The house I grew up in was in such a rural area it made Mayberry look like a metropolis. There wasn’t another kid my age for miles, so sports and my imagination were how I learned to entertain myself.
I’d watch games, then go outside to re-enact big plays or just pass the time by bouncing tennis balls off a wall and fielding them like grounders, spending countless hours shooting free throws and 3-pointers on my backyard hoop or seeing how many times I could throw a football and hit the same spot on the side of our barn.
I couldn’t wait for my dad to pull into the driveway from work so we could throw wobbly spirals or toss a baseball, even if only for a few minutes. Later in life I would take the importance of those memories and the time my dad took to have a catch with me and make sure I never would be too busy to share those type moments with my own kids.
When I wasn’t playing games as a kid, I was reading about my athletic heroes or favorite teams, so sports was more than just a way to pass the time. It became my escape, and eventually writing about sports became my career.
And in an odd twist, sports — specifically a high school football game — saved my father’s life. I got to thinking about that this week and how this Father’s Day weekend could’ve been a lot different for my sister, myself and our family had it not been for the one thing my dad and I always have shared a passion for.