I am portrayed as a fictional video game character, but let it be known that my existence is factual. I am Mario Delvechio, and this is my story.
My mother, Leona Maribelle Delvechio, left her impoverished surroundings in Sicily, in 1967, and embarked on a voyage to America in the pursuit of a new life. She traveled across the foreboding Atlantic ocean on a freight vessel enroute to the bustling city of New York. It was my fathers dying wish that I be born on American soil.
On September 13, 1967, I was born in Cornell Medical Center on the upper east side of Manhattan. The weather was overcast on that ill-fated morn, and the gloom permeated into the event that ensued. My birth was both traumatic, and tragic. After 27 hours in labor, my mother birthed me into a world that she simultaneously departed from. My cranium was too large to advance from her womb. I was consequently orphaned at birth, and sentenced to spend the remainder of my childhood at St. Vincent De Paul Home for Boys.
The orphanage was the only world I knew, and everything I did was within its confines. I vaguely recollect stumbling to classes in my fourth year. Each morning, I suited up in my traditional catholic garb like a gladiator readying for combat, and everyday was a battle I faced with diminishing resolve. Being short, dumpy and having a head big enough to kill a mother during labor doesn’t exactly do wonders for a child’s popularity. I was subjected to venomous mockery from my peers, and the treatment I received from my superiors wasn’t any better. I was a particularly thoughtful child, yet my inattentive nature was ill-received by the rigid clergyman who governed us. I took solace in my delusions, and frequently daydreamed about great adventures in far-off lands. Father Desmond lectured us vehemently about the evils of the imagination, and it wasn’t long before I became the subject of his ridicule. Most of my dining hours were spent in detention, and on the seldom occasion that I did eat, I was treated to putrid, regurgitated slop that was served by the culinary vandals who volunteered in our dining hall. After long days of shame and humiliation, I washed away my remaining dignity in the building’s communal showers, and unwound in my quarters on a mattress that provided less comfort than a bed of nails. Not even an oversized pillow would bare the burden of my gargantuan noggin. Sleep was unachievable, but I had plenty of time to devise methods to escape from the uninterrupted nightmare that was my existence. Things remained this way until I was eleven years of age, but then something unusual happened.
St. Vincent De Paul Home for Boys was erected by British colonists in the eighteenth century. Windows didn’t seem to be en vogue during the time of the building’s construction, and my youth was misspent wandering its dim hallways. Most of my peers were scared of the dark, yet I basked in its anonymity. The structure’s convoluted layout provided me with an endless supply of hidden crevices and passages to discover in my leisure time. I was still without friends, but I had grown to savor the time I spent alone.
One fateful evening, my curiosity lead me into the depths of the subterranean vault. Somehow, I felt as though I was being summoned by a mystical energy that emanated from its core. After navigating through an endless stream of corridors, I came upon a suspicious looking door. I nudged it open with slight trepidation and proceeded through the entryway. A peculiar pipe stood before me. I approached it and examined the words that were inscribed on its shimmering green surface. The text was written in a language that I couldn’t discern, which struck me as odd when considering the orphanage’s British origins. I climbed atop the pipe and peered down the gaping hole at its crest. The darkness beckoned me as it met my gaze; its magnetism was almost hypnotic. I remember trying to fight off the urge to hurl myself into its depths. I don’t remember screaming on the way down, but I’m sure that I did.
I opened my eyes. The fall must have thrown-off my equilibrium because I was blinded by a swirling trail of colors. Everything shifted back into focus, but that’s when the line between fantasy and reality blurred. I wasn’t in the orphanage, nor was in New York. I was standing amidst the vibrant fields of my daydreams.
Over the last forty years, I’ve inhabited a realm that you may know as “Mario World”, a dimensional lobby in which every world connects. An intricate conglomeration of pipes occupy this land, and they filter through the entire universe. For the most part, I’ve remained here to defend this land from the evil grasp of my antagonist, Bowser. But being the adventurer that I am, I often travel to vast new worlds, and I occasionally return to old ones. In the late 1970’s, I fell through a pipe that lead me into the heart of Japan, where I met a burgeoning game developer by the name of Shigeru Miyamoto. After telling him my tale, he was inspired to depict my adventures in the games that he created.
Over the years, I’ve assumed different roles and occupations. I undertook a job as a plumber, became involved in various sports, and I even race carts in my own circuit. I’ve embarked on certain endeavors for my own amusement, and others with specific objectives in mind. Sports provide me with a well needed break between my ongoing myriad of quests to save the princess, while my career as plumber allows me to gain access to the mystical pipes that are hidden beneath the city.
It’s ironic that I’ve become famous in a world that doesn’t even know I exist. But I prefer that my identity remain anonymous, just as I had in my youth. In many ways, I still bask in the shadows of the orphanage, yet I finally feel the need to unburden myself of the truth. So it appears I have a dilemma.
In an attempt to infiltrate the gaming world that supports me, I recently began writing under the guise of internet review author, Shawn Cooper. While scanning the forums at GameSpot, I came upon a certain competition called “Battle of the Writers”. So here I am, writing an autobiography about a ‘fictional’ videogame character. The perfect opportunity for me to tell the truth,
and for you not to believe it.
I am Mario Delvechio, and this is my story.
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