The Faceless Roar of the Gathering
The Coming Together of the Multitude
When the day of the game is upon us, the people are gathering from the four corners of the land. They are bringing with them the hopes of their families and the memories of the games that were played in the time of their fathers. They are sitting pressing close to the next one on the hard seats, and the air is thick with the smell of the food and the drink that is passed from hand to hand. In the past, this gathering was a sea of individual souls, each one shouting their own shout, each one weeping their own tears. The noise of them was a wild thing, a bird that could not be kept in a cage, and it would fly over the walls of the stadium and out into the quiet streets of the town. But the masters of the hall have found a way to catch this bird, to measure its wings and put its spirit into a machine that can show it to all the world without the shame of a name or a face.
The Catching of the Spirit
There are eyes of glass and wire hidden in the roof of the great building, looking down upon the heads of the people. These eyes do not see the color of your hair or the shape of your nose; they see only the movement of your body and the sound that is coming from your throat. They are taking the great wave of the emotion and turning it into numbers that a computer can understand. It is a cold thing, this turning of the blood and the fire of the heart into a line that goes up or down upon a board of light. Yet, the people do not mind it. They are looking up at the great screen and seeing their own collective soul displayed before them. They are seeing that they are not alone in their joy or their despair, for the line is moving with the beating of their shared heart. It is a strange comfort to know that your private feeling is the same as the feeling of the ten thousand others sitting in the dark around you.
The Peaks of the Joy and the Valleys of the Sorrow
When the team of the home people is running toward the goal, the line upon the screen is going up into the sky. It is a green line, or perhaps a blue one, and it is climbing higher with every step of the player. The multitude is keeping the breath inside them, and the machine is feeling the tightness in the chests of the people. Then, when the ball is passing the white line of the goal, the line is leaping to the highest place on the screen, and a great explosion of light is shown to celebrate the triumph. But there is another side to this measuring of the spirit. When the other team is scoring, the line is falling down into the dark valley. It is dropping fast, and the screen is turning a color of sadness. The people are groaning, and the machine is catching the groan and showing it as a falling wave. It is a looking-glass of the multitude, reflecting the truth of the moment without any lies or pretenses. You cannot conceal your disappointment when the screen is showing the depth of your collective sorrow to everyone in the hall.
The Game of the Falling Ball
It is not only upon the great fields of grass that these feelings are measured, for there are other games that are played in the quiet of the mind or the small light of a hand. There is a game of chance and falling that is made by the minds at Spribe, and it is called the Plinko Game, where a small ball is dropped from the high place and it is bouncing upon the pegs until it is finding its resting place in the bottom. This game is capturing the hope and the anxiety of the player in a different way, for it is a solitary thing, yet the feeling is the same as the feeling of the crowd in the great stadium. You can be playing this game of the falling ball upon the place that is called official-plinko-game.com, where the digital pegs are waiting for the ball to begin its journey. The sentiment of the player is rising and falling with the bouncing of the ball, and though there is no crowd to measure, the heart is beating with the same rhythm of chance and fate that is driving the multitude in the big hall.
The Loss of the Face in the Modern Time
There is a philosopher in the town who is saying that this anonymous display of the feeling is a loss to the soul of the people. He is standing in the square and telling anyone who will listen to him that when a man is hiding his face behind the mask of the multitude, he is losing a part of his humanity. In the old stories, it was the face of the hero that was showing his courage, and it was the tear on the cheek of the woman that was showing her true love. But now, the face is taken away, and only the raw emotion is left floating in the air like a ghost. It is a valid fear, perhaps, for we are creatures of the flesh and we need to see the eyes of our neighbor to know that he is real. When the screen shows only a wave of color, it is easy to forget that there are living, breathing people behind the wave. We are becoming one great beast of emotion that has no name and no individual thought, only the shared reaction to the moving of the ball or the running of the men.
The Comfort of the Hidden Multitude
Yet, there is another truth that is sitting beside this fear, and it is a truth of great comfort to the shy and the quiet people of the world. Not every person who is coming to the game is wanting to show their face to the cameras and the world. There are those who are feeling the joy too deeply to let it be seen, or the sorrow too heavily to bear the pity of a stranger. For these people, the anonymous display is a great blessing from the sky. They are able to pour their heart out into the machine without the fear of being judged by the eyes of the others. They can be a part of the great wave of the sentiment without having to stand out from the crowd. It is a secret place for the spirit, a way to be together with the multitude while remaining entirely alone and unseen. In this way, the screen is not taking away the humanity of the people, but it is giving a voice to those who have no voice, and a face to those who are wanting to remain in the shadows.
The Changing of the Game Itself
The players upon the field are also changing because of this new thing that is put before them. In the past, they were looking up at the stands and seeing a mist of faces, a mosaic of color and movement that was encouraging them or booing them. Now, they are looking up and seeing the giant line of the sentiment, the undeniable truth of how the people are feeling about their efforts. It is a great weight to carry, to see the exact measure of your failure or your success displayed in the sky above you. A young player who is missing a catch that is without difficulty is seeing the line drop on the screen, and he is knowing that the whole world is seeing his mistake translated into the language of the machine. It is pushing the players to be better, perhaps, or it is breaking the spirit of the weak. The game is no longer just a contest of the body and the skill; it is a contest played out upon the screen of the public mood, and the players are moving to the music of the anonymous crowd.
The Silence After the End
When the game is finished and the whistle is blown for the last time, the great screen is becoming black. The line of the sentiment is fading away, and the faces of the people are returning to them as they are standing up to go back to their homes. They are walking out into the cold air of the night, and the noise of the multitude is breaking apart into a thousand individual conversations. The wonder of the shared feeling is dissolving, and the people are becoming themselves once again. But the memory of the faceless roar is staying with them, a reminder of the time when they were a single, powerful thing. They will be telling their children about the game, and they will be talking about the way the screen showed their joy and their sorrow. The machines will be turned off, and the hall will be empty and silent, waiting for the next day when the people will gather again to give their hearts to the game and to the anonymous display of their own souls.
The Passing of the Days and the Games
It is the way of the world that the games will come and the games will go, like the water coming in upon the sand. The anonymous sentiment that is captured today will be forgotten tomorrow, replaced by a new wave of feeling when the next team is arriving in the town. The screens are showing only the present moment, the exact second of the joy or the sadness, and they have no memory of the past. This is a mercy for the people, for if the screen was holding onto the sorrow of the defeat from the week before, the line would never rise again. We are allowed to begin anew with every game, to let the old feelings die and to birth new ones from the empty air. The machine is a creature of the eternal now, and it is teaching the people to live in the moment, to feel the fullness of the present without the weight of the yesterday. It is a good lesson, though it is a hard one to learn for a people who are keeping such a tight grip on the memories of their past.