Rituals

 

  When I first met my wife, back when I was still just a visitor to the fair state of Indiana, I remember one of the first "getting to know you" things we talked about was pinball. She told me that her late grandfather had pinball machines, currently languishing in a pole building deep in the bowels of Indiana. "Which games?", I asked. She replied "Oh, I think it's like the Simpsons or something". But that's a story for another time...
     On our first real date, we went to a bar just down the street from her apartment, with the promise that a game lived on location. After literally taking a shortcut through a dilapidated fence, across  a backyard and onto College Ave, we arrived at Moe & Johnny's, where, in the gloomiest part of the bar, sat a neglected Scared Stiff. Now for the next two years, we played this particular game religiously (until it was removed and replaced with one of those punching-bag-douche-meter games, second only to Golden Tee in bar games gone awry). Pins are few and far between in this city, and not taking advantage of one right outside your door was criminal. But one constant always remained, at least for me: My drink always sat directly under the game. It didn't matter if a table happened to be scooted next to us. When my ball came up, under the game it went.
     Now I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this. Necessity is the mother of invention. But even now, down in my basement, I catch myself slinging a beer bottle underneath the cabinet of a game. It's become a superstition of sorts. Like the beer is radiating out of the bottle, into the game, up through the playfield and imbuing the ball with a bit of the sauce. And when the ball drains, it just feels....I don't know, kinda nostalgic to pretend I'm back at Moe & Johnny's, kneeling down to grab the bottle by the neck, reaching into my pocket for another $2.00 worth of quarters, pumping them in and pressing the button for two players.