One summer day in 1989, my family found an Atari 2600 at a yard sale. Even then, it was a wood-paneled relic of a simpler time, before slap bracelets or mutated turtles. My parents were happy to fork over $10 for a withered Bankers Box stuffed with a pair of controllers and enough games to keep 5-year-old Pete enchanted for months. I was completely addicted. At bedtime, theyâd have to pry the controller from my hands. Then, a few months later, I came home from soccer practice to find a sleek, gray Nintendo NES waiting for me. Iâm not even sure what happened to the Atari; it might still occupy a milk crate in my parentsâ basement.