Long Live Pat Beach!
Tecmo, as life, is full of uncertainty. Reasonable folks come to count on certain occurrences, and it
is true that some things are so predictable that they may even seem to be certainties. One so called
certainty in the realm of Tecmo is the prospect of losing when playing with the Indianapolis Colts. You
just expect it to happen.
In preparation for Tecmo Madison VIII, my traveling companion and I decided to engage in heavy
game play using as many teams as possible as well as the Tecmo Madison format for team selection
(one player chooses the matchup and the second player may choose his team first). Despite my well-
documented research in “The Tecmo Chronicles” and recent applied social scientific research that
advanced the field of tecmology beyond the realms ever imagined, there is something to be said about
actually having first-hand experience utilizing the teams. I consider it akin to driving a NASCAR vehicle.
We all know that they are powerful and fast machines, but put an idiot like me behind the wheel in the
Daytona 500 and I would be lucky to make it one lap without careening into a wall and likely taking out
a number of other drivers with me. With the Colts, we all know that they are the antithesis of powerful
and fast. The experience to be gained by utilizing them has more to do with determining just how badly
they suck.
Finishing an evening of solid practice, my opponent—clearly not yet ready for Tecmo Madison as
evidenced by his 0 wins to 3 losses that evening—pronounced that he was calling the most unholy of all
Tecmo matchups: Colts and Seahawks. I may as well have been asked to lace my own drink with ricin
or arsenic. After strongly considering whether it would be more appropriate to engage in some sort of
self-mutilation than it would be to select one of the two Tecmo bottom-dwellers, I reluctantly selected
the Colts. My reasoning? At least Jeff George has a strong enough arm to hit receivers underneath
coverage. Dave Kreig can have a wide open target five yards ahead of him, but by the time his five-yard
Hail Mary arrives at the target, he would be swarmed by defenders coming from all reaches of the field
just waiting for the oblong rainbow to fall to the Earth. His passes seem to defy the limits of physics as a
five yard forward pass might actually travel twice the distance in an upward direction.
The game consisted of a comedy of errors, follies, displays of inadequate arm strength, and slow-footed
running backs struggling to turn corners. I became so uninterested in the outcome, that at one point
I handed the controller to my friend as I exited to get another beer. I gave him the green light to call
my plays and continue with the game during my brief absence. Much to my chagrin, he was out of
beer, so I had his sober wife drive me two miles to the nearest six-pack dealer to restock. By the time
we returned, the second quarter had expired and the third quarter was almost spent, yet the score
remained the same as when I had left 7-3—advantage Seahawks. I openly questioned him on how the
game had not concluded during my time away, and he had no explanation. To this day, I believe that
he may have pleasured himself while watching the cheerleaders during the Tecmo half-time show, but I
admit to lacking solid evidence.
The score persisted as the fourth quarter began, so my friend appeared to be on his way to his first
victory of the evening. Sure, the score was only 7-3, but a four point deficit in the final quarter may as
well be a 100 point deficit for the Colts. One might look at this score and believe that we were playing
some solid defense, but I assure you that the slow moving offenses made playing defense unnecessary
as evidenced by my friend’s inability to score despite playing default “coach” mode against ten drones
and a sedentary defensive end during my quarter and a half absence.
The fourth quarter was more of the same. With slightly over a minute remaining, I fielded a punt on my
own 15 and ran quickly out of bounds. It was at this time that I confidently proclaimed that Jeff George
was about to put on the best drive of his life, “Tecmo or real life.” Of course, only a touchdown would
do. This actually made my claim that much more outlandish than it appeared on the surface.
Perhaps it was the confidence in my voice channeling into the 8-bit game and going through the sound
system in George’s helmet normally picking up only play calls coming from the sideline. Perhaps George
felt that I had thrown the gauntlet on his behalf and he had something to prove given the mocking
identity his Tecmo likeness has endured since 1992. Whatever the case, George did not disappoint.
George delivered, all right, in the unorthodox way that only George could deliver and still take credit.
The drive consisted of one long heave to Jesse Hester streaking across the bottom of the screen. Hester
never actually touched the ball, however, as a leaping member of the Seahawk’s secondary pulled down
the interception. To George’s credit, it appeared that Hester had a couple of steps on the defender; and
the ball actually appeared to be on course for a completion had the defender not perfectly timed his lift-
off. Hester, ever the cerebral player, immediately dove toward the defender who was met with a world
of pain upon returning to the Earth. The ball immediately popped out of the well-intended defender’s
arms as he lay sprawled on the turf flattened like a pixilated pancake.
As the ball flailed into the open field, my friend was yelling that his defender had not yet made
a “football move” so it was bullshit that it was considered a fumble. Pat Beach was unfazed by the
commotion. Like a knight in blue and white armor on his trusty battle stallion, Sir Pat galloped from out
of nowhere to scoop up the oblong treasure and cradle it firmly in his pulsating biceps. Barely, if at all,
breaking stride, Beach beat the entire Seahawks secondary in a 20-yard dash to the endzone. Please
note that I use the term “dash” quite loosely in this context. If the local retirement community ever had
a “walker olympics,” then this might more accurately describe the Beach v. Seahawks secondary race to
the endzone.
George, in the meantime, seemed to have not a care in the world that he just threw an interception
and the combo of Jessie Hester/Pat Beach bailed him out big time. He celebrated with Beach as if the
play went exactly as planned. The benefit of the painfully deliberate tempo at which the saga unfolded
was that it had nicely exhausted most of the remaining game clock. With a 10-7 lead and only seconds
remaining, the Colts had pulled off what seemed like the impossible just moments earlier and provided
additional proof that certainties simply do not exist.
This crushing defeat reminded my friend that he was even less prepared for Madison then he originally
surmised. In retrospect, I believe that this occurrence perfectly prepared him for his 0-3 appearance at
the big show.
-Jason Stauffer
