A new breed of warrior

My parents are way more technologically advanced than I am, in some respects. They have a television with nine million channels; I am decidedly tv-less, thanks to the digital tv switch that left me without my lone channel, PBS. They have a reliable, albeit dial-up, internet connection; at my apartment, my connection is spotty, at best. And they have that latest in gaming craze, a Wii.

My father called me in November. This is unusual for several reasons: first, he never calls. Without looking to a piece of paper, written in my Mom's handwriting, which is taped to the inside of a kitchen cabinet door, I'm not sure my Dad would even know what my phone number was.  Second, because he never calls, when he does, I think something is horribly wrong. So when he said "Hello my favorite daughter" I said "Is Mom okay?" rather than "Dad, I'm your only daughter."  Third, he was calling to tell me he wanted something. Coming from a man impossible to shop for for his birthday or Christmas, this was a sure sign of the apocalypse.

My parents were visiting my cousin, their goddaughter, in Virginia, right outside of Washington, D.C.  My cousin has two kids, who have a Wii. My father, apparently, got addicted to bowling on Wii Sports and his life was never the same since.  Shortly after they returned, we had this phone conversation, during which he says, "Kim, I want a Wii. That was fun."  I thought, "Don't tell me, I can't afford it, tell Mom!"  He did, and a day later, he called again to say they got it, but he couldn't figure out how to connect everything. He was irritated and threatening to put it back in the box and take it back.

Talking him off the proverbial cliff, I assured him that maybe tomorrow would be a better day to try and assemble it, and then he and my Mom could bowl til their hearts content. He did, and it's worked ever since.

When I went home for Thanksgiving, I got to experience, first hand, my father doing what I can only describe as throwing himself at the television to bowl.  When I informed him that he really only needed a flick of the wrist to get the same result, he assured me that not only was his way more fun, he was also getting much more exercise.  My mother, much to my dismay, was the same in her, um, approach to the game.  Before I returned to my apartment after the holiday, I assured them that if I ever received a phone call saying someone was in the hospital because they either (a) went head first into the television, or (b) fell and broke a hip, I'd be coming to visit them, yes, and assist in their recovery, but also the Wii would be coming back with me.

How pleased was I, earlier this week, to see this article in The New York Times. I've since printed it out and mailed it to my Dad. Over the phone the other day, however, I told him about my new moniker for him: a Wii warrior.

His response: "I like that. No wonder why you're my favorite daughter."

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