|Posted by Val Enders on April 26, 2012 at 11:05 AM|
No More Smelly Bowling Shoes for Mii!
Last week, the two of us decided to go bowling, but when we looked outside and saw how miserable the weather was, we changed our minds in a hurry. Heading into the living room, we fired up the TV, then loaded up the Wii Sports disc to play a frame or two of bowling.
Soon, the ‘Mii’s’ took their places behind the foul line, and readied themselves for a little friendly competition. Real bowling alley sounds came from the TV. By gosh, I was starting to get into the mood of the game! The Mii’s in the next lane were throwing strikes and spares as if the game were going to be declared illegal, and I felt the competitive gene start to roar to life.
I was up first, so I checked out my alter ego on the screen. Grey hair, Buddy Holly glasses, a bright green bowling shirt. Yes sir, the spitting image of me as seen through the eyes of my grandson, who’d created all the Mii’s for this game. Hubby didn’t fare much better In the looks department, with his bright blonde hair, beard and pink flowered shirt.
The game was enjoyable, and we were neck and neck for the first few frames. Then things started to go south for me. I started to miss pins, and couldn’t buy a spare or strike. The only redeeming factor now, was the fact that I didn’t have to wear those smelly, rented shoes. Hubby, on the other hand, was well on his way to a perfect game.
“You know what your problem is?” Hubby asked. “Oh, oh, here it comes!” I thought to myself. “No, what’s my problem? ” I responded, slightly miffed. “You’re twisting your wrist just when you release the ball,” he answers.
From that moment on, my game gets worse, and his advice comes faster than a loaded Uzi. “Move over to the left”, “don’t lift your hand too high”, “try putting a spin on it”, “just relax, you’re trying too hard”, he continues to spout off. On and on he goes, and suddenly, this game is getting to be too much like the real deal. The Mii’s on the sidelines are cheering him on, whooping and clapping each time he gets a strike, and loudly declaring “nice spare!” each time he lands one. When I tossed my imaginary ball into the gutter, every Mii in the house let’s out a loud “Awwwwwwwwwww”, and my confidence took nose dives everytime I listened to the “pity” clap from the crowd.
Heading into the ninth frame, the game took a three hundred and sixty degree turn. Now, strangely, I can do no wrong. I finally have my Mojo back. Strike! Strike! Spare! Hubby, on the other hand, is throwing wildly and becoming fast friends with the three/ten split. I’m closing the gap between us, and if I can just finish with three strikes in a row, I may just be able to pull this off! The pressure’s on. I wind up my last throw like a well oiled clock, and I let it fly.
Faster than a rocket, the controller fires out of my hand. I can only hold my breath as it travels toward the large screen TV. I closed my eyes in anticipation of the “crash” that I expected to hear.
“THUNK”. I peeked through my fingers, and was relieved to see the TV still intact. The controller had only grazed the edge of the screen, luckily for me. It was a close game, but I lost. I learned one thing though. When I’m winning, Hubby lets me know that ‘it’s just luck’. However, when he’s winning, that of course, ‘is pure skill and talent’! Groan.
Categories: Editorials published on Northern Star