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The
television version of Captain Nintendo, “Captain N:
The Game Master,” first aired on NBC on my sister’s
birthday, September 9 in 1989. Though I had nothing
directly to do with the cartoon (well, other than the
initial idea to do a cartoon based on the character
I created that would introduce characters and game tips
to the public and act as an advertising vehicle for
Nintendo), some of the most important elements from
my original proposal remained: most notably, the retention
of Mother Brain as the arch villain. It was popularly
received and we received many letters in response. The
letters were consistent in their overall praise of the
show and equally consistent in their complaints about
specific elements that they despised: particularly Kid
Icarus, Simon Belmont, King Hippo, and the Eggplant
Wizard. This didn’t really bother me as I never liked
those elements either--in the one episode I saw (This
may come as a great shock, but, since I wasn’t directly
a part of the show’s creative process, I really didn’t
have much interest in watching. Especially, after seeing
the one episode I did see.) In fact, from the specifics
of the responses we got, I felt vindicated.
Nevertheless,
seemingly on the strength of the premise, the show enjoyed
relative popularity (far more than its sister programs
of the time, based on Mario and Zelda). Surprising to
me, you can still find several websites erected by devoted
fans, some even detailing each episode. I understand
that recently many episodes were released on DVD.
As
I’ve noted previously, some letters were addressed directly
to Captain Nintendo (or to Captain N) and I was logically
given the task of answering them as the Captain. At
this point, marketing execs and Hollywood had taken
over, and this was as much impact as I now had on the
character. Generally, the letters were amusing, in that
way that a child’s imagination is amusing when it’s
in fourth gear. However, the kids writing the letters
were genuine in their questions and suggestions, so
I made sure my answers matched their tone and belief
level. If they wanted Captain Nintendo to be real, I
wasn’t going to be the one to jar them out of it.
There
was one other minor odd side effect. Nintendo had kiosks
placed in the six major malls that surround the city
of Seattle (Redmond, where Nintendo of America is located,
is a sort of suburb of Seattle). Each of these kiosks
has about 20 monitors, each connected to a working NES.
Kids could come and demo a game to determine if they
wanted to buy it. They could also play games that were
not yet released (to promote the game and generate “word-of-mouth”
advertising. Sometimes the games were still in development,
and the guy behind the counter would be writing down
the comments of this unsuspecting focus group.
Usually,
whenever I had occasion to go to a mall, I stop in and
chat with kiosk clerk. Invariably, some kid would come
up and ask, “Hey, how do you get through such and such
level of this game over here. I can’t get past it.”
The clerks loved to handoff to me with, “Ask this guy
right here. He’s Captain Nintendo!” And then the clerk
would flash this Cheshire Cat grin my way. Of course,
the kid would become unglued and call his buddies over.
“No way!! You’re Captain Nintendo?! Guys!! Guys!!! This
is Captain Nintendo!!!” And suddenly, I was surrounded
by twelve-year-olds. “How do I get through Level 3 of
Ikari Warriors?” “Where’s your costume?” “Do you make
the games?” “Can you give me a free game?” “Can you
come to my school?” “Hey, fly.” “Yeah, fly. Could you
fly me around?” The clerks always thought this was soooo
funny. Especially when it would result in me not being
able to go anywhere in the mall without being followed
by this throng of relentless young Power Players. After
a while, I knew better than to get within 25 feet of
the kiosks. There was a short period of time when I
couldn’t walk into a mall without being approached by
at least one kid who had a question for the Captain
or wanted an autograph(!?). The first time that happened,
I about fell over. Actually, every time that happened,
I about fell over. And on those rare occasions when
it still happens, I’m still floored. But I always complied.
I even finally designed an 8” x 10” full color page
with a “message from the Captain,” complete with autograph
and suitable for framing. The last time I gave it out
was just short time back when a young man (about 24
and working as an I.T. recruiter) asked me for one.
He later told me he framed it and it sits on his desk
at work. Even someone as cynical as I am can’t help
but be gratified by that.
