Played Out (Again): MLB '09 The Show

Recently, I've spent most of my time pondering the question: Can love bloom on a battlefield? When I'm not doing that, I've continued to play MLB '09: The Show. This video game has become both my best friend and my greatest enemy. To an outsider watching me interact with The Show, however, I fear neither would appear accurate. Rather, I would be suspected of possessing a demon.

After winning a spring training game against Johan Santana and the Mets, I felt satisfied with my performance as Orioles puppet master and jumped forward to the regular season. My record currently stands at 4 wins and 23 losses. Now, from some perspectives, this is not so bad. I’ve achieved more than the real-life 1989 Orioles, who started out losing their first 21 games. And the most runs I’ve given up as of yet is 28, which is less than the 30 surrendered by against Texas two years ago.

My patience with games has dwindled with age, and nothing gets me more riled than persistent sucking. If the fault were with the game design, I could at least curse the developers and write strongly-worded letters. I know that I am to blame in this case, though, and that is what is driving me insane. Here’s a brief description of my actions throughout a usual game.

1st inning - I get the opposing team out in order. “Finally,” I sigh. “My pitching woes from previous games are over, and I can concentrate on hitting.” My leadoff hitter comes up in the bottom of the inning, and I tell myself to take a couple pitches in order to gauge the speed and delivery. My body rebels and presses the swing button anyway. I angrily mutter, but am pacified as the game remains tied at 0.

4th inning - The opposing team scores somewhere between 1 and 9 runs. I swear loudly, knowing that any of these numbers is enough to top my paltry offense.

6th inning - I get 2 hits to start off the inning, and decide in my head, “Yes. I can do this. I have learned, adapted, evolved.” The next hitter strikes out. So does the next one. I completely remove my hand from the controller, refusing to swing at another pitch, good or bad. The computer winds up and throws a slider way outside. I look down and see that my finger has somehow moved to the swing button and pressed it. I throw myself back in my chair, and the cat sleeping on my lap briefly wakes up to see why I'm bothering her.

And the 6th inning repeats itself ad nauseum until the bottom of the 9th, at which time I strike out to end the game in complete silence. I am too tired after all the self-flagellation of the previous 3 innings.

Curse those old arcade-y baseball games that rewarded players for swinging at every pitch! They were fun, but they did not prepare me for the real world, paralleling the rest of my childhood.

And curse modern controllers, which cost way too much for me to throw across the room! This is why I’m left bruising my own body instead, which is far less valuable, yet far more hairy.

I realize that I could change the game options to make things easier. I could slow down the pitches, or choose a difficulty level that doesn’t test my sanity. But I refuse! My mission is to improve, and improve I must! Love will bloom on this battlefield, because I will make it!

Until then, however, I will continue to leave the shades open, hoping that a psychologist wanders through the woods in my backyard, looks through the window and diagnoses my disease. That way, I can at least score some pills out of this wonderful misery.

This entry was posted by DoktorPeace, on Friday, April 17, 2009. You can leave your response.