Fatherhood shows up in small, stubborn moments: a kid’s offhand boast, a shared weekend ritual, the memory of a mentor lost in service. This piece traces a few of those moments — a backyard of practices and games, a snowy childhood taught by a dad, and a haunting reminder of sacrifice from a colleague who never came home. It’s a short, honest look at why being present matters and how certain memories anchor us for life.
One night a few months ago my younger son was getting ready for bed and, while I was tucking him in, he looked up and said, “Dad, I’ve made a lot of assists in my soccer games these past few years — I don’t remember how many. But I’ve scored 31 goals. And you know what? You were there and saw every one of them.” That line landed like a warm, unexpected gift. He probably didn’t know how much it meant, but it was one of the most genuine compliments I’ve ever been given.
I have tried not to miss a game and I make an effort to show up for practices too. When coaches asked me to help run drills, I did it gladly, because there was nowhere else I’d rather be than out on the field with him and his teammates. Those muddy, chaotic afternoons are where the best, simplest memories are made.
My own father taught me to ski when I was four, and we spent countless weekends and vacations in New England. At the time I thought it was about the slopes, but later I realized the real prize was the unstructured time together — the car rides, the packed lunches, the debates about sports and history. Those trips built a relationship that quietly shaped how I thought about family and responsibility.
On Father’s Day my mind drifts to friends and colleagues too, people who embodied a different kind of fatherly courage. I think about a former CIA colleague, Dave Tyson, and about Mike Spann, a Marine Corps officer and CIA paramilitary case officer, whom I never met but whose story I carry. They were part of the first small teams to enter Afghanistan after 9/11, and their sacrifices are impossible to forget.
On Nov. 25, 2001 they were at Qala-i-Jangi, a historic fort where a brutal prison uprising unfolded as they were collecting intelligence. Mike Spann focused on a high-value detainee, John Walker Lindh, who had trained at a notorious foreign camp and whose presence raised alarm bells. The day turned violent, Mr. Spann fought against overwhelming odds, and Mr. Tyson scrambled to safety after trying to help him.
Mr. Spann became the first American casualty in that fight against al Qaeda and the Taliban, and his actions set an example for those who followed. He was collecting intelligence to keep others safe, a task that required courage and calm under pressure. He left behind three children, and thinking about them makes those sacrifices feel painfully close, especially around family holidays.
There’s a small image that stuck with me: Mr. Tyson’s son calling his father’s mud-covered boots “Dad’s lucky boots” when he came back from a dangerous mission. That childlike certainty — believing in a parent’s return despite the risk — is one of the tender things that stays with you. It’s a reminder that fatherhood means showing up, literally and emotionally, even when the cost is high.
My own father passed away when I was already in my 50s, and every day I get with my boys feels like a gift I don’t take for granted. I try to lean into those ordinary moments because they compound into a life story that matters more than any single event. On Father’s Day I feel that gratitude deeply, for the small routines and the big absences that together define what it means to be a dad.
DADS AREN’T OPTIONAL — AND AMERICA’S KIDS ARE PAYING THE BRUTAL PRICE