So
between the letters at the office and the incidents
with kiosks, I conceded with resigned acceptance that
I was Captain Nintendo—whatever that really meant. Around
this time, I got a call from Mom. My mom. She related
a story about talking to an acquaintance of hers who
had a grandson that was battling terminal cancer; a
brave little kid of about 8 or 9 facing stuff that nobody
should have to face. Mom said the lady asked about me
and what I was doing in Seattle. When Mom told her about
my association with Nintendo, the lady excitedly related
how playing Nintendo was the only thing that made her
grandson feel better when he has to go through a round
of chemo. For those of you lucky enough not to know,
chemo treatments cause severe vomiting and nausea, and
generally make you feel extremely miserable. The lady
asked Mom if I would mind writing to her grandson. She
thought a letter from Captain Nintendo would be like
a shot in the arm for him. Now, Mom has never been shy
about volunteering me for anything, but she knew, of
course, that I’d write to this kid in a heartbeat and
assured the lady of that.
So,
Mom called me and told me the whole story and gave me
his contact information. Now, cancer runs rampant on
both sides of my family and we’ve lost a large number
of loved ones to it, so I’m especially sensitive to
anyone going through it. Still, this was not the kind
of letter I was used to. I decided the best approach
was to be upbeat and talk about what he was most interested
in: Nintendo. I wrote the boy a nice letter explaining
that we’d heard about his prowess as a Power Player
and that we were duly impressed with his skill and his
fortitude, and, as such, to please accept the enclosed
gift. And I sent him this oversized T-shirt with what
was essentially a “class picture” of the all the characters
from the Super Mario Brothers game with the words, “Super
Mario University,” above the artwork (This was a prototype
that a prospective manufacturer had sent us, along with
a few other items, to review for confirmation). I figured
the boy could wear it like a hospital gown and it would
look way cooler. And I signed the letter, “from your
buddy, Captain Nintendo.”
Most
of the reports I was to get on this kid came from his
grandmother via my Mom. You get how this grapevine works.
They said he indeed wore it like a hospital gown when
he had to make lengthy visits to the hospital, telling
all the nurses, “My buddy Captain Nintendo gave me this
shirt.” The nurses, of course, were duly impressed.
And then, he refused to take it off. For weeks. They
finally got him to agree to take it off long enough
to let them wash it and then he could put it right back
on.
Within
just a few weeks of this, the boy’s grandmother called
me directly. She said she’d been searching all over
for this one game that the boy had been wanting, but
she couldn’t find it anywhere: Super Mario 2. She described
how it had been “advertised forever, but it was nowhere
to be found.” She said that if I would send her one,
she’d be happy to pay for it.
Well, while there had not been any real “advertising,”
the game HAD been heavily pre-promoted in anticipation
of a blockbuster release. Unfortunately, the game’s
American release had been delayed several times, so,
by now, most Power Player were salivating heavily waiting
for the game while it was being “tweaked” for the American
audience (The game had been release in Japan for some
time, but the games are almost always altered for the
American market. I’ll explain about that later on. Trust
me, you’ll be very upset when you find out the reason.)
So, I explained all this to her and assured her that
“they are telling us now that Nintendo is planning to
release it by next summer.”
She
got a little quiet and said, “But the doctors are telling
us he isn’t going to make it to next summer. This game
is all he talks about and I just want to get it for
him for what will probably be his last Christmas. I
don’t care if it’s tweaked or not. Don’t you have an
American version of the Japanese version. I’ll take
that.”
I
told her that all we had were the copies that were in
development that had been translated and were virtually
finished, but had not been completely altered for the
American market.
“That’s
great! I’ll take one of those,” she exclaimed.
“Well,
ma’am, I can’t just sell those. They’re the development
copies. We’re using them and they are still highly confidential.
They don’t even have labels yet.”
“Oh,
I don’t care about that. Please can’t you send me one.
I’ll pay for it.”
Bless
her heart. She had no idea what she was asking. This
was the most coveted--most anticipated--software maybe
ever to that point. It was months before it was to be
released and it was more closely guarded than the codes
to NORAD. And she wanted a copy. Understandably, she
wanted a copy. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I
said,
“I’ll
see what I can do. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll
see what I can do.”
Okay,
I do know what possessed me. I always believe there
are possibilities. Somewhere in the back of my head,
I always believe there is a way.
Well,
in the front of my head, I knew it was hopeless. I’d
played the game several times, and it WAS complete as
far as that goes. Management still wanted to alter the
difficulty level on it though. But the game was playable---if
I could convince Management that they should cough up
a copy for this kid. Like I said, I knew it was hopeless.
