Monday, 28 December 2009
I have spent far too long playing FIFA 2010 on my son's xbox 360. The game was a Christmas present (to him, not me) and it has been driving me crazy ever since he opened it.
These games all follow the same pattern. We both play the game when it first arrives and we laugh at our incompetence and the weird quirks (in this case the deranged commentary). I go about my normal life. My son plays the game over and over again, gaining an intuitive grasp of all the many button and lever combinations. He becomes unbeatable.
I was sure that this would be different. He could use the buttons better than me, but I could play a tactical game. I could pass the ball. I could bide my time. Football isn't all about running down the pitch and going for goal every time.
We play again. I get thrashed. We play again. I get thrashed again. My thumb hurts. I launch into a long diatribe about the randomness of the whole game play, hinting strongly that the computer is somehow favouring my son. He gets upset. We play again. My son toys with me, using his goalkeeper as a centre forward and passing the ball back and forth in front of my goal before scoring. I sulk. I insist on being someone other than Tottenham just in case their infuriating ability to lose to just about anyone has been factored into the game. I play as Chelsea. I get thrashed.
I refuse to play any more.