In which I am not creepy

In what sounds to modern ears vaguely pedophilic, yet was in reality as wholesome as this balanced breakfast, I totally evangelized a 6-year-old boy into liking pinball.

I was playing the new-ish Transformers machine at the local sports-themed family watering hole that is the closest thing to a bar that exists within walking distance of my apartment and the lad was completely transfixed. His brother and sister were climbing all over the Cruisin' USA thing next to us, but he was pulling his head up over the side so he could see the playfield. "It's like it's on fire!" were his exact and awesome words.

For my part, I had just gotten a high score (first person on the machine, in fact), was having a great ball one, and tend to avoid this place precisely because it's always crawling with goddamned offspring. Pinball is serious business, and should be left to grownups. But I felt a duty to the future. If I didn't show this kid how rad pinball is, who knows? He slinks back to Mom's iPad, settles for playing Angry Birds, and ends up being one of those mopes who's always texting people? I couldn't have that shit on my conscience.

Pinball, you see, actually matters. To the extent that it's not doing your homework, raising children or, I don't know, crocheting hats for famine victims, well, sure, it's all quite frivolous. But we're increasingly screen-time zombies, and pinball has the virtue of actually taking place in the real world. You are being challenged to control the movement of an actual, physical thing. It can't be replicated digitally, and its physical presence makes it inherently social. There's no hiding in the corner playing pinball--that fucker's loud. You can't play pinball sitting in your living room and shouting "Fag!" at some anonymous Cheeto-covered basement-dweller you just fragged on XBox Live. You have to put on pants, go out and play it in public.

Now, here's why this kid matters: the pinball industry almost died a few years ago. There is currently one (1) manufacturer of pinball machines left in America--Stern--and they barely survived. They release about three games a year, generally themed to a big summer movie, and thanks to a recent upswing in popularity (good job, Portland!) business is all right. But the industry is kind of perpetually lurching towards destruction, and it's important for its survival that kids not get pulled away by stupid shit on screens. 

About 5 million points into a 12 million ball (for those of you keeping score at home) his kid sister piped up and said "What's that?" I gave the lad a second to see if he knew, and then I said, "It's pinball! And it's way better than video games!"

Part of the reason I don't like kids is because I never know what to say to them. I know they're just thinking about when they might next get candy and aren't particularly concerned with whether or not we have any common ground, but damned if my interactions with them don't usually end up with me saying, "huh," in a resigned manner, unable to feign interest in this fellow who lives in a pineapple under the sea, and staring off in the direction of someone who might remove this bundle of joy from my vicinity.

Turns out, however, that it is in no way necessary to talk to kids while playing pinball. His brother called to him to see if he wanted to use his quarters on Cruisin' USA, but he responded that wanted to play pinball. "Darn right you do," I said, censoring myself in his presence because cursing is for pedarasts. "Want next game?" I asked, but he demurred.

Finally, after an absolutely breathtaking display of skill on my part, ball one drained. Simultaneously patting myself on the back for my generosity and reminding myself to go to a real bar next time, I told the kid it was his turn. I showed him how to use the flippers and told him to pull the plunger. He got it right away. Did a lot of two-handed arbitrary banging for the excitement of seeing the flippers move, but totally concentrated and made some shots. Got a multiball, too, which sort of blew his mind.

Naturally, he thought when the ball drained the game was over, but was damned happy to hear that he had another one, which drained, well, almost immediately. His brother again asked if he wanted to play Cruisin' USA.

"Um..." said the lad, whom I had taken to calling Little Buddy. He was vacillating. "Hey, check this out," I said, leaning in conspiratorially as I put on my jacket and pointed to the Start button. "Whenever you see this button lit up, it means there's money in there. You've got a credit, Little Buddy--play it."

I walked off, finishing my beer as his brother orbited him enviously. Little Buddy hit Start, launched the ball and flippered away.