Dancing to a revolutionary rhythm
Practice Makes Perfect
Remember those kids at the movie theater arcades in middle school? The ones who had synchronized, mastered, flawless Dance Dance Revolution routines? And you would watch them, thinking, "Where are these kids going to be in five years?"
Rest assured, they did make it out of the movie theater, but they're still stomping away on the DDR mat. In fact, they're right here on campus! Introducing the Johns Hopkins Dance Dance Revolution Club:
I'm just going to be honest about it all. Tuesday night, I went to the DDR practice. Go on, feel good about yourself and how you were at some hip bar, or how you were at a swanky jazz concert, or how you were in D.C. for the night. Maybe my confession makes you proud you were at the Den. Maybe you're even a little more comfortable knowing you were in the library. I would like to tell all to take your fancy drinks, your worldly adventures, your books and your popularity ... and throw them all aside, like I did, and embrace the inner nerdy-ness at the core of every person on this campus.
"Sometimes DDR gets a bad rep as a 'nerdy thing to do,'" DDR club president Jeffry Orthober said. In my career as a sports journalist, I've never been surer of a quote's authenticity.
Nor have I been more unsure of myself in my surroundings. The setting was unfamiliar; this wasn't the rec center, it wasn't Homewood Field. However, this doesn't mean that its inhabitants lack the vigor of a collegiate athlete. I have to say I was impressed, honestly. These young men (and woman) have talent.
Maybe it was the blinking lights, maybe it was the techno rhythms or maybe someone had slipped something in my caffeine-free soda, but I was completely mesmerized by the feet, flying perfectly in tune, on target with each flashing arrow in flawless rhythm. The athletes' moves had an air of effortlessness and nonchalance. It was like they were born to dance.
Unlike other sports practices I've attended, this one had no clear stages (other than the DDR machine, of course). There was no warm-up or water break. There was no coach. Basically, it was 12 people who spent two hours devoted entirely to video games.
Rest assured, they did make it out of the movie theater, but they're still stomping away on the DDR mat. In fact, they're right here on campus! Introducing the Johns Hopkins Dance Dance Revolution Club:
I'm just going to be honest about it all. Tuesday night, I went to the DDR practice. Go on, feel good about yourself and how you were at some hip bar, or how you were at a swanky jazz concert, or how you were in D.C. for the night. Maybe my confession makes you proud you were at the Den. Maybe you're even a little more comfortable knowing you were in the library. I would like to tell all to take your fancy drinks, your worldly adventures, your books and your popularity ... and throw them all aside, like I did, and embrace the inner nerdy-ness at the core of every person on this campus.
"Sometimes DDR gets a bad rep as a 'nerdy thing to do,'" DDR club president Jeffry Orthober said. In my career as a sports journalist, I've never been surer of a quote's authenticity.
Nor have I been more unsure of myself in my surroundings. The setting was unfamiliar; this wasn't the rec center, it wasn't Homewood Field. However, this doesn't mean that its inhabitants lack the vigor of a collegiate athlete. I have to say I was impressed, honestly. These young men (and woman) have talent.
Maybe it was the blinking lights, maybe it was the techno rhythms or maybe someone had slipped something in my caffeine-free soda, but I was completely mesmerized by the feet, flying perfectly in tune, on target with each flashing arrow in flawless rhythm. The athletes' moves had an air of effortlessness and nonchalance. It was like they were born to dance.
Unlike other sports practices I've attended, this one had no clear stages (other than the DDR machine, of course). There was no warm-up or water break. There was no coach. Basically, it was 12 people who spent two hours devoted entirely to video games.
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