But I am Captain Nintendo, after all. We superheroes
eat hopeless situations for breakfast. Still, Mother
Brain is a cakewalk compared to Japanese management.
This was my greatest challenge.
I
decided to follow the chain of command (at least, at
first) and conveyed the dilemma to my supervisor. He
was moderately sympathetic and said he would talk to
Management, but not to expect anything. A couple of
days later, he told me that Management had been sympathetic,
but couldn’t release the game out into the public, but
would be happy to give him a complementary copy when
it was released next spring or early summer. I thanked
the supervisor for his efforts and nodded resignation.
However, I was not finished. I was on a mission. And
I had an idea.
I
approached Management myself and explained that I’d
played the game and my evaluation was that it was ready
for release. To my surprise, they agreed. I asked why
we were holding up the release until next spring or
summer. They said it had to do with “positioning.” As
near as I could discern (remember, they were Japanese.
Their English was much better than my Japanese, but
there was still a bit of a language barrier), they didn’t
want to release it prior to Christmas for fear of saturating
their own market and eclipsing sales of games that would
otherwise be dedicated for the Christmas dollar. That
was actually reasonable and even good business. But
it was also completely irrelevant to one little boy.
I
explained again about the little boy with the terminal
illness who wanted nothing more than to play their game
that they’d spent several months pre-promoting. Again,
they said, “No.” They were thinking with their business
brains and not their hearts. To be fair, a lot of people
depended on them thinking with their business brains.
Well, I had a business brain, too. But, my superpower
was the ability to tell a story. So I told them a story—created
by my business brain. A story they would understand.
“Suppose,
as you say, we don’t allow this kid to play the game.
Then, he dies. And next summer we release the game.
And all goes according to your plan.” They nodded, following
along. “Then, suppose, the press finds out that we denied
this poor little child his last desire, his dying wish:
to play a game that you’ve promoted for months, but
refused him, denied him the opportunity to play EVEN
ONE TIME before he died. Now we already have huge PR
problems with parents mad at us because we’ve got their
kids addicted to video games and they won’t do their
homework or their chores. But, you will have a public
relations Armageddon from which you will NEVER recover.
If just one reporter from the newspaper, or WORSE, television,
discovers that you denied this little boy his deathbed
wish, you will have lost so much face, you may as well
back it all up and go back to Japan in disgrace. Because,
I promise you, THAT is what Nintendo will be remembered
for.”
The
office got really quiet. One of the three gentlemen
I was addressing had the presence of mind to ask how
the press could ever possibly find out.
I
looked right through them and replied, “Oh, you never
know how they find out those things, but they always
do. It might be that the boy’s mother’s grief might
turn to anger because we denied her son his last request.
It might be from someone who just casually knew the
boy and found themselves in front of a camera or talking
to a reporter. It might be from people in the town who
didn’t even know him, but just heard the rumor that
‘mighty Nintendo refused this poor little sick child
one last chance to play their game.’” And then I paused
to underline what I was about to say. “Or. It might
be someone from right here at Nintendo who wanted to
disassociate himself from those that made such a heartless
decision.”
Then,
it got reeeeally quiet. I knew that they could fire
me, but I also knew that they knew that, after what
I just told them, it wouldn’t be in their best interest
to do that. As is proper when dealing with Japanese
management, I respectfully and politely thanked them
for their time and told them I was confident that they
would continue to make wise business decisions that
would keep Nintendo on its current prosperous path.
That
afternoon, my supervisor informed me that, to his surprise,
Management had said they would make a few copies of
the game available in a limited release for the employees
and that one would be available for me to send to the
little boy. Well, in truth, there were very few copies
released, but I DID get one and sent it to the kid,
along with a letter explaining “that we, at Nintendo,
continue to hear of your brave exploits and your renowned
prowess as a Power Player. We therefore hereby induct
you as the charter member of the Power Player Hall of
Fame. As such, please accept this original copy of Super
Mario 2. On behalf of your grandma and your buddy, Captain
Nintendo.” I thought it was important that Grandma get
credit.
