Death by Steven_Seagal

A FIFA 13 story.

I wish that I could say that I play FIFA 13 for the love of the game, but in reality I play because it is one of the few activities that is socially acceptable to perform wearing sweatpants. An online game of Fifa 13 can be a bit of a gamble--much like a chat-roulette session you desperately hope won’t end up penis--though it is enjoyable enough in its execution that the upside of a possibly competitive game outweighs the ego-crushing embarrassment of a more probable loss. I am frequently reminded of my ineptitude by players from around the world. 

On this night, my masochistic nature prevails. I initiate the search for an opponent and the match-finding randomizer dutifully vomits forth an opponent name: Steven_Seagal. I feel it my obligation to explain something about myself before we go any further: I pre-judge everyone I play. During the 30-60 seconds of loading screens separating menu from game, I have created in my mind the most unflattering picture of my opponent. I give Steven_Seagal no quarter in this regard:

I see the real Steven Seagal gelatinously splayed across an Ottoman in his bedroom, his elastic-waisted genie pants straining unsuccessfully against layers of sloppy pancake fat; his curly-toed Aladdin shoes burdened by his sausage-like piggies, which threaten, with each gyration of his body, to explode from their container like molten fat from a superheated hot pocket...

Content with my judgement, I begin the standard video game ritual of trying to make the game load faster by rapidly pressing buttons. Glancing at the loading screen, I notice that Steven_Seagal has chosen to use Real Madrid--which is not unlike choosing to play as the government in a tax-audit video game. You see, Real Madrid has as their champion, the demigod Cristiano Ronaldo. Fifa’s version of Cristiano Ronaldo is like Neo from The Matrix: he can, with a single button press, bend the ball into the net from Lovecraftian angles. His dribbling statistic cements the ball to his feet, making any attempt to dispossess him a bit like trying to deflect a fart with a tennis racket. As a result, his users are legion--it is not uncommon to spend 60% of any online play session chasing him around the field. 

I begin the game on defense, as I often seem to, and concede a goal almost immediately. Steven_Seagal knows about Ronaldo; he can make him spin, zig-zag and teleport around the field in defiance of physics. My new friend can also perform the most elaborate of goal celebrations, the most egregious of which involves the celebrant performing a tap-dance on my goalie’s prone corpse. As the half-time whistle sounds, Ronaldo has a Hat-Trick. For the uninitiated among you, a Hat-Trick is the moment a raging Fifa player begins to think about Human Taxidermy, amongst other things. 

 

Steven_Seagal is now taunting me through his headset, and I know instantly that this cannot be the corpulent half-djinn-half-man I was imagining. This Steven_Seagal is a kid. My ego is a sand-castle in high tide. I judge him more severely this time:

I see his room--his fortress of solitude--on the far wall a poster of a swimsuit model just explicit enough to confirm his heterosexuality, but not too explicit to offend his mother; who glimpses periodically into the room to affect the illusion of concern that all mothers wear upon the realization that their sons have entered masturbation age, but the reality is that her curiosity has been piqued by the pair of jeans she has had to crack over her knee before placing them in the washing machine--a technique she has only recently abandoned in favor of a far more efficient karate chop. She has begun patrolling the hallway in a subtle attempt at espionage. What his mother cannot see, due to his successful deception, is the wall behind the headboard of his bed, the entire surface of which is covered in a patina of dried boogers. These nasal stalactites sit, in defiance of gravity, approximately 3 feet above the encrypted hard drive that contains, most notably, his collection of self-produced muppet snuff films... 

I am awakened from my imagination by the sound of a fourth Ronaldo goal, which is followed almost immediately by a bit of good-natured herky-jerky dancing. I drop my controller and begin screaming obscenities and vitriol at Steven_Seagal, the sound of which is carried no further than the apartments on either side of mine. Many more things happen, all bad. At this point, a lesser FIFA player would begin the classic FIFA strategy known simply as: “SLIDE TACKLE BLITZKRIEG.”  I am evolved. I imagine a broadway version of Weekend at Bernie’s: The Musical starring Steven_Seagal as the reanimated Bernie; Andrew McCarthy and Jonathan Silverman prancing his lifeless corpse around the stage to the delight of the audience. 

As the final whistle sounds, Steven_Seagal begins to chirp at me in pidgin english, but I cannot make out the words over the sounds of my inner discourse. I initiate “Operation X-BOX Controller Launch” protocols with liftoff to commence immediately. Steven_Seagal sends me a rematch request. I abort the countdown.  I have misjudged Steven_Seagal or he has misjudged me. I wipe my palms on my shirt and briefly consider my options. I remember that I am wearing sweatpants. I accept the rematch.