A Tribute to My Dad

Yesterday, January 24, 2013, would have been my dad's 67th birthday. It was difficult to celebrate because Dad died last summer after suffering a pair of massive strokes.  He was my hero, my mentor, my best friend and I miss him like crazy.  But difficult though it was, I chose yesterday to celebrate my father's life and what he meant to and continues to mean to me.

Like many young men, my love of sport came from my father.  Dad was a great athlete.  He never made the tour, but he was a fiercely competitive golfer.  He was a football official well into his 40s until a shoulder injury from playing church softball put him on the sidelines.  He was strong as a bull; even as I hit adolescence and began lifting weights I could not touch him arm wrestling or playing mercy.

Thanks to his inspiration and guidance, I was able to play football in college, ultimately earning a partial scholarship that helped offset the cost of my education.  He had a way of inspiring me no coach ever figured out.  I remember one time when I was really getting frustrated by a lack of playing time (I was a tireless worker, but was never the athlete Dad was), I got down and continually made the same mistake, biting on play action and giving up the long pass.  I whined to Dad and his words have stuck with me to this day:  "Stop being a (expletive)." Very poignant.  Now, I don't encourage fathers (or mothers) to speak to their children like this, but then again, Dad never had.  He'd always tried to encourage me and use positive reinforcement.  But this time he knew I needed a kick in the butt.  I didn't get much more playing time after that, but I DID have a better experience after his little attitude adjustment.  Dad always knew just what to say and when to say it.

I will miss Dad's call this year as the Super Bowl rolls around.  He always wanted to know who I was cheering for, and nine times out of 10 he took the other team so we could bet. A quarter was the standard; I think I still owe him abot $20!

My youngest son has taken a love of sports just like his dad and my father before me.  When I see him dribbling a soccer ball or swining a bat, I think I feel the same pride my dad felt when I ran onto the gridiron.  My oldest son isn't a huge sports fan, and that's okay.  I'm able to enjoy his zest for life and his creativity and artistic skills, again with the pride my dad showed in me.

I guess that is why I am such a sports fan and why I get so fired up at games.  It was a way for Dad and me to connect, to have fun together and to compete.  That may be what I miss the most.