UNBOXED with Doug Glanville

Game On: From Virtual to Reality

Looking back, I remember some fond moments from my time as a player. While I often joked about the downsides of being “famous,” for the most part, it was fun and came with some nice perks. And, occasionally, it led to moments so memorable that you could not script them if you tried.

One evening, during my time with the Phillies, I decided to visit Dave & Buster’s. I was in the dining area when I noticed a stand-up baseball game nearby. It brought back memories of the great video baseball games from my youth—Star League Baseball, Earl Weaver Baseball, SSK, Hardball!. The list was long, and I think I tried every single one, even the sit-down one where you rolled the ball to control the action.

That evening, the game was World Series 99 Baseball by Sega. Or at least, that is what the cabinet read from afar. As I got closer, I realized this game featured what some gaming companies were doing with our 3D scanned heads from Spring Training. The game looked fairly realistic, but the real kicker was that our faces were mapped onto the avatar bodies.

I crept up behind two teenage players who were fully engrossed in the game. They had a clear rivalry going which was fitting for the time—around 2000—one was playing as the Mets and the other as the Phillies.

I arrived just as my avatar for the Phillies was stepping up to the plate. I looked at the stat line and sure enough, it was from my best MLB season, 1999—a good sign.

So, I leaned in a little closer and said to the kid playing as the Phillies, “Hey, kid, you better get a hit here.”

He turned around, completely stunned, glancing back and forth between the game and me.

After a moment of processing, he said, “Cool,” and then proceeded to rope a base hit into the outfield. I smiled and said, “That is what I am talking about,” before walking away.

In our time in the big leagues, the blur is real. It is game after game, flight after flight. I saw pitchers in my dreams—and in my nightmares. What would Pirates’ pitcher, Francisco Córdova do next? Would he drop down sidearm with two strikes? Would Smoltz start with the slider? And, then after Smoltz in the Braves’ rotation would it be Glavine or Maddux or some other Hall of Famer? The grind was relentless.

There is little time to reflect during the season, but occasionally, a fan can reset you. They remind you of something important about what you are connecting to through this game. Maybe it is because most of us were, and still are, fans at heart—or we are on the verge of being one again, once we stop obsessing over the quantifiable—our batting average or our contract negotiations.

In that brief moment with the game, I found myself, in a sense, in two places at once. I was both virtual and real—and the technology of my childhood fandom did not blur those lines as seamlessly as the technology we have today. The virtual version of me connected with fans in spaces where I was not physically present, yet still expected to perform. I became a conduit for the fan to be me, the player, allowing them to step into my shoes, control my actions, and even make choices on how I played the game. They could feel the emotional highs of a great performance or the frustration of a slump, the rivalry with a friend, or the criticism of how well their gameplay captured the essence of the game of baseball.

The real me stood behind this fan who was playing me in the best interpretation of that spirit. Despite it being my avatar, I still wanted to get a hit. I still felt the need to perform well even on my day off at Dave & Buster’s. But in this case, I could not control the outcome, not because of where the ball may go after it hit my real bat in a real game, but because I was not the one swinging it in this virtual one. A fan was my proxy, my stand-in, so I had to be more of a fan than him, cheering him on (or maybe cheering myself on in the process).

My batting average in real life did not go up after that hit, but I felt like I did something for that young man who was trying to beat his Mets rival. It was a bonus performance—an encore, of sorts. It was a relief not to worry about who was pitching for the Mets, whether my hamstring was going to tighten up, or if this game would eliminate us from contention. I got all the benefits with none of the pressure.

Years later, I remembered that game while I was thinking about buying a pinball machine. I searched for World Series Baseball 99, and to my surprise, I found two machines in the area.

I ordered one, and soon it was delivered to my house.

The game is great on its own, but more importantly, that arcade cabinet holds a cherished memory of fleeting fame. In that moment, I was a variety of characters that make up baseball and fandom—the player, the avatar, the fan.

Now, I can freeze that moment, relive it with family, or just revisit it on my own. Although, I apparently got an early version of the game because my player avatar’s stats are from 1998, not 1999. And for anyone doing their research, that is a 46-point drop in batting average.

I imagine that anyone playing the game would not notice—or even care—but I hope the idea of potentially being someone’s favorite player, the one they would always put in the lineup no matter what, is part of that connection. I know I spent countless hours as a kid playing games with lineups made up of my favorite players, not based on some complex strategy about the best matchup against lefties on Sundays or when the grass was cut during a solar eclipse.

Yes, forty-six points is a significant jump, but not as meaningful as a moment with a fan that brings a smile to your face every time you think about it.