Virtual athletics

Most sports don't have that incessantly cheerful music in the background during the throes of a close game.

But partners can still run into each other, the f-bomb gets dropped, and players toss their arms up in disgust or cheer after a particularly clutch manuever.

The thrill. The agony. The sweat...of virtual sports.

Because it's true. There's an adrenaline rush to swinging the bat, charging towards the end zone, or watching to see if your ball lands on the fairway, even if you're only participating in an animation.

Granted, it's a little bit weird when grown men get into heated debates about fantasy baseball leagues (a la Knocked Up). Weirder still is that a game which isn't, well, tangible can provoke such strong emotions.

Confession: I find Mario Tennis to be both absurd and addicting. The players on the screen do not in any manner represent actual tennis players. I often accuse the controller of preventing me from doing what I meant to do (like hit the ball over the net).

But we operate in pairs while it rains outside or the rest of the world is too cool or too boring for us. Usually someone is a new player. Their partner steps up as coach, giving a few brisk instructions while the game loads. The newby, nervous about stepping into this starting line-up, quickly confirms, "So I press A to hit, right?"

And the shenanigans begin.

The volley can last for minutes. "Nice!" one teammate says to another while the opponent's onscreen character collapses to his knees in frustration.

Inevitably, the mood will turn tense. One too many misses. One too many instances of a character accidentally spinning in circles instead of swinging at the ball. The nearly-obligatory "I thought you were going to get that," and thus both players stand still while the ball hits the court. The high-fives cease. Bad manuevers are acknowledged with a grunt.

There's no excuse of poor lighting or weather conditions. The crowd isn't too loud. Heck, the only thing you can really pick on is that god-awful tinkly music that's still playing. And maybe your partner's innate ability to consistently hit the ball out of bounds.

When the game ends, the same letdown exists as after a "real" game. You put down the controller and blink. Slowly you realize that the game is over. That there won't be a sports editorial in next week's paper discussing Shy Guy's tenacious aces. That there's still a weird smell coming from the kitchen, you still have work to do, and instead of running on the clay, you're on the same sagging couch.

But someone will say it. Your partner, the opposition, perhaps yourself. "Wanna play again?"

Controllers up. You almost reach for a Gatorade to refuel. Game on.