The Quiet Misery of Being Good at Rematch

I genuinely punched the air and whooped at my laptop screen when YoghurtDaddy's header pinged off the crossbar and into the net. 

My Rematch team – all strangers – had conceded an early goal and then weathered a five-minute onslaught. I was everywhere, sprinting across our back line to stop passes, blocking shots, saving a goal with a sliding tackle. I finished with sweaty hands and 18 interceptions, double anyone else on the pitch.

In the final 30 seconds we finally strung four one-touch passes together and, from the left wing, I dinked a cross into the middle for Yoghurt to nod in. An equaliser, with overtime looming. A release of pressure. We ran around in circles hitting the "Good Job!" voice line.

The celebration didn't last.

Straight from the opponent's restart, our two most central defenders sprinted, inexplicably, up the pitch, drawn to the ball like foxes to a toppled dustbin, leaving an unmarked striker alone near our goal. As my old football coach used to say, they had enough time and space to receive the ball, turn, read the newspaper, eat their Christmas dinner, and fire it past our goalkeeper's dive before anyone could get close.

Rematch has busted a myth that I've clung to dogmatically for the past 15 years: if I could only get good – properly good – at an online game then all my frustrations, all the anguish over my mistakes, would dissolve.

Well, I'm properly good at Rematch and frustrations remain – they're just different.

But it has at least forced me to confront why and how I play games online. Why do I care about climbing ranks? What value is a win if you're not having fun? And is there, perhaps, a way to embrace my usual mediocrity?