A few months back, my whole family met up at my brother’s house, and my dad and I went downstairs to play Ping-Pong. I should be able to hold my own, I thought. Across the table, serve after serve, my dad would sweep the paddle over the ball, the spin strong enough to change its natural arc and make the ball curve toward the edge of the table before I could get there to return it. My dad kept winning. By 10 points. Then 12 points. Fifteen. It wasn’t even close.