Opinion: My midnight trek for 'Legend of Zelda' was for my son — and for me, too

It’s 11:34 p.m. on May 11, and I’m turning off I-94.

“Here I am,” Bob Seger’s voice trickles from my car radio, “on the road again.”

This time, the familiar road is taking me to a GameStop store, tucked in a shopping center at 9 Mile and Gratiot in Eastpointe.

Part of me is thinking, "I’m crazy for driving out here for this." The other part of me knows exactly why I'm doing it.

I’m headed to the midnight release of the Nintendo Switch video game "The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom" to pick up a pre-ordered copy for my son, who was fast asleep in his bed — as he should be at this hour.

I know what you’re thinking: Video games are ruining our kids, why in the heck are you contributing to this?

I think the same thing sometimes. Actually, a lot.

More: It’s OK to spend hundreds of hours playing ‘The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom.’ Here’s why.

We have limits on his screen time, to his chagrin. We try our best to stick to them, to his despair. And we have mechanisms to check his sneakiness, to his angst.

But there are a lot of reasons why I'm making this trek. Not all of them are for lil man. Some of them are for me, too.

I was 11 years old when "The Legend of Zelda" was released in 1986.

Lil man is 11.

Although I wasn’t excited about video games back then, I played them from time to time, though I’m not sure when I first tried my hand at "Zelda."

Video games have come a looong way since then. They’re played on a portable device my kid holds in his hands. And the graphics are waaay better, though the old graphics fill me with nostalgia.

The last "Zelda" title in the popular action-adventure franchise came out six years ago. The sequel was much anticipated, with ample reports of adults taking the day off to play in a new adventure with Link in Hyrule. The new game would go on to sell 10 million copies in the first three days after it was released.

But let’s fast forward to my present adventure.

It’s important for me to mention that I didn’t buy the game for my son. He bought it on his own, and he hustled for it. He had a $25 gift card from Easter and some money from allowance, but was about $40 short of the game's $69.99 cost (plus tax).

His entrepreneurial spirit kicked in. He decided to bake pies to sell, asking everyone under the sun, before realizing the actual commitment baking that many pies would require. So we scaled back a bit.

His dad and I each bought a pie after he baked them (blueberry for dad, apple for me — and yes, he peeled, cored, and sliced the apples, along with the rest of the work). And he cajoled his grandparents into pre-orders for two more pies, to be made, delivered and paid for when he visits them in Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Oh, and he had to mow the backyard on pickup day.

But I didn’t make the midnight run because I wanted my kid to think I’m the best mom ever (I hope he thinks that anyway).

Nor because he was asking, convincing and pleading for me to do so — specifically, he wanted a wooden plaque that came with the game if it was picked up at the store, as long as supplies lasted.

It was a journey for me.

You see, I’ve never stood in a line to buy, well, anything like this before. Not concert tickets. Not video games. Not midnight Black Friday shopping (when that was a thing). And surely not for a midnight release of anything.

I was curious about the experience, and I knew I’d probably still be awake anyway.

A few days earlier, when we plopped down $5 for the pre-order to guarantee his copy of the game, a store employee suggested arriving 20 minutes early.

I took the advice.

That night, I'm envisioning people camping outside. A Guns N’ Roses song plays faintly on my car radio as I pull into a parking spot, but I'm surprised and a little disappointed to find the shopping center quiet, with no line outside the store, and not many cars in the parking lot, either.

When I walk in, about 20 people are inside. Feeling a little confused, I hear an employee announce that there free arm sleeves — a nylon sleeve decorated with designs from the video game. I grab one as they’re handed out at the counter.

While I’ve been in here before, I feel a bit out of place. Not because I'm one of the older people. But because I don't speak their language. Or lingo. Or whatever you want to call it.

Many are chatting, sometimes about "Zelda" games. Some have on "Pokémon" sweatshirts, another a green "Zelda" T-shirt.

When a clerk announces that customers should make sure they're paid up, I didn't realize that meant the full cost of the game, not just the pre-order. Can you tell I’m clueless about how this works?

Someone else waiting was kind enough to let me know, yes, I need to pay in full. Now, I understand why. It makes the pickup process smooth.

I start looking for the pre-order receipt.

Then, panic set in.

I couldn’t find it in my bottomless purse full of ____.  (I’ll let you fill in the blank.) The moment I have been waiting for is nearly ruined because I have too much crap in my purse.

My frantic search goes on for a few minutes before I pluck the pre-order receipt from the bowels of my purse.

Phew, thank God. 

Everyone else has paid in full, of course. I trudge up with lil man's gift card and allowance, plus his pie money.

An employee slaps a baby blue sticker with “30” on the top of my receipt, my number in line to pick up the game.

A single-file line forms on the side of the store, with pickup in the back. I'm last in line. When the kind folks in front of me realize I'm there to pick up my son’s copy, they remind me to get the arm sleeve I'd already picked up.

"You are probably the only one here not going to be up playing all night," said the woman in front of me.

Yeah, I deduce from my 25 minutes in the store that she's probably right, even though some of folks say they had to work the next day.

When midnight hits and the game is officially released, most people quietly walk out with their small plastic bag of goodies.

Two stop, one posing in front of a large promotional poster smiling for a photo, brand new game in hand.

Just before 12:10 a.m. May 12, I hand over my paid-in-full receipt and accept the bag with lil man’s much-anticipated goodies.

By 12:10 a.m., I'm back in my car.

I pop on the interior light and carefully pull out the game and plaque.

I chuckle, thinking: "This is what the excitement is all about??" I take a picture anyway.

Minutes later, I was driving home, less than an hour after my journey began.

Before he went to bed, lil man had one request: Please leave the bag on the table in his room.

Sure, I said. But I had some requests, too.

He couldn’t open up anything, particularly the game itself, until he was on the 20- to 25-minute ride to school. We weren’t going to be late for school over a new video game.

I slipped into his dark bedroom and quietly placed the bag on his table.

In the morning, I was awakened in bed by elated rambling: "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" and the tightest hug ever.

No, lil man, thank you.

Contact Christina Hall: chall@freepress.com Follow her on Twitter: @challreporter. Submit a letter to the editor at freep.com/letters.

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This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Opinion: Mom enjoyed trek for 'Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom'