“I’m Sergeant Franks of the First Infantry Regiment, Second Battalion, Third Brigade. I did two tours in Iraq. Went over in 1990 to take out Saddam, didn’t do it the first time, so went back and got the job done. Lost my limb in armed combat.” He gestures to his pinned-up sleeve. “That’s a joke. You can laugh.” No one does. He reaches over and tugs at the pinned cuff, and for a moment I worry he’s going to show us the amputation, but he just lets go and leans back into the microphone. “You’re all doing very courageous work protecting this country and eliminating our enemy without ever having to get hurt. Thanks to Purple Heart, you don’t have to think about VA hospitals, or nights when you can’t sleep because you’re aching so bad it makes you scream.” The rustling of potato chip bags has stopped; even the kids down front aren’t moving. “So, I just want to let you know that this soldier, who served on the ground, congratulates you for playing a game. And, on behalf of Purple Heart, I say thank you for your service.”

The General takes the microphone from Franks. “Let’s stand and give a proud salute to Sergeant Franks!” We all rise and put our hands to our foreheads as a uniformed girl in military cutoffs leads him to the side of the stage, where he awards Medals of Honor to the top five gamers, a mix of high schoolers and middle-aged men like me.

After the ceremony, there’s a frenzy to buy games, posters, and pins. The late-winter sunshine lights the lobby in a soft glow, which would be peaceful if it weren’t for the chaos of a thousand kids and adults crowding merch tables. It’s not as horrible a scene as I used to think it was. Mostly just men talking with each other about the game, a bunch of young women in Sergeant Nightingale costumes hawking stickers, and all our kids excited about the junk they’ve bought.

Eli wants to stay until the end, says they’ll hook us up with free gear once they close, but it’s a rumor that turns out not to be true. The sellers just pack up their supplies and wheel them out, and the hall is empty by the time we leave, the parking lot vacant except for a handful of scattered pickups and a single station wagon parked by ours.

“Isn’t that the sergeant?” Eli asks.

Sure enough, Sergeant Franks is leaning against his station wagon as we approach our car. “You proud to serve your country?” he asks Eli.

“Yes, sir,” my son says.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Eli.”

“How long you been playing?”

“A couple months, but I’m not controlling droids yet,” Eli says and looks at me.