Lee Trevino's Fighting Golf: A Requiem

This probably goes without saying, but just for the sake of posterity, for those future generations that happen upon this post devoid of context (yes, I am an optimist), allow me to set the stage: 2020 is exceptionally messed up. There's a pandemic, widespread civil unrest, constitutional crises, and just generally the ingredients for some fine dystopian fiction in the decades to come. However, the passage of time being what it is, this is this decade, and as such...I've been spending a lot of time indoors. And time indoors being what it is, I have found myself with the free time to both contemplate what I want to be doing and to make it happen. Thus, this article, touching upon a subject I have not dealt with in any significant way in several years: video production. And then, um, another subject.
Previously, I have addressed at length my history in public access television production, a fact which in and of itself dates me significantly. I mean, YouTube became a thing like five seconds after the last episode of Steel & Marsilio aired, but so it goes. In any case, that was quite some time ago, and despite my efforts to break into network television, I have been largely removed from any sort of video production for several years.

And then, COVID-19 hit.

It's a scientific fact that every generation has a psychological tendency to fancy itself the very last generation. At least I think I remember reading that somewhere. You know what I mean: we're all the apex of humanity, before the extinction sets in. Obviously that has never quite worked out for previous generations, but maybe this one has the golden ticket to eternity. Either way, this is the closest most of us have ever come to an actual apocalypse, even if I always assumed actual Armageddon would involve much less Netflix.

Regardless, this once-per-century pandemic has transformed life in 2020 into something quite different than we're used to. Society as a whole has been suddenly sheltering in place, working from home, and pushing disinfecting wipes manufacturers beyond capacity. Though admittedly things have been less different for me than most during all this (as a designated essential county employee, I'm still mostly working at an office), the dearth of outside entertainment and concern for my pulmonary/cardiovascular/neurological health has largely consigned me to home during my off hours. As such, I decided to take the opportunity to funnel some of this free time into a reprise of my video production endeavors. And, as it happened, I had the perfect idea for just such a video.

And then, I scrapped the video I had planned. 

Well, to be fair, I didn't exactly scrap it...it just ended up being too ambitious for my return to the form. It demanded more time, energy, and expertise than I was ready to invest at this stage. I needed a try-out, a relatively basic concept that I could turn around in a reasonable time while sharpening my production teeth. And I found it in the form of an analysis of a relatively obscure video game from the 80s: Lee Trevino's Fighting Golf. This game has always occupied a special place among my exceptionally porous childhood memories due to its bizarre, seemingly nonsensical title. Seriously, "Fighting Golf"? Every screenshot I had seen from Nintendo Power or Game Player's Guide to Nintendo Games seemed to disprove my assumed premise that in this video game, some of the 18 holes on this golf course would be in your torso. However, it seemed to me the best way to definitively determine this was thusly: purchase the video game, play it with the expectation that the golf contained therein will indeed be fighting, and record the results. With this objective in mind, I began the grand purchasing.

I would need, of course, a copy of Lee Trevino's Fighting Golf. Easy enough, and I had a working NES to play it on. I would also need to means to record my initial experience playing the game, so I sought out equipment that would enable me to play it through my PC while recording everything for later editing. I purchased the necessary items, as well as a microphone to record my eventual voice-over. The first one I got used off of eBay was great...until it stopped functioning the day after I plugged it in. I returned it and purchased a brand new one on Amazon. Despite allegedly qualifying for Prime, it took weeks to arrive, as I twiddled my proverbial thumbs and lamented plagueonomics. I did what I could in anticipation of the arrival of the mic, recording my initial playthrough and making the notes that would eventually form a loose script for the forthcoming video. I had no interest in emulating the angry, nit-picky styles of many internet critics, and sought a less derivative, narrative-driven style. Succeed or fail, I wanted this video to represent my voice, and mine alone.

