Awake, coffee and shower.
Get a few flips in,
The sound of silver hitting metal.
Announcements, smiles, friends
Can you do it?
Will yourself to endure?
Round one, a panic, a chance for glory.
By round 3 the tempo sets in.
Music from the Guns and Roses game echoes in the background.
It is for sale. I’d pay to not play it again.
Hallways lined with humans, bright and friendly currently, offering smiles, exchanging locations of origin.
Someone yells in frustration at a bad drain. Conserve your energy.
After round 5 a dinner break. The sun is setting on a beautiful November day in Connecticut. And with nightfall some players’ chances of winning evaporate, but they play on, unafraid of upcoming losses.
You must continue. It is a point of pride, this challenge in the name of love of a silly game. A game we all cherish. For the friends it brought us, or for the moments of control we do desperately need in this world.
Round 7 hits, then round 8. The red countdown clock signalling how many hours we have left taunts everyone.
My companions have made a makeshift hang near the woman’s bathroom, a location chosen for its proximity to a power outlet. We eat snacks between each round until we realize we haven’t been hungry for hours. Beers are drunk, stories exchanged. Some people here are partaking in other mind altering things, some are just losing their minds as the night wears on.
We change our clothes as the evening progresses, fresh socks are a must. The cold concrete floor of the venue starts pounding on your legs from feet that have been standing for too long. But you’re up on Rack em up, an old Gottleib with weird placement for a spinner. But when you hit it your tired eyes light up once again. You know how to play pinball after all.
In the parking lot a local player is grilling hot dogs. People go to their cars for moments alone. Surprisingly things are still pleasant. But you can see the strain on even the most seasoned players. Flipping when they shouldn’t. Playing out of turn.
I suffer through two bad rounds between 2-4 am. I can’t hit any shots I normally do. But it is okay, six hours to go.
People you played with earlier start saying hi out of recognition. No one is sure if you remember their name. No one minds if you don’t . A man makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for donations to the Sanctums Christmas party. They taste like salvation.
The sun starts to rise. The clock says four hours left. Something strange happens to your body, its rhythm returning with daylight. You win two out of three games in the next round, just missing out on a bounty payday offered to anyone who has a perfect round in these tough conditions. Many have had perfect rounds throughout the night but I didn’t witness anyone do it twice. The final round is here. No new rounds can start after 10am. Each group here is chasing money. The winner takes home a cash prize. You would think it would become cutthroat, but it is not. Everyone is too tired to fight, or argue. We play our last games, smiling again, knowing the end is near and we are all champions.
Afterwards there is a playoff for first and second place on the game of Stars. The entire room watches both with intrigue and also with resistance to shout “Let us go home!”.
Then medals are handed out to each of the 100 players who survived the experience. No one dropped out. New friends were made, possibly new enemies.
We are warriors of pinball, clad in our hoodies and smelling like junk food and alcohol poisoning.
My son wakes up far away and sends me a text asking when I’ll be home? Three hours to a flight, and a drive after. By 9pm I respond. It turns out to be true, 39 hours awake for the glory of the silverball.
Will I ever do it again? I do not know.
But I’m glad to say I have.