Tecmo Fest 2024

Tecmo Fest 2024

Field Notes for S.I. article

  I have come to this Minneapolis suburb to pursue a rumor, nay, a legend. My first inkling that I had arrived was the number of parked cars surrounding the quiet cul-de-sac. The second was the ten-foot inflatable Green Bay Packer standing outside the house, checking the guest list with every breeze.

  I knocked on the thick wood door to no avail. I heard voices inside, so decided to persist. “Go away!” made me wonder if there was a secret knock that I hadn’t been taught. After a moment more the door swung open and I was greeted by my contact, Andy. Before introducing me to the room, he made me draw two slips of paper from two different hats. Andy had agreed to allow me this inside peek into what sincerely sounded like some sort of secret society. On one slip I had the Raiders and on the other Washington. Andy explained like a judge to a plaintiff that these were my teams, and we would play a regular season to determine standings in the tournament. I knew what we were here to play. Referred to with reverence by all those who were gathered here as THE Super Bowl OF Super Bowls, we were here to play Nintendo’s 1991 release of Tecmo Bowl Super Bowl.

  In January of 1991, it was Desert Storm, but in December of that same year, Tecmo Super Bowl was taking the gaming industry by storm. It was the first partnership with the NFL that allowed players to play their favorite teams and favorite players. More advanced than its wildly popular predecessor Tecmo Bowl, it took players gaming decisions to the next level.

  I took a seat on the couch across the room from the ’75-inch LCD television, with the pixelated title of Tecmo Bowl commanding the room. I sat next to a man sipping an amber liquid from a short glass in a most gentlemanly way. This man’s name was also Andy, but I will for clarity call him Happs. He filled me in on a bit of the gathering’s history between sips. He explained that he and Andy, along with a tall man called Koop and my host who was reverently referred to as Chimpo, had grown up in the same neighborhood, and even gone to the same college. That camaraderie lasted over the years, and eight years ago, their common love of this iconic video game from the 90’s caused them to start a competition. Or was it a way of life? I didn’t have long to ponder as all in the room rose to their feet.

  Quake, a gang leader with a commanding presence, stood halfway up the staircase.

 “The first lesson is from the Book of Lawrence. He writes…” He held a copy of one of the five books that Lawrence Taylors had written. A hush fell over the room. “Crack, because that was more intense. I did crack from the middle of the 1985 season until the end. Usually when we were home. It was as if nothing had happened the next day. I did crack too many times to count them, more times than I want to remember, and it finally left me with that feeling that I had the shit kicked out of me before I even set foot on the football field.”

  Closing the book with a snap, he stared down the room through his Ray-Bans, a knit black cap emblazoned COMPTON on his head.

  “Here ends the first lesson.”

  The room in unison pounded their chest with their right fist, whispering “Tecmo”.

  Next up the staircase was Koop, who read like a Minnetonka minister.

  “The second reading is from the Book of Taylor. L.T!” he added with a fist pump.

  “No way was I going to have New York Giant fans see me carted off the field, I’m going to walk off. But Superman had lost his cape, I couldn’t walk. They lifted me into a flatbed cart. As I rode off the crowd began to chant L.T! L.T! I’m sure they wondered if they would ever see #56 again. I was wondering the same damn thing. That night, drinking my patented scotch and milk at L.T.’s, I had tears in my eyes. I’m not sure I can beat this one.”

  Koop’s voice quavered as he added “These are the words.”

  “These are the words.” whispered the competitors. I scanned the room, and all had wide eyes riveted on the stairs, in a maniacally subservient sort of way. Next to step up the treads was Andy, mirroring Quake’s cholo look with an added thick gold chain to boot.

  “The Gospel today is from the Book of Hatchet.” He held in his hands a well-read kid’s book called “Hatchet”. I remembered reading the thing myself, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Brian tried several times to tell his father, came really close to doing it, but in the end, never said a word about the man, or what he knew. The Secret.”

