My dad: A little thing that wasn't

I read this blog post today and, while it made me cry a bit because I’m sappy like that since becoming a mom, it made me think two things.

One, that while I do utter variations on those six words the blogger described to my kids a fair bit, I could afford to say them more.

And two, my dad is awesome.

Since it’s Father’s Day, and because it’s the one I can’t get out of my head, I’m going to say just a little bit about the latter one.

I’m not sure I ever heard my dad say that he loved to watch me play - or that he loved to watch me do anything, really. It’s just not his way - to say those words. But, he also didn’t have to. He’s more the showing, doing type. And when I think about how great my dad is (which I do with marked frequency), I always come back to recalling how he showed me this kind of love in a way that was utterly clear to me, even at the time. This is especially notable because it occurred when I was a teenager. You know, one of those peeps who could have been focused on and distracted by any number of things. But, I knew it at the time and I have not forgotten it.

See, my dad came to watch my field hockey games.

Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal. Or maybe it does. Regardless, it was big for me.

I grew up in a small town where the boys play town hockey all winter, every weekend and many weeknights. I spent a lot of time in arenas, tagging along at my older brothers’ games. Hockey wasn’t a question, it was just a part of our life every winter. Oh, and then baseball in the summer. Both brothers. All the time.

I dabbled in sports at first, but never really took to anything in particular for a while.

But then in middle school I discovered field hockey and it kind of took over my life every fall for seven years. But this was school sports, where parents aren’t required for transportation purposes. If a parent showed up to a home game, it was kind of an anomaly. An appreciated anomaly.

My dad started his own business the year after I was born and worked very, very hard at establishing, growing and being successful in that business. That often meant finishing the work day off with...more work in the evening. It also meant working a heck of a lot of weekends. Though not completely, growing up I understood on some level that owning a business takes a lot of work. I understood my dad couldn’t just ditch work willy nilly. But, in my conflicted kid brain - and the one that just wanted to hang out with my dad - I kind of wished he would sometimes.

And this is the ‘why my dad is great’ part. My dad was one of those parents that came to my field hockey games.

He sacrificed time he could have been spending on his business or housework or maybe - just maybe - relaxing, feet up, beer in hand, watching the Jays game (this was the ‘90s, so the Jays were actually kind of worth watching). But instead he came to some of my home games. He also came to some tournaments at my school, staying the better part of a day. And you know what was even more awesome? He came to some weekend games in Toronto, over an hour’s drive away.

And every time he came to a game, I loved it. I loved glancing over at him, all set up on the sideline before a game was about to start and seeing him reading his paper. I loved glancing over again after that starting whistle and seeing the paper on the ground beside his chair, his head following every play.

Oh, and here’s another thing that makes this whole thing more special. Field hockey is kind of a weird game, especially if you’re used to ice hockey as my dad was, having two boys playing it, coaching some of those teams, and being a player himself. The rules can seem wonky. It can take a while to figure out what on earth is going on out on that pitch. It probably just looked like a lot of girls running around in skirts yelling at each other.

But he kept coming to the games. Kept putting that paper down when the action started. Some of my favourite conversations with my dad after a game involved him asking for an explanation of something that happened in the game. I knew my dad had absolutely no interest in field hockey outside of my playing the sport. But his asking about it showed engagement. Showed interest. Showed love.

He’d ask a question and regardless of the words he uttered, I pretty much heard “I love to watch you play.”

I knew it and I felt it and it mattered to me. A lot.