I have always associated sports with my father. My father loved sports; he played sports, he watched sports and he passed on a love of sports to me. We connected through sports. In one of my earliest memories I am watching the NFC championship game between the New York Giants and the Washington Redskins with my dad. I remember it was very windy in Giants Stadium because my dad pointed out how the Giants chose to kick off in order to ensure having the wind at their backs during the final quarter. My dad loved when strategy became a part of athletic contests- when it wasn't merely who was strongest or fastest. The football game was not exciting by usual standards. It was a battle of attrition with field position and field goals playing crucial roles. But I think my dad appreciated the cerebral quality to the game. How the Giants used a dominating running game to control the clock and force the Redskins to try and win through the air—a very difficult task with all the wind. But none of that mattered to me; I rooted for the Redskins because of their pretty uniforms. My dad loved sports. But he also loved literature and other more cultured pursuits. This influenced his love of sports. He wasn't the guy who drank a six pack and ate chips after work in front of the TV. My father ate yogurt and fig newtons during the first half, then flossed his teeth during the fourth quarter. He didn't watch basketball to see the slam-dunks; he looked for the back door cuts and sixteen-foot bank shots. He didn't get mad when the Knicks lost; he got angry when the Knicks rushed their shots and failed to box out. My dad appreciated the intricacies of the game and abhorred the showmanship of modern day athletes. Christmas break of my sophomore year—I decide to look through my dad's old scrapbook from high school and college. My mother is cleaning the dishes in the kitchen; my brother is likely on instant messenger and the phone, although he should be doing his homework. "Tommy Lynaugh Wins Districts." "Tommy Lynaugh Leads High School to Victory." It's a very humbling experience. I try to look into the eyes of the young man in the newspaper clippings. It's a very strange feeling. Recently, relatives and family friends have been telling me how much I look like my father. From this young runner's square chin and short cut hair, I see just how strong the resemblance is. It's like looking at an alternative version of myself. Had I been born back then, and loved to run, would my face have shown the agony and glory of winning a cross-country race? Though he excelled at athletics, my father hardly pushed me in sports. He certainly encouraged me and was pleased I enjoyed playing. But he never cared more than I did whether I won or loss. In fact, he was always less upset over my losses than I was and less enthusiastic than me after my triumphs. I am appreciating this more and more as I grow older. This summer I taught tennis at an expensive sleep away camp. Some of the kids were extremely talented, far better than I was at their age. But they seem to enjoy tennis far less than I did. It was a full circle kind of experience—teaching tennis to a group of little boys. As I nervously walked onto the court the first day, followed by four boys half my size, I thought back to all the tennis lessons I had taken. I realized these kids must think I'm really good, probably as good as I thought my instructors were. I had been looking forward to seeing these kids have a good time on the tennis court. But they didn't. They seemed to resent being forced to play. Having played college tennis for over two years I am a bit burned out and don't always look forward to practice. But these kids already seem to dread playing tennis. It's very sad. I wish I could tell them they didn't have to come to this camp and play four hours a day. I wish I could tell them to go home and play video games with their friends. But their parents are on vacation. I think I have always wanted to play college sports. I remember walking home from school in second grade and trying to figure out what my chances for playing college football were given that I was currently the sixth best two hand touch football player at my school. I considered that there were six elementary schools feeding into my high school, and a lot of high schools in my state, and fifty states…Even then I knew the odds were against me. I suppose I yearned to play college sports because of my dad. He was the first in his family to attend college, which he accomplished through a track scholarship to LaSalle. He participated in the Penn relays and came within two seconds of a world record in the 800 meters. My mother told me had he not joined the Jesuits after college, he could have gone to the Olympics. I wanted to accomplish only a fraction of what he had done by playing a sport in college. After my junior year of high school I gave up soccer and ice hockey to concentrate on tennis. I played year round for the first time and continued playing almost every day that summer in hopes of making the team at Kenyon. Early September of freshman year—I call home to tell my parents I made the team. My mom is in disbelief. She keeps asking if I'm kidding. I'm a little offended by her lack of confidence in me, but nothing could have wiped the smile off my face that afternoon. My dad is happy for me in the same way he would have been happy if I had gotten into an interesting class. I like to believe he knows that the quiet confidence he instilled in me four summers earlier when he had me run countless laps had allowed me to overcome another obstacle. He calmly asked me what tryouts were like? Tons of pressure in hundred degree heat. What kind of guy the coach is? A disciplinarian, not particularly friendly. The other guys on the team? They seem nice, but they're really good. It should be fun though When I was younger, sports were one of the only subjects my dad could talk to me about. My dad tried to use sports to get me to work harder in school. It must have driven my parents nuts to see how much harder I worked at sports than in my classes. My dad told me if I studied harder I'd do just as well as the smartest kids in my school. I think he was subtly telling me I had more academic than athletic potential; he was right. Now, when I go home on breaks I watch a lot of sports by myself. Sometimes my mom will come in and sit on the couch, but she'll be reading the New Yorker or Time. We'll talk, usually about my dad, it sometimes feels like she has to get in a requisite number of conversation about my dad each time I come home. I think this is a good thing. It's never pleasant to talk about him, but I always feel better afterwards. One night I tell my mom how I can classify my friends into two categories. I tell her this makes things tough for me sometimes. The guys who like to watch sports and drink beer rarely enjoy talking about literature. And my more cultured friends have an unfortunate tendency to be unable to enjoy a football game with a pizza and a few beers. My mom tells me my father was the same way. I tell her I know. Another night we talk about my future. "I'm thinking about sportswriting, maybe magazines or newspaper. So I guess I'll apply to journalism schools…Well, making money isn't that important to me, but I sometimes feel I should do more with my life…Well, you and dad gave me a lot of advantages, I feel I should be doing something with a higher societal purpose." "Brendan, your dad wanted you to find something you really liked doing, just like he loved being a therapist. As far as money, he would have expected you to give your children what he gave you—an opportunity to go to any college you could." Saturday, the day after my father's funeral service I fly back to Ohio and Kenyon College with my girlfriend. "We don't have to go the Jets game you know," she tells me. My dad and I always talked about going to see the Jets at the Meadowlands, but never got around to it in high school and then I went off to college and my dad was struck by cancer. The Jets are playing the Colts in Indianapolis, my girlfriend's dad had bought us tickets, and they're good seats. Late Sunday night, on the long drive back to Kenyon, silence sets in and I occasionally feel guilty. But know my dad is glad I went and I tell myself I won't put off taking my son to a game.