The
words may not be identical, but it was very close to
that. It HAS been 15 years or more. Not that it matters
now, but there was no such thing as the Power Player
Hall of Fame. I just made it up. And it sounded good.
And, hey, if Captain Nintendo can’t create a Power Player
Hall of Fame, who can? I understand he got it time for
Christmas. You know what? It really is better to give
than to receive. I think this was my best Christmas
ever.
They
said he just went bananas. He was sooo happy. He polished
it off in the first few days. Then he played it again.
And again. He played it day and night. And became something
of an instant celebrity. Somehow word got around that
this little boy had a copy of SMB2! People he didn’t
even know flew from across the country to visit him
in the hospital and watch him play the game.
Around
this time, I decided to call him. Just to chat for a
few minutes so he knew that there was an honest-to-gosh
real-live flesh-and-blood Captain Nintendo. But I figured
just a few minutes. It was, after all, long distance.
And my dime since I was calling from my house—and I
worked for Nintendo, remember, and couldn’t afford large
phone bills. It was one of his good days and he sounded
somewhat energetic when he found out who he was talking
to (It took him a few minutes to be convinced). I shot
the breeze for a few minutes and asked how he was feeling
and about any new games he’d conquered, etc. As I began
to wrap it up, he said, “Well, waitaminute, can I ask
you a question?” “Sure,” I said. “Okay, how do get past
that guy by the gate in Ikari Warriors?” I explained
as best as my memory from my few days as a Game Counselor
would serve me. Then, I tried to wrap up again.
“Well,
it was good to talk to you, son. You take care and…”
“Waitaminute!
Waitaminute! Captain?”
“Yeah?”
“Okay.
Um, can I ask you another question?”
“You
bet. Shoot”
“Okay.
You know in Deadly Towers when you go in that one room…..”
And
it went that way for the next 2 hours and twelve minutes.
I’d try to gracefully exit and he had one more question
that I really didn’t know the answer to, but tried my
best to sound authoritative in answering. You don’t
want to know how much that phone call cost me. It was
a lot of money for me at the time. And it was absolutely
the best money I’ve ever spent. This kid believed. Completely.
And whatever was to happen to him, I could tell that
his belief was a good thing.
Then
in February or March, he went into what I think they
called a conditional remission. That might not be the
correct term. I’m not a medical expert, but the upshot
of it was that, as long as he continued to get the chemo,
the cancer was not progressing. It had halted. Somewhat
mysteriously, too.
And
then, the following August, if I’ve got the dates right,
he went into a full remission, meaning the cancer was
gone and he no longer required the chemo! They said
if he didn’t have a relapse in the next five years,
he likely wouldn’t ever have a relapse. The doctors
also said that they have no explanation as to why the
situation reversed. I was told that they said they’d
given up hope and truly expected that he’d expire by
summer, maybe even Christmas. Their explanation: “His
immune system kicked in and overpowered the cancer.
We really don’t know why. Nothing was working. The only
thing that seemed to turn him around was this Nintendo
stuff.”
Now,
I want you to know why I told you this story. A couple
of reasons really. It has a happy ending first of all.
And I like the irony. I always wanted to a superhero
with a superpower and save a life. It didn’t happen
quite the way I wanted it to when I was a little kid,
but I’ll take it. But I’m also realistic. While the
family would and has granted me a lot of credit, my
participation in this boy’s recovery was really minimal.
Credit where credit is due. This courageous little boy
is the real hero here. Make no mistake. He fought long
and hard and endured much and he EARNED his recovery.
That victory is his. This kid was the dynamite. I was
just a small spark that may have lit his fuse. Nevertheless,
if I had even a small part in contributing to his victory,
then everything I ever endured with regard to Captain
Nintendo, every loss, every theft, every argument with
the dragon—all of it--was well worth it a thousand times
over.
The
last time my family heard from his grandma, he was a
healthy young man with a full head of hair who was working
at the summer camp for terminally ill kids that he used
to attend as a camper. Now in his twenties, I’m sure
he doesn’t believe in Captain Nintendo anymore. But
he did once…and that’s all that matters.
These
days, I’ve managed to drop the Nintendo part of the
nickname, but, occasionally, I’ll get asked why I still
allow people to call me “Captain” after so much time
has past. Now, you know.
Next chapter: New Worlds to Conquer
and a New Superpower!
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