Pinball Wizards
Page 1
Copyright © 2018 by Adam Ruben
All rights reserved
Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-61373-593-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ruben, Adam, author.
Title: Pinball wizards: jackpots, drains, and the cult of the silver ball /
Adam Ruben.
Description: Chicago, Illinois : Chicago Review Press, [2018] | Includes
index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017012377 (print) | LCCN 2017013283 (ebook) | ISBN 9781613735923 (pdf) | ISBN 9781613735930 (epub) | ISBN 9781613735947 (kindle) | ISBN 9781613735916 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Pinball machines.
Classification: LCC GV1311.P5 (ebook) | LCC GV1311.P5 R84 2017 (print)
DDC 794.7/5—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012377
Cover design: Jeremy John Parker
Cover photograph: Darron Fick
Typesetting: Nord Compo
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
For my children, Maya and Benjamin,
who will one day love pinball, and for my wife, Marina,
who will then be outnumbered
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Copyright Page
Introduction Ever Since I Was a Young Boy, I Played the Silver Ball
1 Admirable Occupations for Reasonable Creatures
2 A Vicious Form of Amusement
3 Come to PAPA
4 “It’s More Fun to Compete”
5 How Josh and Zach’s Dad Saved Pinball
6 Space Invaders
7 Come (Back) to PAPA
8 The Day Pinball Died
9 Everything Nobody Needs
10 Backglass to the Future
11 PAPA19: Judgment Day
Epilogue Insert Coins to Continue
Updates
Appendix
Acknowledgments
Index
About the Author
Introduction
Ever Since I Was a Young Boy,
I Played the Silver Ball
* * *
I LOVE PINBALL.
It is a bizarre, intricate game that has no valid reason to exist. Just think of the absurdity of someone inventing this thing from scratch, designing the 3,500 individual pieces that compose today’s games, meticulously assembling and decorating every square inch, programming a complicated set of rules, then putting it in a bar for strangers to slap. Pinball machines almost look like attempts at what’s kindly called outsider art, the sort you’d find at a specialized museum next to a placard reading: This machine, and the adjacent toothpick model of the Burj Khalifa, were built by hand over a span of twenty years by a high-functioning chimpanzee trapped in a municipal steam turbine.
Once, in graduate school, I mentioned the word “pinball” to a classmate, and she asked, “Pinball? Is that, like, the game with the Ping-Pong ball and paddles?” I explained that, no, the game with the Ping-Pong ball and paddles was called Ping-Pong. I then described pinball in excruciating detail, until I realized that she had stopped listening because she thought I was describing a video game.
In actual pinball, the ball is about the size of an egg yolk but with a nice weight to it—like if you held it in your hand, you’d think momentarily about lobbing it through a windowpane just to hear that satisfying crash. Only you can’t hold it in your hand, because it’s trapped inside a machine called a “cabinet,” which looks like a coffin on legs.
With your right hand, you pull back a rod on a spring (the “plunger”), then release it to smack the little silver sphere onto the playfield, a mostly flat, lacquered expanse as jam-packed with flashing gadgets as sanity and cost constraints will allow.
The object of the game is to keep the ball on the playfield, where it can boing around scoring points—registered on a display board called the “backglass” in the upright “backbox”—as long as possible. The playfield, however, is tilted ever so slightly downward, toward you, so that the ball inevitably succumbs to gravity, rolling down the polished wood surface and into the drain.
Yes, the hole right in front of you—the hole you struggle to keep the ball the hell away from—is called the “drain.” When the ball drops in there, it’s gone, and some frustrated cursing and machine shoving may occur.
If that was the whole game, I’d never play it. What I’ve just described is like those little plastic toys with the tiny ball bearings, where you shoot the balls and try to catch them in U-shaped cups with point values attached, the kind that provides literally minutes of entertainment when a child selects one from the treasure chest in the dentist’s office. And for years, pinball was just that: plunge and pray. Score points on your ball’s brief trip from plunger to drain, then exclaim something 1930s-ish, like “Humdinger!,” and head to the Odeon to pay a dime for the double-feature newsreel.
Then, in 1947, a game called Humpty Dumpty introduced a bold new concept: button-operated flippers.1 (The ads for Humpty Dumpty, with its “New Type Skill Flippers,” boasted that “The Player will Laugh! The Spectator will Roar! The Operator will be Thrilled!”)
Flippers. Two flat, rubber-lined paddles like pinky fingers, just above the drain, and if you press buttons on the side of the cabinet, the flippers flick upward, knocking your ball away from the drain and back toward the enchanting gadgets, where it can continue to accumulate points. With the flippers, you can actually aim the ball, trying to hit a particular target, or send the ball zipping up a plastic ramp. You can call your shot and feel like a little Babe Ruth.
But the gadgets. Oh, the gadgets.
