Super Bomberman saved Christmas – and my middle-aged dad’s pride in games | games

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It’s been a strange Christmas at the Diamond house, because for the first time in my 23 years as a parent, my family isn’t complete. My 18-year-old son Charlie was having it with his girlfriend and friends 3,000 miles away on the other side of Canada, so he’s been away for three weeks. It made me sad, for me, but also happy that he’s mature enough to make these decisions. One of the goals of parenting is to get your kids in a position where they want to leave the house and be able to do so, and my son is a man now.

So, we had Charlie’s diamond birthday before he left. Whatever he wants to do, we will do. This involved going out to dinner to a place where I actually wore a T-shirt like an adult and put on pants that weren’t sweatpants; watch any movie he wants; And play whatever video games he wants after that. I will admit I wasn’t looking forward to the last two. He loves horror movies, and I tend to go more for the flashy stuff in my middle age, because of the never-ending horrors of real life. Also, he would kick my ass at any of the games he liked.

I was a little worse for post-restaurant wear. When it comes to late nights and alcohol consumption, I generally have the energy and stamina of an old panda these days. Also, we don’t eat meat at home because one of my kids is vegetarian, so after making up for it by eating a hunk of meat the size of my head at the restaurant, I was destined for a meat coma to end the whole meat coma thing.

But a promise is a promise. She manages to stay awake through 80% of the movie, grinning terrifyingly, horribly, and adorable (until the end). But I pooped. I was about to beg forgiveness and head to bed. Then I remembered that game. The one you can always summon the energy to play, even if you’re skilled. The simple multiplayer game that requires a little thought and effort and always brings joy, even if you’re not upset. A game you can play stone cold sober, drunk blind, or kite high, and still compete.

I’m of course talking about Super Bomberman, a game that carries one of my favorite professional memories (Robbie Williams beat the rest of Take That on GamesMaster) and laughs more at wins and losses than any game in my life since. More importantly, the random power-ups and insane speed of the game mean that an old, middle-aged gaming dad can still stand a chance against a son in his late teenage gaming peak.

Or so I thought.

“I’m approaching the righteous Shouty Scottish Dad Fury” … Super Bomberman. Photography: Konami

The first two I get to the hose. It’s not even close. I play four players with two computer-controlled Bombermans, I’m the first to be killed every time. Again, there is too much going on on screen for my middle-aged brain. My son, as much as I somewhat love him, is an epically terrible winner. He mocks, pats, insults me. It’s like I’m back playing FIFA Ultimate Team. Annoyed and furious, I quickly passed and approached the good Shouty Scottish Dad Fury, a condition every Scotsman knows has ruined more Christmases than any postal strike or weather disaster. I must avoid it. I’m not going to let him ruin this special early Christmas for my only son before he leaves.

So, I do the only other thing I can do in this situation: I think about how the hell I can beat him.

“Son, did you know that this is not a real test of gaming skill?”

“He sure doesn’t test me, Dad,” Charlie smiled.

“It should only be you and me mano mano.”

“I think the only chance you have, Dad, is if you play alone.”

calligraphy. But I talked him into it. With only two Bombermans on screen, the game changes. There is half chaos and a third danger. My DadBrain is less taxing, and I can focus on Super Bomberman’s first rule: don’t blow yourself up.

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It’s amazing how much better you can play if you focus on defense rather than offense. Charlie ends up killing himself several times as I play more carefully. Now that I’ve won two matches, I can return the losing chat directly to him. “You know you’re supposed to blow my leg off? Not yours? Do you want to take a break, son? Do you want me to treat you, like I did for the first five years we played Mario Kart?”

Now he’s the one making his way into the Scottish fury. And his game goes to pieces. I came from behind. We are tied.

“The next match is the winner?” suggest.

And here I have a choice to make: Shall I let him win, and send him to the other side of the country to enjoy Christmas in the warm comfort of his victory?

There is no chance. 2022 has been one of complete gaming failures on my part. I needed to win more than him. It was Christmas too.

I won the final. I sing Nasr’s song. I do a victory dance around his chair. I declare myself the boisterous-ass ghost of Christmas. My son laughs. He told me he would miss me. The night ends with two adult men embracing each other.

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