8-Bit Christmas, 912 Grassy Glen Edition

When I was a kid, I wanted a Nintendo worse than my sister Celeste wanted a drum set for Christmas in third grade.

And that is saying something.

You know what? Today is your lucky day, because I am about to tell you the story of how I got my Sega Master System.

It is, quite possibly, the most amazing, dangerous, and awesome story of all time.

So can you handle it?

The year was 1987. Or maybe 1988. 

No, wait. 

1985 was Live Aid. 

Balloonfest was 1986.

The year was the late eighties.

Let’s call it June.

I was six years old, and already learning that life was unfair.

In the summer, if the streets were empty and I felt sufficiently motivated, I could make it to Justin Hester’s house in under three minutes. That is how close I lived to glory. Or torment. Depends on the day.

Because Justin Hester had the only thing that mattered on Grassy Glen:

A Nintendo.

In case this sounds made up, here is documentary evidence that Justin Hester was, in fact, a real person.

And there it sat, glistening in all its gray plastic magnificence, with its rubber cords and futuristic promise, an object so advanced it was not merely called a video game. No. It was an 8-bit entertainment system. Which, in the late eighties, sounded one step below NASA.

Meanwhile, I was just a child standing in a neighborhood, asking fate why Justin Hester had been chosen as the keeper of joy.

I would sit there and watch him play, blasting away an inch from the screen like he had personally been appointed manager of the entire Nintendo kingdom. And the closer he stood to the TV, the more powerful he seemed. I do not know if that was scientifically true, but it absolutely felt true.

At some point, one thing became painfully clear:

I needed my own Nintendo. Immediately. Preferably by nightfall.

Unfortunately, Santa either did not get the memo, lost the memo, or looked at my Christmas wish list and decided to freelance.

Because that Christmas, under the tree, instead of the gray plastic object of my desire, sat a sleek black rival:

The Sega Master System.

Now let me be clear. This was still an 8-bit system, by the way. This was not coal. This was not socks. This was not some tragic educational toy meant to “help me learn.” This was still a legitimate video game console.

But was it a Nintendo?

It was not.

And in the mind of a child, that distinction mattered.

Nintendo was the name. Nintendo was the dream. Nintendo was the brand that had taken over the elementary school imagination. Sega Master System sounded like something a substitute teacher would call it after glancing at the box.

Still, there it was. Black plastic glory. Slightly mysterious. Slightly cooler-looking, if I am honest. Like the console version of a kid who wore a leather jacket and did not need your approval.

And so began my life as a Sega child in a Nintendo world.

Which meant that while the popular kids were probably off doing whatever normal Nintendo children did, I was spending an alarming amount of time playing Ghostbusters and ALF.

Yes. ALF.

There was apparently a moment in history when somebody looked at that wisecracking alien from television and thought, “You know what this needs? A video game where he tries not to get murdered by a house cat.”

And I played it.

A lot.

I also played Ghostbusters, which had me driving the car through city streets in what felt, to my young mind, like a four-lane traffic situation and taking on responsibilities I was not emotionally prepared for. It was stressful. It was confusing. It was magnificent.

This was my gaming life.

Not epic quests. Not cool teenage rebellion. Not futuristic graphics that made people gasp.

No. My main qualifications as a gamer were dodging a cat as ALF and trying not to wreck the Ghostbusters car.

And honestly? That feels right.

I never became one of those people who grew up with every new gaming system and can casually discuss PlayStation like it is part of a normal adulthood. I have never played PlayStation in all these years. My gaming résumé is basically old Sega, Super Nintendo, and a deep loyalty to the kind of games where you mostly move in one direction and hope for the best.

That is my comfort zone.

Do not hand me some sprawling 3-D world with seventeen camera angles and a mission map. I was raised on flat little people moving left, right, or occasionally jumping. If a game requires me to control both the character and the viewpoint at the same time, I would like to formally decline.

I know people get nostalgic about the “golden age of gaming,” and for me that means the music, the weirdness, the cheap thrill of getting a cartridge to work, and the absolute absurdity of spending hours of my life devoted to an alien avoiding a cat and some blocky men driving around on ghost-related business.

I wanted Nintendo.

I got Sega.

And somehow, against all odds, it was still magic.

Also, I remain loyal to the kind of video game where the character has enough decency to stay flat and go one direction at a time. Which is nice, because my social life has chosen a far less organized approach.