The Legend of Soft Men

By David Harsanyi

Thursday, June 08, 2023

 

A few years back, I was gifted a T-shirt with the insignia of the video-game series The Legend of Zelda. And nearly every time I wore the thing, someone — usually a middle-aged man — would point to the shirt and give me two thumbs up or just holler “Zelda!” while I was walking my dog or browsing the frozen-food section at the supermarket.

 

At first, I politely smiled and nodded, sneering internally at the ridiculous notion of a grown — possibly married — man publicly celebrating a video-game habit. For those unfamiliar, The Legend of Zelda follows the adventures of an elflike boy-hero named “Link” whose mission is to track down a magical princess, who is herself a reincarnation of the goddess . . .

 

. . . and, dear Lord, how do I know so much about this dumb game?

 

Well, I realized soon enough, I’d watched my kids play Zelda for many more hours than I care to admit. And watching a video game, though oddly riveting — my kids tell me that professional gamers can rake in millions broadcasting online — might be even more pathetic than bonding over one with strangers.

 

But, no, I don’t play Zelda. I do play Mario Kart, which entails driving (virtually) on elaborate raceways constructed of candy and avoiding cuddly animals with giant hammers and fairies on scooters who throw bananas at me to try to trip me up.

 

I own a real car, by the way. Because I am a 53-year-old man.

 

Or am I?

 

In my home, there is a cache of pictures of my grandparents, probably taken in the 1960s and ’70s, when they were in their late forties and fifties. Though, frankly, they look to be perpetually around 75, not to mention perpetually miserable, despite their sunny real-life dispositions.

 

In one of the fading Polaroids, my dour-faced grandfather is sporting a white, ironed button-down shirt, dress slacks, and his well-worn brown shoes — my grandmother is in a button-down frock and, what were surely even then unfashionable, women’s oxfords — at the beach. Put it this way — I remember my grandfather in his mid fifties, and the thought of him in shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that reads “Sarcasm, it’s what I do best” as he plays Mario Kart, as I did this weekend, is utterly inconceivable.

 

My grandfather (I knew only one, the other having been murdered by Nazis) had no formal education nor any financial success. Granddad took his gap year in Auschwitz, though his “teenage years,” an invention of the modern age, didn’t sound like a cakewalk, either. The man lived through two world wars, a depression, a revolution, and then an exceptionally modest life in a cramped apartment in Queens. I imagine he comported himself with great dignity through it all.

 

My grandmother was born in the last year of the First World War, in a multifamily home with an outhouse. She did not own a TV until 1973. She was born three years after the first passenger flight — one passenger. By the time she died, tens of thousands of people would be watching movies on six-inch gadgets 30,000 feet above her head. Has any one generation seen more technological advancement? She never seemed impressed by any of it.

 

Anyway, since my becoming an empty-nester, life hasn’t become more noble or serious or dignified. I’ve become more like a 15-year-old boy — a well-adjusted, occasionally high-achieving 15-year-old with some money to spend. My grandfather never owned a car, much less a bike. I have not only a carbon-fiber model with a bunch of needless gadgets attached but $90 bike pants to soften the ride. I troll the internet to collect hard-to-find vinyl. I have more streaming services than my granddad had shoes. I collect science-fiction books. I recently bought another guitar, because who knows, maybe my dream of being a reluctant indie rock star will come true.

 

In his Histories, Herodotus tells the story of the great Persian king Cyrus, who warns his allies that “tough lands produce tough peoples, so, if they wish to retain the empire he has enabled them so spectacularly to gain, they must not even think about removing themselves to some softer, enervating environment.”

 

The notion of prosperous civilizations crumbling under the weight of their wealth and selfishness has been around ever since. Strong men build powerful empires. But those prosperous times, we are told, create soft men. And then those weak, unserious men — men who wear cargo shorts on airplanes — bring it all down.

 

Warning that the United States will fall like the Roman Empire is probably our second-favorite historical analogy, after comparing everything we dislike to Nazi Germany. I’m a skeptic of this theory. The Roman Empire stood for a thousand years — and that’s not even counting the Byzantines. They were rich and soft. And if “tough lands produce tough peoples,” why hasn’t a Canadian city won a Stanley Cup since 1994?

 

Our world is far from a utopia, but it is as close as humanity has ever gotten. And, sure, in many ways that reality is reflected in the immature and undignified nature of our growing idiocracy. But the question is: Would the paunchy guy who yells “Zelda” at me in the frozen aisle — where he’s perusing 8,000 different types of frozen pizza — fight for his country if needed? Would he show dignity in the face of depression and oppression?

 

Who knows. I’d like to think many would. I like to think we, even those of us who wear helmets on bike paths, would pick up a rifle and fight if needed. And after playing hundreds of hours of Call of Duty, I imagine I’d be pretty good at it. In the meantime, we should be grateful we don’t have to.