Happy Father's Day

My dad hates sports.
He always has.
Sure, he’ll watch Nevada games to keep up with what’s going on in my world (and I’m usually covering the games on the sideline, so I get ESPN cameos whenever the opposing coach throws a hissy fit), but other than that he’s probably watched less than five games my entire life.
That would seemingly be a problem.
My dad is quiet and doesn’t have much interest in sports. I am a loud obnoxious sports writer.
Still, I wouldn’t be in the same place without my dad.

When I was 10 years old, I badly wanted to try out for pitcher on my Little League baseball team, but I didn’t think I could do it (this was during the brief time during my physical progression between being tiny and being huge).
Then one day after school, my dad took me to the park and made me give it a shot.
Had just worked outside all day, but he crouched down behind the plate for more than an hour while I pitched to him.
I had never had the courage to try pitching before, but it turned out I was pretty good.
After that session, I had the confidence to do the same thing during practice, and I ended up being one my team’s two pitchers.
I obviously didn’t end winning a Cy Young award, but it did help me keep going in sports and teach me that I could accomplish whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough.
My dad did that kind of stuff all the time.
He worked hard and hated sports, but he’d still find the time to grab his glove and go out back and play catch, or throw me ground balls, or toss whiffle balls so I could get in a little pregame batting practice.
He didn’t know anything about soccer, but he coached my AYSO team so I could play (I was actually good. Again, this was between being small and being large).
From the time I started t-ball at 6 years old to when I gave up team sports to play golf in high school, I think my parents missed about six games spanning three sports.
My dad has made sacrifices my whole life so I could do the things I wanted to do.
He helped me move all over the West for internships when I couldn’t do it myself. He didn’t complain when I couldn’t visit home because I had to work. And he always wrote a check whenever I needed to do something or go somewhere that benefited my resume.
My dad didn’t have the knowledge to teach me how to throw a curveball, we’ve honestly never had a discussion that included the words “fantasy” and “football” in succession, and he couldn’t help me fix my golf swing when I started spraying balls from the second tee box into our front yard.
He did teach me I could do whatever I wanted by showing me how to work hard and supporting the outcome.
So I didn’t inherit the things I do from my dad – but I did learn how to be who I am because of him.