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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 World to Conquer
and a New Superpower!
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