Anyone who’s had their arse handed to them by a 13-year-old FPS enthusiast will know and understand the shame and pain I felt on Wednesday night. After being “fragged” for the 11th time in a row by a prepubescent gamer who, judging by the accent and put-downs, may have originated from Arkansas or, possibly, the eighth circle of Hell, I was seconds away from rage-quitting when an epiphany hit my like a flashing blue sticky bomb in the face.
It’s not that I suck. Oh, no. The problem is far, far more complex than that.
See, I never have trouble on local connections or even across LIVE or Steam with friends of my own age. I don’t pwn like a pro, particularly, but I do manage to hold my own to a certain extent without looking like a complete noob at anything I deign to play. Obviously you could argue that this is because the pressure is off when you’re just nuking mates and ridiculing Jambo for unloading a rocket launcher point blank into a wall two feet away in a blind panic. Again. But since my epiphany I don’t think that’s it at all.
It’s not that as soon as you put me in a deathmatch against people I don’t feel comfortable insulting (even Americans) I fall to pieces and have a panic attack, it’s not that I lack that killer instinct essential for surviving the harsh climates of online warfare, it’s not even that the 13-year-old cussball was better than me. The problem is – I’m a dad.
There, I said it. My paternal instinct is so strong that it takes over my very being, making it impossible for me to harm or by-mission-of-action allow to be harmed an innocent 13-year-old spawn-camper. My natural impulse to smash the competition into the floor, dance around on their battered carcasses to P. Diddy’s Come With Me and then hurl in-your-face obscenities at them is overwhelmed by my need to nurture and guide and protect.
The little snotwipe on Wednesday night, who shall in this missive remain gamertag-less to protect his interests and my wounded pride, simply triggered within me an irrepressible, undeniable urge to encourage. I cared so damn much about the short-arsed runt’s feelings that I couldn’t bring myself to destroy him over and over again, and instead allowed the poor little smug-faced chuckle-monkey to “own my limey ass” in order that he grow as a person.
That’s all there is to it. Being a dad is counter-productive to being an online killing machine when faced with anyone below the age of sixteen. And as Wednesday’s episode with that whiny, shouty, sweary, under-achieving, swaggering, cocky, pus-faced, lucky-beyond-belief-that-he-lives-in-another-country little gobshite proves, my natural sense of paternity, caring and compassion towards youngsters outweighs my manly desire to kill, stuff and mount.
Yeah. That’s what it is.
*cough*
Anyone else convinced?
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