Yo I’m dying. At either age 84 or 54, depending on the two extremes of the life expectancy calculator I found on the Internet, which is worrying because I’ll be 55 in December. I’m running out of time to do the things I dream of: seeing Machu Picchu, finding a good vegan sausage, beating my kids at Mario Kart again.
It was our number one family game until they started slaughtering me with such glee that I was forced to perform acts of petty revenge: that is, taking things they loved from them and secretly donating them to charity shops. They still miss that cat.
When Mario Kart 8 came out, I said I’d left those childish things behind. But now, with death looming in a few months or decades, I spent a week training to be the leader again.
This game now has a cast of thousands. There are different versions of all the originals, plus totally unknown characters like Kamek, the enigmatic stranger known simply as Villager, and whoever Pauline is. I’m sure Glen Powell is in there somewhere. He’s in everything else these days.
This is the first time I’ve gotten my hands on a Switch OLED, a fragile little contraption the size of a 1970s sandwich with a hidden on/off button that requires a pair of tweezers. This is not a machine made for big fingers.
Those splayed fingers still have skills, though. I tell my oldest daughter that I’m quickly outgrowing the 50cc and 100cc levels. She says, “That’s great, Dad. As long as you do your best. That’s all you can do.” She’s smiling. But not with her eyes. “Just remember, Dad… Rainbow Road.”
A cold sweat comes over me. That song was the destroyer of dreams. The one that unwound sanity. The one that mocked depth perception.
On day two I conquer Rainbow Road in the 100cc Star Cup, racking up wins like a pro. I win four Grand Prix a day with perfect drift momentum. Joy courses through my (presumably) plate-encrusted ancient veins despite the menu music that sounds like it’s straight out of a “comedy” cop movie starring one of the Kevins (Hart or James) chasing someone through a cake factory and coming out covered in icing.
I’m surprised I haven’t gone off track even once. Then I realize I’ve had steering assist activatedWow! This is like that time my wife revealed to me that she had been playing Horizon Zero Dawn in story mode.
Without the assistance of the steering, things change completely. The 150cc Star Road becomes the nightmare it was before. I hate this track so much that it could be a Gaspar Noé film. A four-hour training session on Friday has left me with eczema on my face due to stress. My wife asks me why I just shouted: “Up with you, Lady Rosaline!”
On Saturday I see myself drinking again because of the pressure.
The Diamond Family Grand Prix is coming up on Sunday. My wife has to go to work. It’s a shame because she’s so easy to beat. “Are you any good at Mario Kart?” I ask my son’s girlfriend.
“Not really,” she replies.
“Perfect,” I say. “You’re player four.”
My son is playing shirtless. He says it’s because he doesn’t want to ruin his work shirt, but it’s an obvious power move, so I take my shirt off too. I have more hair and tattoos than him. Nice try, son.
The controllers are a bigger problem. I’ve been practicing with two Joy-Cons welded into a single device, but with four players, each has a Joy-Con the size of a shrunken Mars bar, with the shoulder buttons turned into two staple-sized splinters. My hands are twisted into such an unnatural shape that within minutes I have the kind of arthritic pain I didn’t expect to have for another 20 years.
And something else is wrong. My boy (Dry Bones, chosen to reflect what seems to be one of my many medical ailments) keeps veering to the right.
“What the hell is wrong with my controls?” I shout from seventh place.
“My controls are off,” my son says.
“Because?”
“Because it’s Nintendo.”
I had completely forgotten about this. Just like the top button on all Xbox controllers atrophies after a year, all Nintendo controllers develop a drift effect. Thank goodness Nintendo doesn’t have control over Mars rovers, or they’d just go in circles.
“You get used to it, Dad.”
He does. I don’t.
I finish the Grand Prix in third place behind The Son and Number 1 Child, who really is an exceptional player. I ask her how she is so good. “Yuck! Autism, Dad!” she replies.
I demand a rematch, where Kid Number 1 has to use the drift controller.
I make it even worse. My son’s girlfriend is now hitting me. She is the most adorable, sweet, polite girl in the world, the kind of girl you dream of for your son. But she Now she’s chirping at me like she’s one of my own. Horrible little girl.
By some miracle (i.e. because I get an armada of blue projectiles to shoot), I overtake girl number 1 and win at the finish line of the final race. She wins the grand prize, but I’ve proven that I can still do it. I perform a loud and surprisingly intricate victory dance before signing up for a massage session for my gnarled, claw-shaped hands.
There is life in the old father yet.
