This is growing up
in the ’90s.

One of my favorite old memories is riding with my brother, Jason, and our dad to the Blockbuster that had just opened in Belleview, Florida.

It was the weekend, which meant family movies and—if we were lucky—a game or two. But Jason and I already knew what we wanted. Dad probably knew what we were going to try to get, too.

GoldenEye 007.

By then, the game had already been out for a couple of years. But before that store opened, we hadn’t really had anywhere nearby to rent games. The games we knew were the ones Mom had bought for us to own: Zelda. Mario Kart. Games that lived beside the Nintendo.

We both wanted GoldenEye. There was only one problem: we were way too young to be playing it.

So, naturally, we came up with a plan. Jason grabbed some random game and we put it on top of GoldenEye. I carried both boxes up to Dad, apparently believing the bottom one had become invisible.

Dad looked at the games. And rented both.

THE PERFECT CRIME!
(or so we thought)

At the time, we thought we’d pulled off the greatest scheme in history. Now that I’m a dad, I’m pretty sure he knew exactly what we were doing.

Either way, we got GoldenEye. Jason and I spent that weekend playing a Rated M game years before either of us had any business playing it.

More than twenty-five years later, it’s still one of my most cherished memories. Not just because GoldenEye was a great game. I remember the ride with Dad. The excitement of that new store. Plotting with my brother. Walking out with the game. Knowing exactly how we would spend the weekend.

It’s strange which moments survive. Sometimes it’s a car ride. A video store. A Nintendo cartridge. Your brother beside you. And a weekend that, at the time, felt completely ordinary.