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My dad used to own a pizzeria. He named it Charbelino's Pizzeria, he says, because he wanted it to sound Italian. As it happens, the place did a pretty brisk business. I think it had less to do with the name than it did with the "Donkey Kong Jr." and "Ms. Pac Man" machines in the front of the store.

I fell in love with those things. After finishing off a medium pepperoni-and-mushroom pie, Mom, Dad or one of my uncles (there's about 50 of them) would crack open the machines, empty out the quarters and tap in a few dozen credits for me. I'd play for hours, moving Kong up, down and across those vines, trying to save Junior from the evil Mario. (This was before the mustached plumber spawned major video games of his own.) And who didn't relish herding all those Pac-ghosts together before grabbing one of those magic blocks and chomping them all to bits?

Now, looking back, I wasn't very talented at either game. The same lack of hand-eye coordination doomed my budding baseball career later on in life. Blind optimism and dogged persistance kept me plugging at both for years. Genetic limitations made sure neither pursuit amounted to more than a part-time fixation. It's interesting how that doesn't matter for much when you're a kid, so long as you're having a good time.

But, just when trips to the local arcade were becoming as common as trips to the basketball court, Nintendo and Sega began the home video game wars of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The reincarnated Mario, his not-quite-as-cool brother Luigi and all the rest invaded our bedrooms practically overnight. Suddenly, spending hours on end guiding Link in search of the triforce and Princess Zelda, there wasn't any time to head out to the arcade anymore.

For most guys, a little game by the name of "Mortal Kombat" ended the arcade isolation. I saw that skinny red machine in the game room of my local bowling alley, during middle school. The first thing I noticed was how real all the characters looked on the screen. The second thing I noticed was how deliciously real the fatality moves were. Something about a masked ninja incinerating his opponent by blowing fire from underneath his hood must've really hit close to home.

Or maybe I just wanted to try it on my algebra teacher.

Either way, it had me bringing a sack of quarters back to the arcades every week, in the vain hopes of taking over the machine and defeating all comers. I tried out a few other games, even figured out I had a knack for pinball, but remained attached to the MK series, even as several sequels failed to duplicate the original's success.

My biggest beef with the later games was how hard they'd made it just to kill your opponent. The special moves each character possessed had just become too complicated and too numerous. It was a shame. Within a year or two, I was saving my quarters all over again.

Someone, a socialist, I think, once attempted to convince me of how evil games like Mortal Kombat were just for their depiction of almost-cartoonish violence. (I suppose the "almost" part was what made it an issue.) I can't help but disagree. A little violence in video games isn't such a bad thing, I think. It's a good outlet for frustrated young people. Think about what happens otherwise. When I heard they found an American among the Taliban prisoners at Qalai Janghi, I nearly fell off of my chair. I guaran-damn-tee you that guy's parents didn't let him play Street Fighter 2.

It's funny. Looking back on pieces about the Transformers, Magic: The Gathering and now this, I wonder if perhaps this Man in Amsterdam is dwelling too much on his youth. Are 21-year-olds allowed to feel nostalgic?

Seeing how far advanced these new home gaming consoles are from the Nintendo of the mid-Eighties, I wonder what sorts of games they'll play in a few decades. I'll probably care not so much as my kids will. Maybe I'll buy a pizzeria, just so I can get a few games along with it.

I'll name it "Kong's."

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