It’s a thing with most young men to finally be able to beat their dads at something.

For me it was golf. My Dad had the last laugh though, as he won the last round we played before he passed on. (Aside, it was rather heartbreaking to clean out his golf bag after the funeral and find the score card he kept of that round.)

My oldest son has been better than me at most things game-related for some time, but every once in a while he likes to “take a poke at me”.

A few years ago he was on the school wrestling team and thought he could put me down. He was fast, I’ll admit. He shot around my legs and torso like a maniac squirrel  and he actually managed to get a good hold. I’m pretty sure he was thinking “HOLY SHIT! I GOT HIM! I GOT HIM!”, but tragically, I “Hulked out” (his words), picked him up and stuffed him down on the floor and folded him up like skinny oragami. He wasn’t happy. He trash-talked me, I laughed at him, and he slunk away.

But I knew the day was coming.

Last night and a few years older now, he starts goofing around with a toy knife and he makes to stab me with it. Mind you, we were just playing and not going too fast, but I think he was surprised when I disarmed him and twisted his arm up like a pipe-cleaner. I smiled and let him go, and he shot for my hips.

Nuthin doin.

He trash-talked me, I scoffed, and we wandered off.

I still know the day is coming, son…

But not yet.

Not. Yet.