Dad's on the Couch Archive

Thunderclouds rumbled ominously in the distance as dusk fell and the smell of ozone in the air further betrayed the coming storm. Oblivious to the approaching tempest were two opponents in a garage from which issued the sounds of panting and the clickity clack of a small white plastic ball that bore a remarkable resemblance to a ping-pong ball only because that's exactly what it was.

The humid air hung close to the two as they raced from corner to corner of the table, serving, returning and volleying, all the while steadfast in their refusal to surrender an inch of ground, much less a point. And then it happened. The game ended, but for the first time there was a brand new victor; it was the younger of the two, a tousle-haired lad of twelve who was notable only for his remarkable resemblance to me and the fact that he had finally beaten his father fair and square at ping pong.

Then, as if on cue, that first sweet moment of victory was underscored by a flash of lighting followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to rock the very foundation of the house, not unlike the crash made by the X-Box controller which startled me from my reverie as it hit the floor.

As I looked around it became abundantly clear by the chiding looks I received from my two lads that I had yet again been fragged by my nine-year-old in Halo2, and that I had yet again allowed my untimely death get the best of me... and that I had yet again set a terrible example for the impressionable lads by flinging my controller to the floor in a fit of pique. Ooops.

So, in the end, it seems there's no denying that somehow, through the mysterious passage of time I have gone from being the newly minted victor, thrusting his paddle aloft into the raging storm in an Arthurian act of youthful defiance of the very forces of nature that were bearing down on him, to a doddering old guy pushing forty who can't even figure out how to jack a warthog without getting fragged. Jeez.

And, now that I think about it, my nine-year-old can ski circles around me. And he has a better three-point average in the driveway than I do. And, I kid you not, he's better at math than I am.

Oh well, unlike him, I can find my own shoes each morning, and even better, I can even remember to flush every time. Heck, that should buy me at least another ten years before the little urchin owns me completely.