Big, swirly ramps that swoosh the ball satisfyingly around the playfield. Squat, round “pop bumpers” that ping the ball away quickly and unpredictably. “Drop targets,” which are exactly what they sound like (targets that drop when hit with the ball). “VUKs,” or “vertical up-kickers”—shoot the ball in a shallow hole, and the VUK will K the ball V-ly U into another gadget. “Rollovers,” buttons that activate when rolled over. Even extra flippers, positioned high up the playfield for hitting distant targets or side ramps. Holes that swallow the ball and suddenly send it out elsewhere, like when Pac-Man munches off the left side of the screen and magically appears at the right—only this, and all of this, is happening with an actual, physical ball. And not only do you get to watch it all happen, you get to control it, to conduct the mechanical symphony of this idealized world, to direct a hundred tiny mechanisms to function in harmony. It’s like a Rube Goldberg machine in real time, a universe of physics and fast choices and skill and luck and angles and sounds and flashing lights and steel and plastic and varnished wood and complicated rules and rewards and consequences and heartbreaking drains and magnificent saves and brilliance and glory.
I love pinball.
My first exposure to pinball came during childhood, when it was just one component of the greatest time and place the universe had to offer: summer nights at Funland amusement park in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
Like many visitors “down shore,” my family spent fifty-one weeks a year in northern Delaware and one glorious week in southern Delaware, at the beach. Delaware boasts a handful of beach towns, of which Rehoboth is the largest. My family would rent a little house in one of the smaller towns—Lewes or Bethany—and spend a week in a kids’ paradise.
During the day, we’d play in the ocean or on the sand, eating a lunch of local sweet corn and canned tuna on the porch. At night, we’d drive to Rehoboth
, where we could hear the screams from the Ferris wheel and paraglider the moment we opened our car doors. My dad would feed the parking meter quarters we’d brought in black plastic film canisters, grumbling about how a quarter used to buy you half an hour, and now it was twenty minutes.
“This gives us until 9:40,” he’d say, and my sister Rachel and I would beg for just one more quarter, a little more bought time, twenty more of the most treasured minutes we knew.
Funland was—and still is, I’m happy to report—a wonderful little family-owned amusement park on the Rehoboth boardwalk. There were rides. There were win-a-stuffed-animal games, but not the impossible kind (“Throw a basketball through a hoop slightly smaller than a basketball!”). And always—sitting in the same spot between the shooting gallery and the carousel, just beside the toddler boats and with a clear view of Super Goblet Toss—there was pinball.
At the end of the night, arms full of new stuffed animals that needed names, we’d amble down the boardwalk, the Atlantic crashing softly on one side and the bright saltwater taffy shops on the other, buy frozen custard, and count the hours—or if it was the week’s final trip to Funland, the months—until we could return.
My wife, Marina, says I overromanticize Rehoboth, that it’s really just another hot and crowded beach town with cheap pizza and henna tattoos. Maybe that’s true. But whatever neural processes lock a place and time into one’s memory as heaven on earth have locked it into mine. Even now, more than thirty-five years since our initial visit to the shore, my family has returned every summer, spouses and grandkids and all. Rachel’s then boyfriend, now her husband, proposed to her during one of these trips. One of my happiest moments was watching my daughter, Maya, ride the toddler boats in 2013, just like I did in 1981—possibly even without the boats having been repainted in the interim.
For years, pinball embodied everything I loved about the beach, but it remained strictly a beach activity. I didn’t hang out in arcades, and even when a restaurant or bowling alley had a pinball machine, it held no special sway beyond “I know what that is.”
Then, during college, I dated a woman who loved pinball. When we were camp counselors together, we’d play whenever possible, usually on the 1992 Fish Tales machine in the cafeteria, until a destructive camper leaned a little too hard on the playfield glass, taking Fish Tales out of commission for the rest of the summer.
Some aspect of her affinity for pinball must have stayed with me, and the affinity grew into an obsession. If I saw a pinball machine, I had to play it. Leaving it untouched would be like walking past an exquisite sunset, saying, “Meh. There’ll be another one tomorrow.”
There’s just something about pinball. It’s not like a video game. Pinball is a kinetic sculpture, like the one in the lobby of the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia’s science museum, that I used to stare at endlessly during class field trips. It’s a shiny, blinking, flipping, bouncing, shooting, cracking overabundance of stimuli. It is, however, only a game.
Or so I thought. Then I joined a pinball league.
In grad school, I had a friend named Mike. Mike delights in two things above all else: playing tricks on his friends that make them feel worthless and frustrated and buying his friends wonderful, incisive gifts. The gifts don’t exist without the tricks; that’s part of his charm. Actually, it may be all of his charm.
Mike and I had a ritual of playing Theatre of Magic (1995) at a local bar on Tuesday nights. Mike excelled at all sports, from racquetball to martial arts, but pinball was my thing. I think that’s why he played it with me so often—when he won, on occasion, he’d have the extra gloat power of beating me at something I was good at.
For my twenty-fourth birthday, Mike’s gift was simple. He had the foresight to Google two words it somehow had never occurred to me to Google, and those words were “pinball league.” Mike paid my forty-dollar entry into the summer 2003 season of the Free State Pinball Association, and for me, the world would never be the same.
