The match

He's ranked number 11 today. 76 points to his name, multiple victories collected. He's been playing for a while, taking on each team as they come.

The other player occupies the 221st spot on the leaderboard, and he only ranks ahead of a couple of other saps by virtue of default. His first two matches after months of inactivity have netted him four points, managing two goals in two defeats.

The two will play each other in a match of soccer. The first is heavily favoured in what should be a no-contest. His opponent is unprepared. His opponent is without a strategy. His opponent is without a prayer. His opponent is me.

The best of three series begins, and I see what I'd observed countless times over my playing career. The same opposing team members. The same cheap hits. The same overused tactics. For my players, the opponents appear to be competing in double speed. The opportunities we have with the ball are far and few between, and somehow we always end up playing right into the enemy's clutches. We madly pass the ball between one another, each terrified of what would happen should we hold onto it for too long. Any hapless soul adorned in our team's symbolic red is liable to get assaulted at any moment. A punch in the back of the head here, a cruel tackle into the unforgiving fence there. Often, we are hit even when the ball isn't on us, a foul violation that we've gotten all too used to.

Our passes are constantly intercepted, and when the ball is being carried by the opponents, a pitiful game of pursuit begins. We dash about after them, but somehow they know our exact moment of arrival, and pass it on. Each attempt to strip the ball is evaded, leaving us sprawled in the opponent's tracks. The ball whizzes between their players like a pinball machine, or soaring over our heads like we were children who'd had our bags stolen by the schoolyard bully.

Our goalie doesn't stand a chance. Balls fly past him as though on fire, and at times it seems like he's defending against a barrage of six balls at once. He wouldn't be surprised if, thinking himself in perfect position to block a shot, the oncoming opponent were to clutch the ball between their feet and, with a wicked grin, leap into the air and glide right over his head, landing behind him for an easy goal.

We've become quite familiar with the members of the enemy squad. They've been on many teams just like this one, with the same cheap stunts and dirty tricks. We see these plays develop and we know exactly what they're going to do, but we are powerless to stop them.

We fall, 5-1 in the first match, and bravely take our medicine to appear, as a token gesture, in the following 4-0 beating.

In frustration and utter disgust, I take a deep sigh and end it all.

Everything goes dark.

After a moment, I stand up, and vow not to play Mario Strikers online for another couple of months. From his part of the country, the rival player will not be going out tonight with his gorgeous and wonderful girlfriend to party with friends, because he is without the former, and the small number that make up the latter will be doing just the same as him. He will play on into the night, amassing hundreds of points in a video game as though it meant something, his one escape from the real world, where he is pale, feeble, miserable and socially retarded.

He will dominate the world of online gaming, while his opponent will continue to succeed at life. His opponent is popular. His opponent is attractive. His opponent is healthy. His opponent is me.