  Looking around the room I wondered if how to play Tecmo football was the only common experiences these guys had. I didn’t have but a moment to reflect. Chimpo directed the crowd’s attention back to the big screen, where he started a video. An aging black man in a black pullover wearing glasses sat on a gray leather couch.

  “QB quarterback #1, Randall Cunningham here, wishing ya’ll good luck in the Tecmo Fest Super Bowl! You’re going to need it! Stay safe out there and keep those injuries to a minimum.” The crowd cheered as our host beamed with pride. How much did it cost to be personally mocked by a real NFL legend? I could only shake my head and wonder.

  The competitors were being whipped into a pre-game frenzy. There was considerable energy in the room. Having been amped up during pre-game, players were crackling like power lines, ready to discharge. We all stood at attention as a video of the National Anthem was played featuring footage of a packed stadium. The last notes of the song rang out over the 100-watt Dolby surround sound system, then the flyover of the F-15’s rattled the windows. Tecmo Super Bowl was set to begin!

  With a process that needs a cryptologist to decipher, the pairings, point spreads, and brackets were completed. Three big screens throughout the house ensured constant game play. My earlier show of bravado was wearing down to a thin veil of uncertainty. I eyed my opponents nervously, sizing up the competition. While they were discussing the intricacies of the nickel defense, I was asking what the four buttons on the controller would do.

  Shouts and laughter filled the house as the Saturday afternoon melted away the years. During my tournament play I was defeated in both my games to the tune of 79-7, more than enough proof that I never did have a Nintendo system in my youth. My first opponent, referred to hereafter as HuskyOne, allowed me one opportunity to score. My second opponent, HuskyTwo, denied me any success and ran Barry Sanders over my defense for three hundred yards. Inevitably, the talent pool was too deep for this fish out of water to swim in.

  I was lounging next to Happs between games when I witnessed a terse exchange between the Andy’s. After, Happs explained to me that they had been arguing on the trip from Illinois the day before. Andy claimed to have come up with the idea for the first Tecmo Fest, but Happs was certain that it had been him. He was afraid that the argument was driving a wedge between them.

Suddenly one of the players cried out, “Hey! What the…” the screen had suddenly shifted into a muti-colored pixelated mess. “We just started this game!”

  “Hold on, I’ll take care of it.” Andy, as the previous year’s champion, took control.

  “That system has been glitchy all week,” added Chimpo, “try taking the cartridge out.”

  “Yeah, and blow on it real hard!” yelled Happs, whose voice was accidentally and alcoholically amplified.

  Andy turned and with exaggerated care blew into the business end of the cartridge, widening his eyes at Happs. He reinserted the cartridge with no result.

  “Take it out, stick it in!” Happs taunted. “Take it out, stick it in!”

  Andy yanked the cartridge out and prepared to slam it home.

  “No, stick your finger in it!” urged Happs.

  I could see the wheels spinning in Andy’s head but nevertheless, somehow, he thought that this might be a good idea. Or maybe it was just the kid in him responding to another kid’s taunt.

  As he stuck his index finger into the cartridge slot of the NES system there was a blue flash that filled the room. I looked up to see Andy looking at his index finger with his eyes rolled back in his head, showing only white surprise. Rigid as a mannequin at Macys he fell towards the carpeted floor. I must offer credit towards his lifesaving merit badge because HuskyTwo offered a lap of significant softness located in precisely the right position to cushion my host’s fall.

  There was a faint smell of ozone in the room, and moments later Andy’s eyes fluttered, then opened. He sat bolt upright, staring at those that had circled around him.

  “Oh, thank God. There’s no place like now! I never thought I’d get back! How long was I gone?”

  “What do you mean Andy? You were out for like a couple seconds, max. I knew you were faking! Tell us you were faking huh?” said Koop, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

  “Couple of seconds? Are you kidding? I was there for hours!” claimed Andy.

  “No, really bro,” interjected Chimpo, “two seconds tops. Um, where was it that you were …for hours?”

