Gnip Gnop and the lessons of history

History does repeat itself. One of Sydney's birthday presents was Gnip Gnop...a game that lives in familial infamy for me. You see, when I was five or six, I had the notorious reputation of being a really poor sport. An exceptionally sore loser. At the first sign of my imminent defeat, every board game usually endured my rage in the form of a fling across the room. If these moments were frozen in time, you'd probably see a hundred snapshots of me amidst a burst of airborne Monopoly money or Risk dice blurring from left to right -- two little hands and a red face assaulting Operation.

I'm not particularly proud of this legacy. Despite the repeated chidings that no one would ever want to play with me if I continued my ways, I'm pretty sure it took me two or three years to snap out of it.

One of the darker moments of my competitive Sith training involved Gnip Gnop. Parker Brothers first introduced this evil excuse for a "board game" back in the '70s. If you've never played it, the concept is simple. Two players oppose each other, armed with three neon ping pong balls and three large buttons, separated by three small rings and a plastic-domed sphere of torture. The objective is to maul your buttons as quickly as you can to catapult your three balls through the rings to your opponent's side before they do the same. What begins as a polite session of casual taps and "oohs" and "ahhs" rapidly devolves into a blur of sharp fists and slurred curses of "my buttons don't work" and "this game cheats!"

After losing for the umpteenth time to my brother nemesis, one day I simply snapped. I have a very vivid memory of stomping up the basement stairs, stalking Jeff with wrath in my heart and Gnip Gnop in my hands. Reaching the top of the stairs with the game extended high overhead, Jeff's eyes met mine. He sensed my sinister intent. "Don't do it," he cautioned. I had a moment of decision. I recall it distinctly. Eyes wide and wild, I surveyed the fork in the road at which I found myself.

I chose the low road. As in slow motion, Gnip Gnop left my hands, and slipped the surly bonds of Earth to touch the face of God. Splintering the game into dozens of pieces against the brick fireplace, narrowly missing my brother with the throw, I knew I had gone too far. Sunk too low.

I don't remember much after that. I'm sure the ensuing hours were filled with countless beatings at the hands of my brother, endless sobbing in my room (punctuated with several door slams), or both.

So, here's the point. Emelie had her first run-in with Gnip Gnop this morning.

I have recognized since she was about a year old that Emelie is genetically predisposed to follow her father into the dark side of the Force. Her perfectionist ways, fear of failure and kneejerk rage are all-too-recognizable to me. Just like Darth Vader should've never been presented with his first light saber, Emelie's hands should have never made contact with the three Gnip Gnop buttons. Let's just say her indoctrination was...painful.

But you see, I understand the Gnip Gnop pathos. I feel her pain. Gnip Gnop is like a metaphor for life encased in 40 cubic inches of plastic anguish. On one level, you see three big, harmless buttons and three round, colorful balls -- where's the possible harm in that, right? But soon, you feel like getting those balls through the hoops requires the physical and mental prowess required to split atoms. Not only are you confronted with the speed and accuracy of your own tortured blows, you need to cope with the galactic anti-matter of your opponent's orbs. Every action seems counteracted by equal and inordinately aggravating reaction. Soon, the sensation of your striking hands numbs to a mindless, soundless ache as you transcend place and time to find yourself in an obsidian little corner of your soul, deliberating if you should descend further into madness or seek out the enlightened path of calm and reason.

Fortunately, Emelie's first foray into Gnip Gnop world didn't result in broken pieces, limbs or spirits. After several moments of repose and reflection, and the all-too-familiar advice that "no one will want to play with you if you act like that", Emelie pulled it together. After she took me aside to convince me to play a different game with her, assuring me that she "had settled down now", I couldn't help but feel more deeply connected with my youngest daughter. I'm confident someday she'll come to terms with her inner demons, as I once did, and become at peace. There will always be the tension of perfectionism, but she will find solitude in the universe.

It just won't have three buttons and three ping pong balls at either end of it.