Growing up, my old man wasn't into golf or sports cars or expensive booze.

He wasn't like other dads.

The man was really into sitting in his underwear and pushing buttons and winning games.

I remember when he brought home our first video game system.

He carried the box in his arms as if he had snatched it out of a basket floating in the Nile.

I remember thinking how many trips to the amusement park one could buy with the funds he invested in a toy I never asked for.

If he had asked me if I wanted an expensive toy, I would have happily told him that what I truly required was a Castle Grey Skull playset.

It was stunning to see that he had used me, his son.

I was his excuse to buy a video game system for himself.

When he first powered it up, he clapped a slow clap, his football clap. The clap he had spent

his life perfecting. A slow, satisfied clap that said, good effing. There was a half an hour

sweet spot there where I was totally pro video game. I played the game Pong. It was a stupid game.

Usually a child's imagination is steak sauce. It can spice up a stick and turn it into a lightsaber.

But I saw Pong for what it was, two rectangles batting a dot back and forth.

It managed to make actual table tennis seem like exciting fun,

and table tennis was a game you found in church basements, where fun goes to die.

It didn't help that I had no natural aptitude for video game playing.

I gave up.

Don't give up, son.

My dad said, try again. You can't fail forever.

Forever is a very long time. From day one, dad was hooked. The joy on his face when he'd escape into some maze was so real. I suddenly realized that he had a totally different

happy face than the one I usually saw when I'd announce I wanted to be a ballerino when I grew up.

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