Okay, let's be honest, we've all been there. Trapped in the gravitational pull of a slightly-too-competitive game night, staring across the board at *him*. The Old Man.
In my case, the Old Man is my dad. A master strategist, a king of quips, and annoyingly good at everything from Scrabble to charades.
The Build-Up
It started innocently enough. A casual family gathering, pizza ordered, and the board game box dusted off. Classic, right?
Except, Dad was in *peak form*. Every move calculated, every joke perfectly timed to throw us off our game.
My sister lost it during Pictionary when he somehow managed to draw a "paradox" that looked suspiciously like a squashed pigeon. My brother was fuming after losing at Monopoly because Dad bought up all the orange properties like some real estate shark.
The Boiling Point
Then came the tipping point: Trivial Pursuit. Arts and Literature. Seriously, Dad?
He was on a roll, rattling off answers like he was Wikipedia in human form. Me? I was stuck trying to remember the name of that painter with the weird mustache. (It was Dali, by the way. I remembered after he smugly got the point.)
My frustration was reaching critical mass. I swear I saw steam coming out of my ears.
The Call-Out
That's when it happened. A question about obscure 18th-century poets. He starts to answer, and I just... snapped.
"Hold on!" I declared, slamming my hand on the table (which, in hindsight, was probably a bit dramatic).
"I'm calling you out, Old Man!" I announced, channeling my inner movie hero. "No more Mr. Nice Guy!"
The room went silent. My mom choked on her pizza. My brother and sister stared at me, a mixture of shock and amusement on their faces.
The Terms of Engagement
My challenge? A rematch. Any game. My choice. Winner takes all...bragging rights for the next year!
He grinned, that knowing, slightly condescending grin that only a father can master. "You're on," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
The tension was palpable. You could practically cut it with a pizza cutter.
The Showdown
I chose the game strategically, of course. Not something he was naturally good at. Not chess, not trivia, not anything requiring actual skill or knowledge.
No, I went for *Charades*. Pure, unadulterated, silly, physical comedy. His Achilles' heel!
He struggled. Oh, he struggled. Trying to act out "the invention of the printing press" without laughing was a sight to behold.
The Victory (Sort Of)
Did I win? Well, technically, yes. My team squeaked out a victory by one point. But the real win was the sheer joy of watching my dad, the all-knowing Old Man, flail around like a confused octopus.
He may have lost the game, but he won the night with his good sportsmanship. And maybe I learned a valuable lesson: sometimes, it's not about winning, it's about the hilarious memories you make along the way.
And the right to brag, of course. For at least a few weeks, anyway. Until the next family game night, when the Old Man inevitably seeks his revenge.
