The boys received a PlayStation for Christmas. All was well and good. They retreated in delight to play their game. Every now and then, I would wander through the room. Play a little of a game. Not understand the confusing controller. Get my butt kicked. Shrug my shoulders. Wander off.

All of this changed, when we inserted the Atari Flashback disc. Game on. I suggested that we play Atari football. Game over.

One by one, I played my children. One by one, I crushed them. No matter that the controller was foreign to my old thumbs. No matter that I had not played the game in 30 years. No matter that I was turning the remote like a steering wheel (I was told that’s foolish and doesn’t help). No matter that I was holding the controller so hard that a blister was forming. Glory was in view. Atari glory of old. I was unstoppable.

My middle aged eyes embraced the poor graphics, horrible sound effects, and plodding pace of play. My children struggled to adjust to the 2D graphics and simplistic commands. I was in my element. I was the greatest of all-time (G.O.A.T.) back on the field.

Soon the kids became desperate taking turns just to keep the game close. No bother, their father was in the zone.

Then I set a new goal, one that my children accepted as a challenge. I was ahead in the football game, 100-28, but the score read 0-28. It looked like they were ahead. With a little over 90 seconds left, could I lap them? Challenge accepted. Ha! Game on!

A pick six here, a bomb there, the dust settled and their ancient dad had won, 142-28.

Someday, my children will beat me at Atari, as well. That’s just the way that life works. Christmas 2018, well that’s a different story. That day, today, this dad is still the G.O.A.T.