The year was 1987, and the Nintendo Entertainment System was all I thought about.
The Japanese video game console was king of the universe, and I wanted one.
I was 11 years old and my life sucked in the ways that every 11 year old’s life sucks. Adolescence was knocking, I was short, and I hated where I lived.
Two years ago, we’d moved to Texas from Monroe, Louisiana — leaving behind everyone we knew to settle in a big, unfamiliar place.
Moving day was searing. A giant blue Atlas Van Lines truck sat outside our house as men loaded up our family’s possessions. Grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins cried in our driveway. I thought I was saying goodbye to my friends forever (and, in an era before social media, I wasn’t too far off).
As we drove the endless seven hours to Wichita Falls, “We Are the World” played relentlessly on the radio. The summer sun blazed through the window of our Oldsmobile Delta 88 as I read Spider-Man and Punisher comics.
We had a hard time in Texas. Wichita Falls was a bit remote, even by Texas standards, and my parents didn’t feel welcome. They began saying that they’d made a mistake.
I took refuge in my books and TV. Never the most outgoing kid, I felt out of place at school. I’d sit by myself at lunch and put my head down after eating. My teacher called my parents.
I wasn’t opposed to having friends. But even back then, I wasn’t great at small talk.
One thing every kid could agree on, though, was Nintendo. And our consensus was that it ruled.
The Nintendo Entertainment System had emerged from the ashes of the video game industry’s collapse to win the hearts and minds of kids around the world. That was thanks to new games like Super Mario Bros. — which came included with the NES, I made sure to tell my parents, as I lobbied for one.
It’s hard to explain if you weren’t around back then, but the NES’s 8-bit graphics were unbelievable. Gone were the days of the Atari 2600 and the Intellivision with their blocky visuals and plodding controls. You could see Mario’s mustache and suspenders, not just imagine them from the box art. His jumps were crisp and responsive. When he ate a mushroom, he grew. The worlds exploded with color and possibility.
The NES wasn’t just a video game console; it was a shimmering portal into worlds where plumbers saved princesses, ducks were hunted (with a gun that worked on TV!), and space bounty hunters battled alien hordes. This wasn’t just tech — it was magic.
And at that point in my life, I needed some magic.
My Trapper Keeper was full of Nintendo drawings, of the logo, of Mario, of the console itself. At school, I overheard kids trading tips and secrets, like where to get the magic flute in Legend of Zelda, or where the high-jump boots were in Metroid, or why the last boss in Castlevania was completely bullshit and unfair.
I wanted in. I wanted “a Nintendo” (that’s what we called it back then) for Christmas.
But when you’re 11, you’re at the mercy of everything: parents, teachers, even TV schedules. (You missed Transformers? Try again next week.)
Most of all, in 1987, I was at the mercy of supply and demand.
Because every other kid in America wanted a Nintendo, too. As the fall dragged on, the NES was as elusive in Texas as snow in July. Every store in the state had sold out, at least in my mind. Every store in the universe was sold out, as far as I was concerned.
When you’re a kid, you hyperfocus on the things you want. I begged and pleaded with my parents, but there was only so much a pair of public school teachers could do.
Christmas approached nonetheless, apathetic toward my plight.
My parents tried to console me. We’d try again next year, they said. Maybe for my birthday, if there were any in stock. But it wasn’t happening this holiday.
I don’t remember how I took the news. Probably sadly. I likely tried to console myself with thoughts of next year, but that’s a million years away when you’re 11. I don’t know how far I worked through the stages of grief, but I’m sure there was plenty of grieving.
Then, finally, Christmas came.
My two younger sisters and I bounded into the living room, the girls far more excited than me.
What happened next would stay with me forever. Sitting there — unwrapped, in my memory — was a brand-new Nintendo Entertainment System.
It might as well have been levitating.
To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever been more shocked. How? How??
It was my grandmother, my parents explained. They told her the situation, and she made some calls to stores in Louisiana. Finally, she found one. My grandmother, who I’m sure had only the vaguest idea of what she was asking for, wondered if they could hold one for her.
They couldn’t. But she was undeterred. She raced to the store, bought it, and mailed it to Texas.
I was delirious, happier than I’d been in ages. Never before had I installed electronics so quickly. My sister and I played Super Mario Bros. all night, at least that’s how I remember it.
It felt like a movie. It still feels like a movie.
Back at school, I broke the news to my new friend (we’d been strategically placed next to each other by my teacher). He had one, too, and we spent the next few years endlessly playing games at each others’ houses — fostering a lifelong love of gaming in each of us.
All these years later, it’s still my favorite Christmas — the Christmas where I got exactly what I needed.