For fear of lame platitudes in June or cornball holiday lecturing come winter, I’m going to try and OK my growing-up insecurities now. A good place to start would be a self-serving discussion of the single greatest present I ever received.

Funny how the original Nintendo – now curiously known as “old school Nintendo” – is a source of so much nostalgic affection among college students. What about the poor Super Nintendo or the helplessly outdated Nintendo 64? Nintendo itself has become something of an icon for innocence, given the influx of video games involving hookers on the far-cooler Xbox and Playstation 2 systems. Nintendo’s big hit right now is, apparently, a video game called “Nintendogs,” where you raise and groom cute puppies.

Nintendo 64 ruled in Fall 1996. I got one prior to Christmas and had subsquently neglected my Super Nintendo, what with its insufficient graphics and stupid controller. The nonchalant, even malevolent way 12-year-old boys discard technology might explain why so many of us are so unhappy as pre-adults, when we learn that most things in life don’t upgrade.

For Christmas, my grandmother had sent a gift that, judging from the shape and feel of the box, had to be a Nintendo 64 game. Imagine my colossal disappointment – or dismissal, rather – when I opened the gift to see it was a Super Nintendo game. Not only was it a Super Nintendo game, but it was FIFA Soccer ’96. A soccer game. Who plays soccer in real life, let alone on TV? Where’s my Donkey Kong Country?

My grandmother, God bless, is getting old, and I’m increasingly afraid, like everybody else, that I’m somehow not appreciating her (and my grandfather’s and my other grandparents’) wisdom. Buying FIFA ’96, she was probably hoping against hope that her materialistic grandson would think this was a cool gift, that Grandma knew video games, too (remember when Larry Johnson was Grandma for Converse?).

That’s another thing we do as children in this era – measure love and commitment through objects. Last weekend, an old flame lamented our days of junior high note passing, which she recently unearthed through some Indiana Jones-type archaeology shit. Now I just have text messages and e-mails to document relationships; these prove to be far less memorable and easy-to-lose than scribbling pre-emptive Dear Johns in spiral notebooks. Everything comes through objects; though they change hands and grow old, they always look the same. And if it’s a Nintendo, it breaks, and you spend all your time blowing into the system, as if the cool innocence of your breath will allow for an uninterrupted game of RBI Baseball.

Following the FIFA ’96 debacle, I recognized the momentous impact of Grandma’s kindness. I rescued the game and played it, a virtual compensation for my real-life shortcomings. That gray cartridge is a cornucopia of emotion, none of which I actually associate with the game. Maybe it’s some sort of symbol for the ruthless advancement of a technocratic society. Maybe it signals EA Sports’ early and continued dominance in the sports video game industry. Maybe the little picture of the guy kicking the ball is actually an abstract of Grandma and Grandpa in the beige-white kitchen in their recently sold Tampa home, surrounded by loving portraits and pictures of their beloved pug Clancy (“Don’t stare at him in the eyes, or he’ll bite you”) or the entire room devoted to Grandpa’s hole-in-one.

Grandparents, at least for me, are funny people because they know you best when you’re an infant. I probably spent 75 percent of my Grandparent Time between the ages of 1 and 5. They knew me best when I didn’t know me at all. And try as I might to instigate e-mail discussion with computer-savvy Grandma, it never seems to work – the hardness of the font proves worthless compared to the flimsy facade of carefully picked wrapping paper. And all I know of Grandparent Time is a few minutes of ragged 8-millimeter film that looks like what Clark Griswold watches in his attic.

Pretty soon, I won’t get Christmas gifts at all; pretty soon, I won’t be excited about electronics of any sort. Not that I breathe and cease by the microprocessor, but our neverending quest to communicate openly not only overshadows the pleasure of real experience – it manages to obliterate what little beauty comes in its own treasures. Technology has no room for innocence or nostalgia.

I don’t think I need Grandma, who’s adapted to countries and cities and surgeries and jobs and diseases and joy over and over again, to tell me about the trials and tribulations of her life. I just know she’s smart enough to channel her love in the subtlest, most powerful ways. I only hope I’m smart enough to heed her example.

Communication senior Kyle Smith the PLAY film columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].