The microphone arrived, and finally the endgame was in sight. I recorded my voice-over, re-learned the basics of Adobe Premiere, and picked up some new tricks on the way. The experience of editing the video was much smoother than I had anticipated, and before long, I was ready to unveil my masterpiece. I was confident that, with this video completed and in my belt, I was on the path to bigger and better successes, to reclaiming the future in entertainment I had always longed and labored for. Finally, with this video, I was course-correcting. Perhaps this pandemic, with all its horrors, had blessed me with this opportunity. And thusly, I present my video review of Lee Trevino's Fighting Golf.

This review is, more or less, exactly what I wanted it to be. Goofy, fun, inconsequential, a new paradigm for me to explore in terms of content creation. I was very happy with it, and sought to share it with my followers, friends and family. Though modest, it felt like a new chapter in my evolution, a rebirth of Joey Marsilio as an entertainer, such as it is. I felt hope and joy amidst the unarguably bleak backdrop of America in 2020. I prepared a social media ad campaign. I would hit this one hard, I told myself, and follow up with an even better video in the weeks thereafter, solidifying this new era of creative output. Maybe, just maybe, things were going to be alright.

And then, my mom died.

It was, as these things often are, sudden and unexpected. I had been with her the day before, driving her to the pharmacy to pick up her medication. She was in good spirits. For whatever reason, I had decided to listen to a playlist of 80s music on my iPod (I tend to listen to an iPod with an auxiliary cable in the car; I like to have a lot of music to choose from, and storing it on my phone takes up a prohibitive amount of memory. I would rather just have a dedicated device for it. There, now you know a lot more about me). We listened to Howard Jones, Human League, Kajagoogoo. We discussed how she hadn't heard some of the songs since the days in which I was still sporting Pampers. It was fun. Lighthearted. Unextraordinary.

"You should watch the YouTube video I just made," I said to her. "It's about an old golfing video game."

"Why would you make a video about that?" she said.

Good question. One to be answered upon viewing the video. I was certain she would enjoy it, or if she didn't, at least tell me what about it made her feel that way. I left her with a lightness in my heart, an eagerness to hear her opinion on my creation, even if I knew the subject matter did not necessarily interest her that much.

And then, I received the phone call.

I won't burden you with the details. Frankly, I couldn't even if I wanted to; the final cause of death hasn't even been determined yet at the time of this writing. Suffice it to say, the call was shattering in and of itself, to say nothing of the fact that I would have to inform my sister of what had happened. And suddenly, I found myself staring at a future that not only had darkened, but which was now devoid of possibilities. Certain projected outcomes, hopes and dreams, musings over lunch, were now completely eradicated, never to return.

 

For some people, their creativity thrives during periods of darkness and depression.

 

I am not one of those people.

 

It's been several weeks now, though it's all kind of a blur, between work and funeral planning and dealing with both the grieving of my remaining family and the sympathy of others. My goofy golf video game video (apologies to Lee Trevino; no disrespect intended) got lost in the shuffle in much the same way as my facial hair maintenance did. I didn't forget about it; I simply couldn't muster the energy to feign enthusiasm and write something funny about it. As you can probably tell by now, I really still can't.

In the midst of all this, though, I did receive some inspiration. Specifically, a few people sent me messages about how they had read and enjoyed my Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark post. This sort of positive feedback means the world to me; honestly, I mostly write as a passion project, expressing my thoughts and opinions on things that interest me with little thought of any tangible reward or compensation (unfortunately). As such, it always makes my day when someone reaches out to tell me that they enjoyed something I created. And in this particular scenario, it has given me the motivation to write this blog post and at least hype up my video a little bit. It's what my mom would have wanted, I think.

 

So here we are, as I attempt to approach some sense or normalcy and, hopefully, get a few more views for my Lee Trevino video. Thank you for reading/watching, and please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Of the video, at least...I already know that this post is pretty depressing. But I've got some ideas for future videos/blogs that I'm pretty excited to work on, and of course I'll have to come up with something for the Halloween season, so there are glimmers of light on the horizon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my goofy, fun, inconsequential foray into primitive sports games that sounds like fighting games. And, if you can, maybe call your mom or something.

Joey Marsilio is the author of the novel Henry Garrison: St. Dante's Savior and son of Kimberly Ann Marsilio.