Glowing lights, ringing bells, vibrant artwork – pinball machines are a unique art form designed to draw the player to them like a moth to a flame and hopefully compel the would-be player to reach into their pocket for a coin.
Like rock and roll, pinball is a uniquely American product. Even today the vast majority of pinball machines are made in the USA and specifically in the greater Chicago region.
A pinball machine is a circus of sights, sound and action. The ball is wild but flippers and plunger hold the promise that the player can control the beast but in the end the game, like a bucking bronco, always wins.
“Just one more game” is the feeling after being beaten by this mechanical foe. Sometimes the table works against the player with wild bounces into the out-lanes or cruelly sending the ball straight down the middle between flippers that hopelessly flap impotently against the very forces of gravity and tragetory.
A player may seek to settle the score with nudges and bumps but pinball machine may fight back against unwanted advances with a TILT!
Flashing lights, steel ball careening at lightning speed between jet bumpers, wild bounces off slingshots, the perfect shot off a flipper to hit that last drop target needed for a jackpot, bonus multipliers racking up with each lane completed, pinball is addictive as much as it is beautiful.
Gleaming shiny silver balls, car finish clear coats, lights shining through colorful plastic, bold artwork on the flashing backglass, pinball is a feast for the eyes as well as the ears. And to top off the clamorous cacophony of sound, gameplay that demands complete concentration and quick reactions.
On a good ball, the player mind-melds with the machine, working in concert to will the ball to its desired path to score points and complete tasks. On a bad ball, the machine turns cruel and punishes the player with “bricks” and errant bounces design to return the ball back to its drain as soon as possible.
Yet somehow the power of the pinball machine coaxes the player back to play again and again.
My Dad's Old Pinball Machine For several years, I was the life of the party. Friends and family played me daily, especially the youngest son. He knew how to use my flippers, to keep the ball alive for hours at a time. My lights were flashing, my bells were ringing, my targets were taken down, The scores were soaring, the excitement was palpable, and I knew he understood me. Pinball is more than a game, and Dex knew it. He felt it. He felt my responses and we grew together as a team. There were other players who could play well enough, but they were talking to each other, drinking their drinks, and they seemed to treat me as a machine, a toy. But young Dex knew from the start there was more to Pinball. The sounds, the lights, the scores, the spring-loaded ball returns... these were just the surface features. The communion we felt made us emerge as something greater. The best musicians must feel something similar with their instruments. The best artists, with their canvas or clay. But the excitement we shared made us both feel alive. His chores had to be done, and his homework, but he never missed an afternoon for years. When he left for college, his father moved me into the basement. Everyone else had long tired of me, never realizing the depth of the possibilities. Dex said goodbye to me, and promised he'd be back someday. Four years later... The basement light came on, and I can't believe who's back! Dex! "Oh my friend-- they've really let you go!" Dex couldn't believe the dust buildup, and the stack of junk on top of my glass. He cleaned me thoroughly, and straightened out a little corner of the basement just for me. He put a rug down, and some posters from long ago. He put more lights in, including some colored lights to help create the old atmosphere. When he plugged me in, we both felt the old spark. The first ball was quickly lost, but after shaking off some rust of his own, he was back to the pinball wizard I had always known. He even had some new tricks, and we played well into the night. We were both lit up like Christmas trees, and the rhythm of the ball being flipped felt like the heartbeat for which I had longed. Three days of glory were followed by the inevitable. Dex would have to leave. "I'll be right back!" An idea seemed to flash through Dex's mind. He soon came back down with his college roommate, and I couldn't believe my sensors. "You're coming with us! We have room in our apartment for you and you will be loved and played every day! I guess Dad couldn't see you rusting down here, and he knows how well we jam!" Dex now keeps me nearby, clean, and active. The apartment is retro, so Dex and I feel right at home at last. And the co-eds bouncing against me as they try to bump the ball further is better than I ever imagined. Dex is scoring points on my digit counter, and will always have the high score in my friendship. AlaskaMoleman