  Andy looked from Chimpo to Koop to Happs.

 “I…I was in…Happs basement, with you three.”

  “Somebody call an ambulance. I don’t even have a basement!” retorted Happs from his seat.

  “No, Happs, your old basement. In our old neighborhood.” He looked at these three friends and practically pleaded that they accept the insanity of his explanation. “And it was 1991.”

  The television broke the stunned silence in the room.

  “Ready down…hut…hut…hut…hut…”

Andy’s Story

  Andy opened his eyes blinking off the brightness of the blue light that had blinded him. A face entered his field of vision, leaning over him.

  “You okay buddy?”

  “Koop? Wait but…what…who are you?”

  In the background there was a voice, “Ready down! Hut…hut…hut…hut…”

  “Quit screwing around Andy! He won’t shut up until you push A and hike the ball!”

  “hut…hut…hut…hut…”

  Andy sat up and looked around him. He was in a room covered in simulated wood paneling. He sat on a white shag carpet in front of a mustard yellow couch wrapped in plastic. Two other boys sat on the couch, one holding a NES controller. He stared open mouthed at the memories come alive.

  “hut…hut…hut…hut…”

  “The boy looks like he was staring at the solar eclipse!” It was Chimpo, but Andy estimated that he was ten or eleven years old. “C’mon Andy, you don’t want to make Happs unhappy.” He nodded at the boy next to him, holding the controller. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling in an animated gesture of annoyance.

  “Geez Andy, will you give me a break? You know I’m the only one in this whole neighborhood that has this Nintendo Gaming System, with a spanking brand new, nearly impossible to get, Tecmo Super Bowl game cartridge.”

  “Yeah, yeah Happs, we’ve heard it before.” Said Koop, who was still standing over Andy. “Now shut up and play the game.”

  “Shut up yourself you purple Zubaz wearing moron.”

  “I’d like to see you two get in the ring and duke it out almost as I want to see Bush vs. Putin!” Chimpo chimed in.

  Andy couldn’t resist the boyish mirth despite his mind being rightly boggled. He found himself slipping into his younger self like a well-worn pair of Adidas, laughing along with his best friends. Andy wondered if he had died and gone on to a heaven that let you relive your life’s happiest memories.

  Happs and Andy went back to their game.

  “I’m going to blow through your defense like a Tennessee trailer park!” yelled Happs.

  Andy’s fingers flew on the controller with 35 years of Tecmo experience still infused in their fibers.

  “Hey! What the hell is that!” shouted Happs as Andy’s quarterback dropped deeper and deeper. Happs took the bait, rushing after him with his defenders. Andy dropped an 80 yard touchdown pass to his receiver for a touchdown.

  “Beginner’s luck!” smirked Andy at his friend.

  “It really sucks that Bo Jackson isn’t even on this game man! He was the running god of Tecmo.”

  Happs running back breaks free, and he exclaims “Hasta la vista baby!” but Andy’s defender tracks him down from behind.

  “You suck! Where did you learn that?”

  “Something my kids taught me.” Andy responded absentmindedly, intent on the game.

  “Kids? Kids?? Listen up guys, Andy has kids!” laughed Koop.

  “Andy doesn’t have any kids.” Happs said in a manner of fact tone. “The only vagina that boy has ever seen was his mom’s…on his way out!”

   The four friends laughed in a way that only eleven-year-old boys could, and Andy found the years and his worries melting away.

  “You know boys,” said Happs, “in a couple of weeks it will be the Super Bowl, and football will be over for another year. There’s no football the week before the Super Bowl, so we should have a tournament. You know, a bridge to span the void which football fails to fill.”

  The boys stared at him; unsure they had heard such wisdom flow from their young friends mouth. Chimpo broke the spell.

  “Kind of like a football fails to span your mom’s void.”

  Pillows began to be thrown around the room, and Andy’s head started spinning until the colors of the room blended into darkness.

  “Ready down…hut…hut…hut…hut”

The End