from one side of the gym to the other, and back again. “These guys think they can beat you!” the coach said to us between bouts. “It’s up to you to show them otherwise!”
With our team ahead on points, with the score practically identical to the score in Utica, it was time for our best wrestler–Mike Francisco–to take the mat. The win from Mike, which we knew he would deliver, would put us over the top. A win from Mike not only would quiet this bloodthirsty crowd, but it would also put us far enough ahead on points that I would be, once again, exactly where I wanted to be: wrestling for nothing. And I already knew that I would be wrestling that night. I could see the Little Falls heavyweight, sitting across the gym, glaring in my direction.
Mike was the best wrestler in the building that night. But he didn’t wrestle that way. Instead, he was slow, lethargic. His opponent was the kind of guy we’d all watched Mike beat countless times that season. “Get your head in the game!” the coach shouted.
But I knew where Mike’s head was that night. Like a telephone left off the hook, Mike’s brain was busy thinking about Kim Thomas.
Once he was pinned and it was over, I sat there stunned for a few seconds, not wanting to accept what lay ahead for me. I was officially in the position that, all season long, I hoped with all my heart to never find myself in. And that position was this: our team was losing by a couple of points, and the only match of the night that remained was my match.
“We need a hero,” the coach said before sending me out onto the mat to meet my fate.
So far most of the levels in Donkey Kong (Game Boy, 1994) have been so overstuffed, so busy with objects and hazards that they sometimes resemble the Chinatown junkshop in the movie Gremlins. But not level 3-5. This level, by comparison to the 28 levels that came before it, is airy and open. Playing this level is akin to opening a window in a stuffy room. Suddenly, there’s all this air circulating around you, and it feels pretty good.
The entire level vaguely resembles a trapeze system for a circus. The top tier consists of a long, thin platform that spans the entire width of the level. There, at the very top, is where the key is located. Also worth noting: the pair of bipedal fireballs who patrol the platform in a counterclockwise pattern (note: gravity apparently has no effect on them, so they also travel on the underside of the platform). On the lefthand side of the platform is an elevator which only travels downward, and which will no doubt come in handy once I reach the key.
At the bottom of the level, where I am, is the exit door. Also down here: two lengths of electrical wire, one stacked on top of the other. A spark of electricity travels along the lower length of wire at regular intervals. Once it passes, I jump and grab onto the wire. I press up on the D-pad, spinning faster and faster. Then I press the jump button, sending me skyward. I sail past the second length of wire during my ascent, but on my descent, I grab it. I press up on the D-pad again, spin again, then send myself flying again, all the way up to an upper platform which features, 1. Pauline’s sun hat, 2. a ladder which will take me up to the platform where the two fireballs and the key are located.
Once I’m on the level’s highest tier, I realize that I can’t grab the key and get off the platform before one of the bipedal fireballs reaches me. I need to jump this heathen creature. I’m not sure that I can clear the flame at the top of its head. But this is another classic “you have no choice” moments in Donkey Kong. The two of us are on a collision course now. As it approaches, I notice the crazy eyes bobbing around in its flame-shaped head. I go for it…and I make it.
With the key above my head now, I board the downward-bound elevator on the left side of the screen. Nothing stands between me and the exit door now. Riding the elevator is my “glory moment” in today’s level, the moment when the level is basically over, yet I still have a few more perfunctory duties to perform.
Once I’m back at the bottom, the key and I head straight for the door. And, as they say in acting class: “Annnnd scene.”
