Father's Day feels different now that I'm both a son and a dad. I still see my own dad on the sidelines of sporting events and on the other end of late-night phone calls, but I also see a little boy named Jamie watching me and quietly taking notes. I'm somewhere in the middle now, trying to honor what my dad gave me and pass the best of it along to my son.
There are five memories and lessons I'm especially thankful for, and if I can get even a few of these right with Jamie, I'll consider that a win.
Growing up, my dad coached a lot of the recreational sports teams my siblings and I played on. Multiple nights a week, he'd leave work, grab a whistle, and turn a bunch of kids with varying attention spans into something that sort of resembled a team. Some of us were focused on the drills; some of us (not me) were more locked in on the binder of Pokémon cards we brought to the Saturday morning game.
Coaching wasn't just about dribbling a ball around. It meant planning practices, answering questions from parents about playing time, and trying to keep a straight face when someone in the outfield was picking flowers instead of paying attention. It took patience, time, and a willingness to spend his evenings in a folding chair instead of on the couch.
As I got older and the sports got more serious, he wasn't my official coach anymore, but the support never changed. He and my mom were still the ones picking me up from practices, sitting through long track meets, and figuring out how to get to some random track halfway across the country to watch me compete for just a few minutes.
Lesson learned: sometimes support means planning, leading, and organizing. Sometimes it just means you keep showing up, even when it would be easier not to.
With Jamie, that might look like being on the sideline for whatever he loves most, even if that ends up being something I don't fully understand, and making sure he knows I'm there.
When I told my parents I wanted to move to New York for college and my first job, they had every reason to worry. I was chasing opportunities in a big and unfamiliar city, looking at tiny, overpriced apartments that barely fit a bed and a coffee table. It would have been easy for my dad to push for a safer, closer path.
Instead, he helped me think it through. He toured apartments with me, talked through the pros and cons, and sat with me as I put together my first real budget. He didn't make the decision for me. He just made sure I had my eyes open and a plan in place.
That wasn't anything new. In college, I'd call him at midnight before economics midterms and finals, trying to cram enough in to scrape together a passing grade. He'd walk me through concepts over the phone, probably knowing the best-case scenario was a C, but he stayed on the line anyway. In high school, when I decided to grow my hair out and wear a Led Zeppelin leather jacket while playing in a band, he could have dug his heels in. Instead, he gave me a little space to figure out who I was. He didn't let me wear those red pants, though. Thankfully.
Lesson learned: patience and encouragement matter more than control. He let me try things, take reasonable risks, and even stumble a bit without making me feel like failure was fatal.
Right now, Jamie's big risks are sliding down the big slide at the park. My instinct is to say "Careful!" every time. I hope I can remember what my dad did for me: stay close, stay available, but still let him fall just enough to learn.
My dad taught me a lot in moments that didn't look like lessons at all. I noticed how he talked to people: the server at the restaurant, the person bagging our groceries, the neighbor down the street. He never made a big show of it, but he consistently treated people with respect.
If there was a long wait or a mistake with an order, he stayed calm. He said thank you. He looked people in the eye. Over time, that quiet pattern sank in more deeply than any speech about manners could have. There was also a sense of openness in the way he moved through the world, a default assumption that the people around him were worth knowing, not just passing by.
That mindset didn't start with him. My grandfather, Papa, was the same way. We practically had to drag him out of church or restaurants because he'd strike up a conversation with someone new and settle in like they'd known each other for years. Watching him, and then my dad, I learned that a simple hello or a friendly question can turn a stranger into a connection. That mentality has opened a lot of doors for me, personally and professionally, because I grew up believing that the people around me might have something to share.
Lesson learned: your kids are always watching how you treat people when you don't think anyone is paying attention. Respect and openness are things you pass down one interaction at a time.
As Jamie grows up and we move through our own list of errands and everyday routines, I hope he sees that same kind of respect and curiosity in how I talk to the people we cross paths with. Long before he understands the why, he'll feel the tone. And maybe one day he'll be the one we have to drag out of a conversation.
We moved around quite a bit when I was growing up: new schools to settle into, friends to make, routines to rebuild as a family. On paper, that can sound unsettled, but what I remember most isn't the change itself. I remember that, no matter where we were or what the details of life looked like, our family felt consistent. The scenery shifted, but the core stayed the same.
That steadiness showed up in small, unexpected moments too. I still remember being out in the backyard, testing out some of his new tools, feeling very confident in my skills. One wrong move later, I'd managed to blow a hole straight through the sprinkler system. It was the kind of mistake that could have easily earned a lecture or a raised voice. Instead, he didn't get mad. He took a breath, looked at the damage, and calmly shifted into: okay, let's figure out how to fix this.
Lesson learned: being a steady dad isn't about keeping everything perfectly stable or preventing every mistake. It's about responding with calm and consistency when things go sideways.
As Jamie grows up, I know we'll face our own set of moves, changes, and sprinkler moments. My hope is that through all of it, he feels what I felt: that even when circumstances change or something breaks, his family doesn't.
Some of what I learned about being a dad didn't come from how my dad treated me directly, but from how he treated my mom and our family as a whole. I watched him unload the car after a long day, do the unglamorous chores, and show up for the little things that made our house feel like a home. It wasn't about big gestures. It was about everyday kindness, teamwork, and showing up consistently.
Those choices sent a clear message: being a husband and a dad isn't just a role, it's a responsibility you show up for daily. The way he spoke to my mom, backed her up with us, and made decisions with our family in mind shaped what I thought normal looked like in a home. Only later did I realize how much that template would matter when it was my turn.
Lesson learned: one of the most powerful things you can give your kids is the example of how to love the people closest to you.
As Jamie grows up, I hope he sees the same thing in the way I love his mom. That caring for her, supporting her, and working as a team is just part of what it means to be a good dad.
Father's Day, for me, isn't really about the perfect plan or the perfect gift. It's about recognizing the quiet, consistent things my dad built into my life and asking myself how I can build those same things into Jamie's.
I won't get it all right. But if he grows up feeling supported, encouraged to try, taught to respect people, and confident that I'll be there when things go sideways, then I'll know that a lot of what my dad gave me made it through to the next generation.