It’s 1987. I’m in Grade 1 at primary school and being introduced to my first home computer. Without warning, Dad has arrived home with this unfamiliar beast, which consists of a keyboard (similar to ones I’ve seen at school) and a long, flat tape player, the likes of which I’ve never seen.
My knowledge of computers is limited. Yet, I sense that I know what I like. I’ve seen giant Apples at school (with their enticing rainbow logos and green screens). I’ve heard kids in the playground talk of Commodore 64s, which plug straight into your TV. I’ve stood motionless in the big yellow cube that is Dick Smith Electronics, gazing at Excitebike as an older kid plays a Nintendo on a big screen.
Dad’s computer is not one I’ve ever seen or heard of. It’s certainly not on my wish-list. It has no Excitebike or screen. But it is from Dick Smith — in fact, it’s named after him — and it also plugs into the TV. It’s a Dick Smith VZ-300, first manufactured in 1985 and discontinued by 1987. It’s at the cheaper end of the computer market. I imagine it’s an impulse buy by Dad, who’s never before mentioned computers.
Soaring BMX bikes or not (and it’s quite clearly the latter), the VZ-300 excites. It catapults our small 30cm Hitachi TV, a tiny portable that sits modestly in our lounge room, into the space-age. Hitherto, our TV has offered the promise of eight channels but only ever delivered two: the ABC and a local TV station that plays a mix of shows from the commercial networks in Melbourne. (We’re some years away from three additional UHF channels.)
The VZ-300 bridges the distance between our TV and our seats. It draws us in. An armchair, one of which we sit on when gazing from afar at the flashing intro to Roger Ramjet, creeps closer to the tiny television set, until we’re practically embracing it.
We discover a game on the VZ-300. It greets us with a question every time we turn it on: “Joystick Y/N?” The answer is always the same: “N”. Yet, it keeps asking. The game’s about a helicopter, and Dad’s the best at it. We take off — to the background of a giant green screen — and we fly. We pick up tiny people and help ferry them to safety. At least we try to. Mostly, we run out of time before anything significant happens.
We discover a screen on which we can write our names. That’s fun — but not as exciting as realising we can change the colour of that screen. In the coming months, we cycle through various background changes — orange to blue to green — as a matter of ritual.
The more I play the VZ-300, the more comfortable I feel with the technology. It’s easy to use and it gives me a warm feeling. Excitebike, I realise, won’t be coming to our screen — and I have no interest in recreating it in my backyard. I start judo, practising twice a week, but I struggle against much stronger opponents and eventually stop going. I join a drama club, but I’m shy, and I don’t attend the final performance (in which I’m only an extra).
On cold afternoons, I race home, and try my best to drag the armchair close enough to the TV. When that fails, or I’m too impatient, I sit on the floor. The VZ-300 keeps me entranced throughout 1988 — all the time, I wonder “Why don’t we have a joystick?” — before my mind moves onto other things. The VZ-300 eventually disappears into a box, never to be seen again, but leaving a lasting impression.
Relive the helicopter game on YouTube: