(www.dallasnews.com)

A father has a strange job in the raising of his children, and if those children happen to be male, the job becomes exponentially more difficult. A father has to be feared and respected in his house, his word final among his children. Historically,  the task of discipline is passed off to the father.

As a man with a 3 year old son, I understand these things, and struggle to balance them with the fact that I love my son so much it makes my heart burst. I tell him daily that I love him, that I am proud of him, and try to affirm his accomplishments. Still, he looks at me as a tyrant from time to time and can most often be found snuggled up with his mother, paying me as little attention as possible.

Already he tests himself against me, attempts to pick up the things I pick up, jump off the things I jump off, and attacks me as I turn the corners of my house. These situations make me smile, happy that I have such a scrappy child, but I recognize that it is part of my son’s path from boy to man.

I was much the same in my childhood, all boy and constantly measuring myself against my father, who I thought of as almost a superhero. Adding to that mystique was the fact that my father is a man of few words, and at times even less patience. He was not an angry man, but he liked to work at his pace and didn’t always have time to show an over inquisitive small boy exactly what he was doing.

Sports were our glue for a long time. Some of my earliest memories are of wrestling my father in the living room. My first love was basketball, but because my father loved football, I spent most of my time and effort on that sport. I still remember the day that my father and I went to talk to my mom about letting me get out of karate and into tackle football. I was nervous she wouldn’t let me play, but excited at the possibility of doing something that would impress him.

Before organized sports, Dad and I were constantly in the back yard, playing catch and two man baseball, or during the many times my mother and sister joined, (all the time, my Mom was the best athlete of all of us), kicking around the soccer ball. What I enjoyed most about these times was that for that period of time, it seemed like  Dad was just mine, patiently instructing me, enjoying my success, testing me, encouraging me to bounce back from failure.

My Mom was great about spelling her life lessons out clearly, Dad less so. Almost all of what I learned from my father I learned through sports, from his correction and encouragement, or from watching him be the man he would wish me to be. I learned Kvaal’s didn’t quit during my lone abysmal little league baseball season. I learned sportsmanship was mandatory after mouthing off to a ref in a freshman basketball game. I learned that good isn’t good enough when it isn’t all you’ve got after several sub par football games.

That was the lesson that most represents my dad, everyday deserves your best, for you to give it whatever you can give.

When I flamed out after a lack luster attempt at college football, I came home expecting disappointment from Dad, but instead I found a man quick to pick up the spirits of his dejected son, and set him on the path to a productive life.

In that life I have found all the lessons he taught me with a ball still hold true, Kvaal’s don’t quit, sportsmanship isn’t optional, and everyday is owed my best. The lessons taught in the back yard showed me how to provide for my family, and more importantly how to relate to my son.

At Thanksgiving and Christmas every year when I go home, I always take a football, and my wife always looks at me like I am crazy. But that football almost ensures I will get a few moments of my childhood back. Fleeting minutes of catch in the front of my parents new house, still often joined by Mom, minutes where my father is still momentary just mine, still testing me, saying ” if you can touch it you can catch it”, still often throwing an arm around my neck on the walk up to the front door afterword. These moments are golden to me. Reminders of what a father and son can have, and in these moments I aspire to that with my own son.

Dax can’t catch or throw a full sized football yet, but to my mothers pleasure he can shoot and pass a soccer ball, and to his Puerto Rican family’s pleasure he can switch hit off a tee. I patiently instruct him, test him, enjoy his success and encourage him to keep trying when he fails, and because his neck isn’t high enough to throw my arm around, as we walk inside I place my hand on his head and tussle his hair.

These times with my young son are the best times of my life, and they are gifts from my father.

In this edition of the Strained Hammy Podcast, we talk sports. Sports on sports on sports.

More specifically, we talk about what to do with Jurickson Profar in light of Nelson Cruz’s likely suspension, just how bad that Chris Davis trade is looking, and the position battles we can look forward to at Cowboys training camp.

0:30 – 15.45: Rangers talk

16:15 – 40:50: Cowboys talk

Enjoy!