Cy*Burr // spring 2004

Upon stumbling onto a home edition of Dance, Dance Revolution for the first time in July, Jason Jones had no idea how much the game would eventually deplete his free time—or his waistline.

“I was drunk at a party and decided to make an ass out of myself,” Jones, a 22-year-old gas station attendant from Streetsboro, says. He says he has been a long-time video game fanatic and that the video game tricked him into exercising. At first, I was like, ‘This is fun.’ Then I was like ‘Wait. Why am I sweating?’”

“I’m sure it was out to get you,” says Erika Dearman, a 25-year-old Canton resident and Jones’ Dance, Dance Revolution comrade.

“I know,” Jones replies. “I’m sure the machine was like, ‘I’m going to make this pudgy kid work out.’”

After discovering the art of DDR that fateful night, and after deciding the Atkins Diet “sucked,” Jones hit the public arcade-style machines full time. With 10-pound weights latched onto his ankles, he danced, danced for six hours a day until an astonishing 50 pounds melted from his frame.

“At first, I was like, ‘This is fun.’ Then I was like ‘Wait. Why am I sweating?’”

“I’m like the Subway guy with goggles,” Jones says, referring to the yellow swim goggles wrapped around his forehead.

DDR is a decade-old Japanese interactive game in which players keep up with streaming arrows that dictate which of four hot spots the player must hit with his foot. The 3-by-5 metal platform is divided in two sections with a total of eight squares so two can play side-by-side, each at his own level: beginner, light, standard, heavy or the master’s realm known as “oni.” Then players choose from almost 200 songs (some American standards like “In the Navy” and “We Are the Champions,” but mostly Japanese tunes), each of which has three to four difficulty levels.

Garon Niehaus, senior history major, then points to Jones, who has already mounted the DDR machine in the Eastway Center bowling alley.

“And he can probably do them all,” Niehaus says.

Niehaus, like most everyone else in the clan, has played ddr for about two years. But the stern dedication Jones has put into the game has left his more experienced friends in the dust.

A sincere sense of dorkiness unquestionably unites Jones, Dearman and the bunch. As they take a break from ddr, sitting between the bowling alley and the pool tables, they delight in mocking a couple who unknowingly step onto their turf.

“First date?” Dearman quietly asks the gang.

“Wow,” Jones wonders.

“If you take your first date to play DDR … That’s umm … Yeah, that’s what I would do.”

His tone doesn’t quite reveal if he is kidding. He confirms the joke by saying he would like to have his wedding reception at an arcade.

“That would be sweet,” Niehaus replies.

The look in his eyes reveals he is definitely not kidding.

After the young lovers move to the air hockey table, Jones reclaims his post. Only this time he paces across the entire platform, not just the left or right side. Jones is about to cover the entire board. That is, he is going to do the work of two DDR players dancing side by side.

“This is gonna make me sick,” Niehaus says.

Freshman computer science major Jordan Smith, a two-year veteran of the game, shakes his head in awe.

With Jones’ display of showmanship over, Niehaus steps up. His hulking body taking up just half the base, leaving the other half empty. He programs the machine to play La Bamba on a medium speed.

Niehaus is not nearly as graceful as Jones. His bulky boots thump the arrows like Godzilla in a freshly painted Okinawa housing development. His long, braided ponytail thrashes behind him. The computerized version of Ritchie Valens’ classic ends, and Niehaus wobbles back, lightly gasping for breath. If not for the padded railing at the edge of the machine that greets Niehaus’ ass, he might have fallen off the machine.