In 1998, lychee-flavored, juicebox-sipping, Mama Noodles-crunching Annie Cho ruled quaint Cedarbrae Public School.
Through her Game Boy and a crack team of level 100 Pokémon, she dominated the earnest and ignorant competitors brave enough to battle her Rhydon, Seaking, Venusaur, Moltres, Alakazam, and Jolteon. Nobody could touch her.
With a satisfied grin on her face and a flair for drama, Annie loved to peer at you over the top of her dulling Gameboy. With her craggily metallic teeth, she declared her match-winning move with force and impression. “Hyper Beam. Hydro Pump. Psychic. Thunderbolt.”
Everything had to be announced, and the moment she did so, you knew that there was no chance - life would drain away from your Pokémon, as your level 60-70 sweepers would crumble before her sheer firepower. She was unstoppable.
The busy playground of my elementary school was punctuated by nine-year-old swears and the angry reprimands that followed. That is, until Richard showed up. Richard Lowe was a boy in the grade above me, lanky and slow to speak. No matter the climate, he’d wear the same loud, crackling, neon shorts and have the same strained smile on his face. With an ambiguous accent (that just couldn’t be pinned down), he jumped from group to group, never finding a proper place.
That is, until he fought Cho.
Unlike the rest of us peons, Lowe had tenacity, skill, and his own team of max leveled Pokémon. To curious, naive fourth-graders, their furious mashing and awkward taunting became fights of the century. Cedarbrae became the home of two titans.
Then, on one auspicious, stormy day, Richard opened the box. To us, he was some sort of Promethean figure, handing down fire so that we may become civilized - complex, even. No one at the school bothered (or could really afford) to buy a strategy guide - those things were Bibles of gold, ruminations of unseen and unknown texts that hung around at Radioshacks and Futureshops, but never owned. No kid had that sort of money.
But Richard did, and despite Annie’s day-in, day-out lunch, it seemed like she did as well.
“Here, let me show you,” he offered to us in the cafeteria, “it’s really simple.” I could have sworn lightning crackled and thunder rumbled.
And that was how Cedarbrae public school became familiar with Missingno.
A mess of sprites, Missingno could be reached by talking to the Old Man in Vermilion City. After he teaches you how to catch a Weedle, you fly to Cinnabar Island. From there, you surf along the east coast of Cinnabar Island until you run into Missingno. After knocking out Missingno or running away, the sixth item in your bag would be increased by 128.
So, like a tall, gangly wizard, Richard flew our Pidgeots, Zapdoses, Moltreses, and Articunos to Vermilion City. He took us to the Old Man, ran us through the tutorial, and then flew us to Cinnabar Island.
“You gotta surf here.” He pointed on my screen. His finger was covered in crusted snot, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to beat Annie.
He surfed up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, going through Snorlaxes and Haunters, until I met it. It was a column of garbled sprites and screeched a screech just as nonsensical. It didn’t even use letters for names - just a block and an ‘M’. Richard ran away from the fight.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“This is what.” He handed me my Game Boy back. My Golem had gone up 10 levels. My jaw dropped.
“What?!” I shrieked at him. Flecks of spit flew onto his face. He didn’t budge. He didn’t flinch. Fucking Richard.
“You have unlimited Rare Candies.” He said. I opened the bag, and sure enough, there it was.
90-something rare candies, staring at me in the face. Adrenaline filled my body. Power was possible. Dreams of grandeur filled my fourth grade head.
Yeah, bitch, yeah.
I’m the king of the jungle now, bitch.
Holy shit.
The subtle plot of a boy from the boonies of Canadian suburbia.
After a recess mashing the A button, I challenged Annie. Like Indiana Jones, I whipped out the giant link cable, fire in my eyes. My friend Brian and his stupid mushroom-cut stood by, ready to jeer me on. I could feel it; I could see it. Everything was in my sights - I was ready. I was going to join Annie and Richard as the upper echelon of Pokémon Masters, taking my place as one of the kings of the schoolyard.
I don’t remember how many kids there were. When I close my eyes and allow my ego to fall back on those halcyon days, I remember 20, 30. There probably weren’t much more than 4 or 5.
But damn, 4 or 5 kids were loud, and they jeered like apes at the sight of a Pokémon battle.
I lost. Hers was so much faster, stronger, and hardier than mine. She did so much damage for little effort, and all I could do was sit there dumbfounded, swearing at the top of my little lungs.
“What’s going on?! How are you beating me?!” I cried. “How?!”
Again, Annie hid her smile behind her tall Game Boy, her eyes peeking out at me with a sinister sheen. “My team is better.” She whispered to me. “You can’t beat me.” She said.
“What?!” I yelled at her (I was a yeller, back then). “I have infinite Rare Candies! We’re equal! How are you beating me?!” I yelled again. The crowd heard my words. Whispers ran hot like wildfire and my ears turned just as red.
“I told you.” She broke open one of her lychee juice boxes with strident confidence. “I’m better than you.”
Furious, I stomped off. I went to the wise, sagely, generous Richard, who was whipping kids with stale Fruit-Roll-Ups by the slide. “Why is she still beating me? I’m level 100!” I snarled at him.
He shrugged, his mouth full of blue, green, yellow, and purple. A rainbow-colored string of saliva slowly fell from his mouth. “Did you try duplicating Protein?”
Joe Yang
@yaochongyang
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