People often ask me what a pinball league is. Actually, they ask what the hell a pinball league is, and they ask it while chuckling, because everyone’s hobby—be it tropical fish care or sous vide cooking or old-time bicycle repair—sounds like a hilarious waste of time to everyone else.
A pinball league is a group of people who play a set number of pinball games on preselected machines. Highest scorers are awarded “league points,” and after several weekly games (in our case it was ten weeks, four games per week), those with the most league points face off for prizes. My first season, I won third place in the lower division and took home a beautiful piece of cabinet artwork from a soccer-themed European game called Flipper Football (1996).
As the years passed, I learned from my competitors. I picked up advanced techniques, like the hold pass (holding the ball with one flipper, then passing it to the other), the bounce pass (letting the ball bounce off a lowered flipper to catch it with the other one), and the chill maneuver (doing nothing but chilling while the ball rockets down the middle, relying on the benevolence of the center peg for rescue). The list of machines whose rules I knew grew, and according to the Professional and Amateur Pinball Association Advanced Rating System (PARS), I rose as high as eightieth in the world.
In the world.
I put it on my résumé.
Seriously, I did, at the very bottom, under “Other Interests and Activities.” An interviewer even asked about it once. “Oh sure,” I said, nonchalantly exhaling onto my fingernails, “I dabble a bit.”
I don’t play sports. I have a physique like an Ethernet cable. Pass me a basketball, and I feel helpless. Put me on the volleyball court, and I’m counting the seconds until I can rotate off. But give me two quarters and a 1997 Medieval Madness, and suddenly the rhythm of the world makes sense.
Which is why I felt the physical symptoms of withdrawal when I stopped playing pinball for four years. I could pretend I dropped out of my league and stopped traveling to competitions because I wanted to retire at the top of my game. I could offer a respectable excuse, like carpal tunnel syndrome. But the real reason I stopped playing is far more common among men who suddenly quit the leisure activities they used to enjoy: I had a baby, and my wife wouldn’t let me.
The other pinball players understood. They even threw me a surprise baby shower, including an awesome pinball machine–shaped cake. When the spring 2011 league ended, for the first time in eight years, I didn’t submit my name for the summer season.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, and I’d stop playing pinball forever if that would somehow avert some disaster from befalling them. Still, I missed the excitement of competition, the anticipation before releasing the plunger, the thrill of knowing I need to hit the left ramp and I’ve just hit the left ramp.
One day, in the tiny Belgian seaside town of Ostend, Marina and my almost toddler daughter and I randomly passed a glitzy arcade called Pinball Fun.
“I just want to look inside for a second,” I told them. There, a trio of pinball machines sneered at me, including one of my favorites, The Simpsons Pinball Party (2003).
“Yeah,” they seemed to say, “you know you want to play us. Your family can wait fifteen minutes. Your wife might tell you that you didn’t fly four thousand miles to play pinball, but you know what? We say you didn’t fly four thousand miles to not play pinball.” I didn’t play.
Shortly after my daughter turned three, my son was born. Now that’s it, I thought. With two kids, I can scarcely justify a trip to the bathroom, let alone a night at pinball league or a weekend at a tournament. Pinball is history, and I’ll just have to take up another hobby, like nothing. Yes, that’s what I’ll replace pinball with: nothing.
Then something wonderful happened. For years, I’d dreamed of writing this book, but I kept procrastinating—not for any good reason, but just because writing a book is a lot of work, even when it’s about something you love. To help me out, Marina, who is nothing if not a proponent of professional development, o
ffered a deal: “If you write that book you keep talking about,” she said, “you can play all the pinball you want.”
I should emphasize that she said this out of the blue. Caught me completely off guard. I probably stammered with my tongue on the floor, cartoonlike, wondering what the trick was. Was this one of those things where women want you to resist to show you care? “But I don’t want to play pinball!” she was expecting me to say. “I only love you and the children and laundry!” I then concluded she must be having an affair.
But no. The offer was genuine. In that wonderful way that spouses know exactly what their partners require to succeed, she had intuited my need for external motivation to write a book. I could play pinball, free and clear. And I could start with a triumphant return to the World Pinball Championships.
I knew I wasn’t going to take the pinball world by storm, to suddenly kick ass and clean house and dominate the competition, screaming to the heavens while gripping the first-place trophy with my bleeding flipper fingers. That wasn’t the point. The point of my project was to see if it could be done someday. If I, an ordinary person with a modicum of experience, stood any chance of becoming a world pinball champion.
The World Pinball Championships, run by the Professional and Amateur Pinball Association (PAPA), are held outside Pittsburgh every year in a warehouse arcade of over five hundred pinball machines. Over the course of the next year, I would travel from my home in Washington, DC, to compete in the World Pinball Championships three times—PAPA17, PAPA18, and PAPA19.
Between the World Pinball Championships, I would rejoin my pinball league for a season, not only to see if I’d lost my touch, but also to see how pinball had changed. The country is currently enjoying a pinball renaissance; not only is the game’s popularity back on the rise after a multidecade drop, but the industry itself—which nearly disappeared off the face of the earth on four different occasions—is reinventing itself in risky, interesting ways.