My father turned 60 last week. After years of jokes, hints, whispers and allusions, as of March 21, there’s no getting around it: My Old Man is an old man.
    
At least, he’s supposed to be.
    
Truth be told, the guy could pass for someone half his age. OK, that’s a lie. But an unsuspecting stranger could definitely mistake my dad for someone who doesn’t remember life before television. Heck, even as he approaches retirement age, the guy has a full head of hair and plays golf and softball on the weekends.
    
Until recently, I was unconvinced of his everlasting youth and vitality. It actually took something pretty extraordinary to show me just how young my ancient father really is.
    
It happened on Feb. 27, the night of the Villanova University basketball game. Papa Fersh came to campus to visit his youngest son and catch some Big East basketball action. After the final buzzer rang and the campus exploded into fits of celebration, he met up with me and my roommates to hang out in our suite before he went to bed and we left for wherever the night would take us.
    
My roommates, however, were way too excited to sit around and behave themselves while we waited for the baby boomer to tucker out and go to sleep. So we convinced him to partake in the festivities. Just like that, at 59 years, 11 months and 6 days old, Robert Joel Fersh played his first game of pong.
    
Oh, and by ‘played,’ I mean ‘dominated.’
    
I had barely finished explaining the rules of the game to my elderly partner when he drained a cup on his first attempt. Our opponents were stunned. I was speechless.
    
Then he hit another. And another. I could hardly hit the table because I was rusty from a week without playing. My father’s six-decade layoff had no effect on his game whatsoever.
    
Pretty soon my poor play had us down to our final cup, while our opponents still had two left on their side. Somehow, I summoned my inner Kobe Bryant and sunk the front cup, leaving the gray-haired rookie with one opportunity to finish the game before my roommates got a chance to end it.
    
Our opponents stood relaxed at the other side of the table. There’s no way a beginner could hit this shot. Sure, he could own a house, file for Social Security and even get away with wearing a fanny pack in public, but there’s no way he could hit this shot.
    
Feeling desperate, I turned to my dad and offered some words of encouragement. He just smiled the way a father does when his son does something cute, like pretending to be a puppy or peeing on a fire hydrant. Not that I would know.
      
Either he was completely oblivious to the life-or-death nature of his ensuing shot or supremely confident that 60 years of life experience would guide that little ball into the red cup across the table, securing him eternal pong glory and permanent baller status.
      
My dad leaned back, flicked his wrist and lofted a shot straight into the bottom of the cup. Game over. Team Fersh was victorious.

That night I realized that no matter how many knee surgeries he’s had or how bad he is with a computer, for my father, old age is just a number. Whether it’s kicking butt at pong or raising four children, his youth continues to shine, even if his birth certificate says otherwise.
      
So, Dad, here’s hoping that when I’m really, really, ridiculously old I end up just like you.

Also, can I borrow 20 bucks?

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and his column appears every Wednesday. He would like to give a shoutout to Alison Kurtzman for being really freakin’ cool, and he wants his readers to know that Rob Fersh remains undefeated at pong to this very day. Danny can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.