Stalking the wild game room

When my kegerator was empty and a grue had conspired with the McLaughlin Group to take over the only television set in my college, I got the urge for hunting. So I put on my fluorescent vest, slung a 12-gauge over my shoulder, and headed for the basement. There, cloistered in the sweltering jungle of plumbing and aimless hallways connecting all 12 colleges lies the most prized of all prey. There, camouflaged among sundry storage closets and broken furniture, dwells no everyday game. There, somewhere, dwells a well-stocked Game Room.

"Beware its toxic odor!" they said. "Beware its fiery breath! Beware its wily children!" But with half a kegerator in my belly and half the McLaughlin Group sloshing around my brain, I wasn't taking orders from anybody.

The first sighting: Davenport. Unfortunately for Daven-p-ers, the game had practically been hunted to extinction. All I found were a couple of pool tables and a foos-ball contraption. So I left: I don't kill sick animals.

Still, there was killing to be done, so I followed the underground labyrinth to Pierson. It seems Pierson and Davenport share more than faux-Georgian architecture. Their game rooms are identical. Pool and foos-ball. This hunt was going to be hard.

I ran over to Ezra Stiles. Surely there had to be something worth shooting there. However, my hopes were quashed again beneath pool tables and foos-ball. At one time these games must have been extremely popular. Of course, at one time, random public executions were also extremely popular. Unfortunately, these two times didn't coincide, so now we have foos-ball and pool in every college. The lone jewel in Stiles' inventory is a broken air hockey table. The McLaughlin Group was starting to seem more appealing.

Next stop, Morse. I'll skip the part about how they also have pool and foos-ball and how tragic it all is. Morse has working air-hockey. I was ready to bag the animal right there, when I discovered a flaw: the table doesn't work if it's not plugged in, and it can't be plugged in unless it's flush with a stereo that's locked to the wall. While it is possible to play air hockey if you stand carefully, it certainly isn't good for your posture. A hunter needs good posture, you know. So I left.

Trumbull's game room is almost unmentionable, since there's almost nothing there to mention. Evidently, someone considers "pool table" synonymous with "game room." This person, I am sure, is a proud graduate of Harvard University.

Saybrook's Game Room stinks in more ways than one. Donning a gas mask, I sauntered over to Mortal Kombat, a worthy Game. Unfortunately, I did not have the four bits required for Kombat, and instead engaged some of the smellier Saybrugians in Ultimate Fighting. I left without a kill.

Boiling over with testosterone, I fled to Bran-ford, and there found the Game Room, a Moby Dick among kelp. Four words set this animal apart: NBA Jams for free. I played three hours of God's gift to video games that night. Branford also boasts Galaga, a classic of the arcade, not to mention the requisite pool and foos-ball. And it doesn't even smell that bad.

The hunt was done. I had captured the beast. By the time I got home, the television was free of McLaughlin and my heart ached for the kill no longer.

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