There was a time when the highlight of each week was walking out of the Duquesne Union’s stairwell and looking through the Nitespot’s window at the gathering of smashers not yet aware of my arrival—a quiet moment of excitement, and gratitude, before making my presence known and joining in on the action.
There were friends and their friends’ friends; spacie mains and the occasional Game n’ Watch; gay-ass chain grabs and recoveries that sucked balls; Smasher of the Day certificates and free food; and, lest we forget, big servings of Hot Cheddar and a very fast fish.
There were also Lion King quotes and entire Spongebob script recitals; WoW talk which gave way to LoL hype; rap battles punctuated by Taki’s complaints; and Taki’s complaints punctuated by more of Taki’s complaints.
There was also that Colver trip that Taki made us five hours late to.
There was an endless stream of new faces and new challenges; tier debates and metagame shifts; out-of-state tournies and homegrown smashfests; and a hell of a lot of road trips accompanied by a hideous lack of sleep.
There were hissyfits over the gayness of each character; there was tension surrounding how rankings should work; there were arguments over mere misunderstandings; and there was a community so damn fun that it sustained our comradery throughout all of it.
But more prevalent than probably anything, and truly impossible to appreciate at the time, there was a naiveté and a blissfulness that could only ever be achieved then. It was that genuine feeling, subconcious or not, that Smash might just be the greatest damn thing in the world, and, just maybe, that we could become one of the best of the best. Whether or not it was ever expressed aloud, it was a belief that manifested itself in our fingers, flowed through our controllers, and onto the screen where our delightfully impossible dreams played out. No matter how many times we may have rolled up off of the ledge and directly into a tipper from that kid down the hall who knows no other move, that dream of greatness was still compelling. It both inspired us, and united us.
As is necessary, however, dreams give way to reality, priorities change, times change, and people change. Fittingly, the Pittsburgh Smash community has changed, but I have no interest in mourning the losses. Really, it’s just the same old “coming of age” story that’s been told forever, except ours got to include Super Smash Bros., which I have to assume is a hell of a lot more fun than, say, solitary trips through the desert.
The result of all this is my complete and utter satisfaction with everything that has happened, good or bad, by my own doing or dumb luck’s. Despite no further desire to play Smash or chase that particular dream again, I remain unendingly grateful that I got to spend literally a third of my life being a part of it. I don’t glorify the past nor pine for it – I’m just so glad that I got to have it.
And I thank you all for that.
Except Taki. **** you Taki.