Disk 4 · c. 1992 · age about 8
Track & Field
Three of us round the telly, Track & Field off the front of a magazine, and a joystick that didn't make it to teatime.
Saturday afternoon, about 1992. Curtains shut in broad daylight so the telly didn't glare, and the three of us on beanbags on the floor, as close as Mum allowed. The computer sat on the carpet, because the telly had the only table.
The game was Track & Field, on a disk taped to the front of a magazine with more sellotape than anyone needed. I peeled it off one corner at a time, because you don't rush a floppy, and put it in. The drive ground away like it was chewing something while my brother told everyone not to touch anything.
First up was the hundred metres, powered by nothing but how fast you could waggle a joystick left and right. My brother said this was nothing, and to wait till the hurdles. Track & Field went through joysticks faster than anything we ever owned, and it was only getting started.
Youngest went first, so that was me. My sister said it was just left, right, left, right. My brother said it wasn't. My brother also kept a wooden ruler down the back of the sofa, and if you wedged it under the stick and twanged it, no thumbs alive could keep up. Times set with the ruler went down with a star, and everyone knew what the star meant.
Then he took his go, the way he always did: too hard. The handle came off in his hand. He said it was like that when he got it. That was joystick number four, and Mum said it was the last one she was buying.
It wasn't. In our house, joysticks didn't wear out. They died sprinting.
