There is a moment in parenthood when your child discovers you are not infallible, that you can be beaten. The first time a kid wins a game of tennis against their mum or dad, or solves a maths problem their parents can’t even begin to understand, it is profoundly bittersweet. While it is wonderful to see your child growing up and becoming independent, when they get good at things, they are a little bit less yours, and you are a little bit less heroic. It is sometimes hard to be the grownup in that situation and not deal with it childishly. I discovered this on Saturday when my eldest son and I were playing Apex Legends.
My wife had taken our younger son to Jersey for the weekend to see her sister, and I thought it would be a treat to hunker down with our first born and spend a few hours fighting against strangers together in the battle royale shooter game of the moment. Players are automatically put into online groups of three, so we set up two TVs and two consoles so we could compete together in the same squad. My son and I have not played together much since the days of our epic Minecraft sessions or when we’d spend hours battling through every one of the Lego action adventures, dividing up the puzzles between us. That was when he was eight or nine. He’s 13 now, and plays with with friends he meets online. I hear them from the other room, sharing jokes and trash-talking through their headsets.
My son is better than me at Apex Legends, a game that demands excellent hand-eye coordination and accuracy. Every encounter is super-fast and deadly. I know what I need to do – I grew up playing Doom and Quake Arena, so I know how to approach enemies – and I know the right techniques, but my reactions just aren’t fast enough. One game in and my son is already trying to explain how to play. “I know,” I tell him, “I’ve been playing these games since before you were born!” But while I’m expounding on the history and lineage of the first-person shooter game, I’ve been downed again.
By the third match, he’s getting restless. He is not giving me instructions any more, and when we start the game and fly on to the map, he’s separating from me while still in mid-air. I’m a liability. It is strange, that realisation that your children are utterly distinct from you. I got a similar feeling when my sons first went into town without us, and my wife and I spotted them later on from the car, just strolling along, living a part of their lives away from us.
I often cringe inwardly when I hear my sons talk about games with their friends; the way they glorify their own actions and dismiss others as “noobs”, “try-hards” or “hackers”. But what annoys me isn’t their inflated bravado and confidence in their own abilities, it’s that these conversations are happening without me. Their heroes are the YouTubers and Twitch streamers who discover glitches in games, or unlock the best gear first, or figure out what the big reveal will be in the next Fortnite season. As a games writer, It’s my job to know at least some of this. Who knows how other mums and dads cope.
I thought about trying to get my son to play Portal 2 with me instead of Apex Legends. This classic sci-fi puzzle game relies on mental dexterity and advanced planning skills – the stuff I’m still better at than he is. But that is sort of pathetic.
On Sundays when I was a kid, my dad and I would to take a football to the park to play penalties. He’d put the ball down on the spot and shoot, and I’d have to try to save one, and then I’d get a go as striker. One time, I saved every shot he played. I knew at the end he was really trying to score, but the goals in the park were quite small, and I was a tall kid. I stopped them all. On the way home, Dad was quiet, and I remember thinking something big had happened. Without really understanding why, I found myself regretting not letting that last shot go in.
I wonder if my son was thinking that when he fired me from his Apex Legends squad. If he was, he certainly kept it to himself. “Can I play with my friends again now?” he asked sheepishly. I said yes, and left them to it. Barely seconds later, I could hear them all laughing together as though nothing momentous had happened.
