Girl Gamer makes a Killing
Posted: Sat Dec 23, 2006 3:48 am
Fifteen minutes ago, I thought I was good at video games. I spent an entire summer in college playing Halo like it was my job. But right now, my opponent is blasting me to shreds again and again, knocking me and my big rocket launcher to oblivion with a peashooter -- and a snicker. Bonnie "Xena" Burton, a 15-year-old professional gamer, is whupping my ass online at Microsoft's Xbox Live site.
Bonnie was an early member of the PMS Clan, an all-girl gaming club of more than 250 members. Their motto: "We may have boobs, but that doesn't make us nØØbs." I glance at the scoreboard and feel sorry for any gamer who takes her on without taking her seriously. Our current score: 25 to -2. Translation: She's killed me 25 times, and I've landed on my own grenade twice. When I look back at the main screen, I'm dead again.
Luckily, Bonnie isn't here just to chase me down with a smoking barrel. When she's not competing, she moonlights as one of 14 elite gaming coaches at Gaming-Lessons.com. The business was started in 2005, and it already has celebrity clients like NBA players Luke Walton and Richard Jefferson and rappers Lil Dru and Moka Blast.
The slaughter stops so class can start. "First, we're going to do a one-on-one match so I can adapt to your skill level and see where you're at," Bonnie chirps into my headset. I rattle off my 10 million disclaimers about how I'm unfamiliar with the map and I'm rusty and I think I have a blister and -- before I know it, my avatar is Swiss cheese.
Bonnie then gives me some advice: "You were able to predict where I was going to go; some people can't do that. But your shot needs a bit of work."
I shadow her futuristic soldier in the game as she speaks. Bonnie has her cyborg jumping off hidden ledges, barely touching the surface, like she's a kung fu actor. I run along and bump into walls like I'm wearing two eye patches. Her soldier stares at my avatar, a hot-pink alien with a large reptilian noggin shaped like a Nerf football. "Uh, you should change your costume. When you're that character it's easier to hit you in the head. I can just kill you faster," Bonnie says. It's good she can't see me blushing across the net.
Over the next hour, she teaches me how to move, aim and strategize. Her character looks over my pink soldier like a drill sergeant. And I follow her orders as if it were boot camp. Thankfully, she's witty and articulate for a 15-year-old, and, Valley Girl cadence aside, it never feels ridiculous when Bonnie offers me tips.
For coaching, she earns $25 an hour, which meant the teenager could quit baby-sitting local kids. The higher hourly wage could free her to pursue hobbies like horseback riding and dance. But she has almost devoted her entire life to Halo. And she doesn't date. "Boyfriends are too much of a hassle, especially if they don't play Halo. And now I can baby-sit an older guy and get 25 bucks," she says. I make baby noises the next time she blows me up.
Before Bonnie ends the lesson, we play another one-on-one match to see how much I've learned. Instead of running in circles like a chicken missing a McNoggin, I sneak around. Halfway through the match, I register a kill. Bonnie gives me a final assessment: "Your strategy was better. I could tell a difference in your shot, more controlled." I beam proudly, like she just gave me a gold star sticker. I throw back the compliment: "Well, I had a good teacher."
"Oh yeah, I'm pretty awesome," she responds, then giggles, finally giving away her age. I look away as I laugh with her. And then she kills me again.
Bonnie was an early member of the PMS Clan, an all-girl gaming club of more than 250 members. Their motto: "We may have boobs, but that doesn't make us nØØbs." I glance at the scoreboard and feel sorry for any gamer who takes her on without taking her seriously. Our current score: 25 to -2. Translation: She's killed me 25 times, and I've landed on my own grenade twice. When I look back at the main screen, I'm dead again.
Luckily, Bonnie isn't here just to chase me down with a smoking barrel. When she's not competing, she moonlights as one of 14 elite gaming coaches at Gaming-Lessons.com. The business was started in 2005, and it already has celebrity clients like NBA players Luke Walton and Richard Jefferson and rappers Lil Dru and Moka Blast.
The slaughter stops so class can start. "First, we're going to do a one-on-one match so I can adapt to your skill level and see where you're at," Bonnie chirps into my headset. I rattle off my 10 million disclaimers about how I'm unfamiliar with the map and I'm rusty and I think I have a blister and -- before I know it, my avatar is Swiss cheese.
Bonnie then gives me some advice: "You were able to predict where I was going to go; some people can't do that. But your shot needs a bit of work."
I shadow her futuristic soldier in the game as she speaks. Bonnie has her cyborg jumping off hidden ledges, barely touching the surface, like she's a kung fu actor. I run along and bump into walls like I'm wearing two eye patches. Her soldier stares at my avatar, a hot-pink alien with a large reptilian noggin shaped like a Nerf football. "Uh, you should change your costume. When you're that character it's easier to hit you in the head. I can just kill you faster," Bonnie says. It's good she can't see me blushing across the net.
Over the next hour, she teaches me how to move, aim and strategize. Her character looks over my pink soldier like a drill sergeant. And I follow her orders as if it were boot camp. Thankfully, she's witty and articulate for a 15-year-old, and, Valley Girl cadence aside, it never feels ridiculous when Bonnie offers me tips.
For coaching, she earns $25 an hour, which meant the teenager could quit baby-sitting local kids. The higher hourly wage could free her to pursue hobbies like horseback riding and dance. But she has almost devoted her entire life to Halo. And she doesn't date. "Boyfriends are too much of a hassle, especially if they don't play Halo. And now I can baby-sit an older guy and get 25 bucks," she says. I make baby noises the next time she blows me up.
Before Bonnie ends the lesson, we play another one-on-one match to see how much I've learned. Instead of running in circles like a chicken missing a McNoggin, I sneak around. Halfway through the match, I register a kill. Bonnie gives me a final assessment: "Your strategy was better. I could tell a difference in your shot, more controlled." I beam proudly, like she just gave me a gold star sticker. I throw back the compliment: "Well, I had a good teacher."
"Oh yeah, I'm pretty awesome," she responds, then giggles, finally giving away her age. I look away as I laugh with her. And then she kills me again.
Also, you couldn't pay me enough in chocolate to make me go anywhere near one called "PMS" Yeuch. Though "We Have Best Chocolate In The Known Universe"would definitely get my attention 
Wouldn't want to change a thing.