mlb2k10I have a problem with feeling proud of my video game accomplishments. I mean, unless you’re making money playing on the South Korean Starcraft circuit, how much credit can you take for getting to the end of Assassin’s Creed II or Grand Theft Auto IV? There is, of course, skill involved, but there are also many, many, many long hours of “practice,” and the guilt-ridden part of me constantly challenges with questions like, “Wouldn’t you be better off reading War and Peace?”

(To be fair, I only spend thirty minutes a day on the Xbox, maybe an hour if I’m really hooked on a game. That explains—okay, that and my lack of skill—why I sucked as an online teammate with games like Call of Duty. Just when my partners were tucked in for a 1:00 a.m. marathon, I’d give a yawn and choose to read a book instead.)

So I’ve been playing a lot of Major League Baseball 2k10 and it has been rough. Eleven games into the season and my St. Louis Cardinals only had two home runs, a handful of doubles, and one stolen base. I’d smash the ball again and again only to see the game switch to slo-mo as the opponent’s shortstop snared another one. I’d hit it to the gap and run it into the wall and end up with a single. I think I’ve gone an entire game without taking a ball, since the pitches flew at me so quickly that timing was all my hand-eye coordination could handle. It also reminded me what a game of details baseball is. Get a guy on 1st and 2nd with no outs, get caught in a rundown, and you might never get a scoring opportunity again. All the while the Mets are pulling double steals and safety squeezes against Yadier Molina!

Needles to say, I was quite proud of my 6-5 record. Sure, I’d never scored more than five runs, and most of my games were 3-2 pitchers’ duels, but the game was tough and I had a winning record. Then I looked at the settings and realized that they were set on Legend. Not Rookie, Pro, or All Star, but the highest possible setting. I dropped it down to Pro, got 17 hits, 11 runs, two home runs for Pulols, and my first grand slam. The ball looks like it’s hanging in midair while I’m batting, waiting for me to pick my spot.

What’s my point? Not sure, but it seems like there should be some life lesson there. Some kind of “Aim for the stars, kid, and you’ll reach the moon” palaver. Or maybe I’ve just realized that it was a lot more fun when I was cussing at the television and begging Skip Schumaker to return to second instead of running pointlessly into the tag at third.