Out Past Old Saint Louis
The plane banked slightly to the left, and the man with the wandering elbows sitting next to me shifted for what seemed like the ten thousandth time since we took off. I grumpily rearranged myself in my center seat and tried to turn my attention back to my book. Since the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince two months ago, I had been trying to push through the confusing opening chapters which referenced the previous installment constantly. Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I had read the earlier book too long ago and too quickly to have retained enough of the detail; facing two lengthy traveling days, I decided I’d be better off re-reading it before starting on the new book.
As it turns out I was able to tear through The Order of the Phoenix and The Half-Blood Prince between the two flights and was glad I’d decided to re-read the fifth book first. I lifted my eyes from the page and peered over Nik’s shoulder and out across the Midwestern landscape, noting the dimming afternoon light. Traveling west to east is always a strange proposition because the time changes make days feel brief, almost ethereal, like the time that passes in dreams. We’d left home early, around seven and had merely driven to the airport, boarded a plane, rushed from one terminal to another during a layover in Phoenix and now approached our destination, having only a couple of Diet Cokes and a handful of salty snacks to show for the trip.
Night had fallen completely by the time we rolled into our destination town, iPod cranking static-y tunes through the rental car’s miserable excuse for speakers and while the clock showed something after nine in the evening, it still felt like the day was young. We were greeted with expected enthusiasm by my family as we entered my parent’s home. Hugs and smiles and cries of welcome passed around, but it didn’t take long for the star of the show to absorb everyone’s attention. Joel is, if you haven’t been following Scott’s site, my nephew.
Ignoring the fact that he’s far cuter than any other child I’ve encountered for a moment, he is also a lot of fun. He’s wiggly, energetic and curious as he loves to stand (at only five months) with help, and dislikes hanging around in one place for too long. In fact, he gets downright grouchy if you try to just sit around with him as he is much more interested in observing things, touching stuff, practicing his grasping technique and promptly shoving everything he gets his little hands on into his mouth.
After Scott, Sara and Joel departed, Nik and I played a new game with my folks called Chrononauts which, aside from being a bit complex to start with, is pretty enjoyable. Being two hours behind the time indicated by the clocks in my parent’s house, I stayed up after everyone else had retired for the night. I read The Order of the Phoenix some more and reflected on the curious nature of home. I’ve never lived in Missouri, never stayed more than a few nights at my parent’s house there and they’ve even replaced most of the furniture and possessions we had when they were still back in California. Somehow, it still feels comfortable there… it’s like a curious familiarity that is undeserved except in the hands that put it together. Eventually I succumbed to the day’s travels and fell asleep myself.
Thursday my brother, my dad and I went out for some golf.
You must understand the significance this event had for me because I have been a staunch opponent of the game of golf for a long time. My problem with golf is not the game itself. Games are, as has been well established here, a sort of passion of mine. Considering that golf is less a game of skill (not unlike bowling, darts or pool which technically qualify as sports under Dr. Mac‘s Sporting Definition but are hardly among the more athletic examples of qualifying activities) it may seem odd that I have had to endure probably fifteen years of occasional raised eyebrows and up through outright badgering from other golf-afflicted friends and acquaintances. It’s probably not so odd then to hear that my problem is more with golfers than golf itself.
I’ve had this notion—perhaps deserved, perhaps not—of golfers and therefore golf itself as an arrogant, pretentious pastime that smacks of elitism, decadence and cronyism. The occasional cry of sexism or racism directed at clubs whose primary purpose is the pursuit of golf has done little to help. Yet I’ve been evaluating this notion for quite some time now, especially as I’ve renewed my interest in tabletop, board and role-playing gaming. Role-playing in particular has also suffered from a bad reputation perpetuated by ignorance of the actual mechanics and poor research into the actual execution of a game. A few bad apples have also poisoned the well, so to speak, for those who neither warrant nor deserve the scorn, prejudgment and occasional fear sparked by being branded a “role-player.”
I figured it was just as bad, if not worse, to perpetuate the same injustices toward something else, especially considering my firsthand experience on the other side of the fence. The fact of the matter in terms of games is simply this: They are what you make them. If one chooses to be an elitist golf jerk, wafting reeking racism, class-ism or sexist piggishness chances are one could just as easily do so with tennis or bridge or (ahem) iPod ownership. Golf is not the problem. People are the problem.
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