The legacies of fathers

 I have way too many ties.

When I open my armoire I see a dozen of them, easy, and I know I'm never going to wear at least 10 of them. This is because I was a sportswriter, and adhered to the Sportswriter Dress Code that restricted tie-wearing to weddings, funerals and athletic banquets. And it is also because I'm retired now, and adhere to the Retiree Dress Code: Basketball shorts, T-shirts and ballcaps.

So you see, the stereotypical Father's Day gift is not for me.

And yet ...

And yet, ties define this day.

Ties that bind, if you're lucky. Ties to tradition. Ties to passions and lessons and all the things fathers pass down to sons and daughters -- things of value we scarcely realize have been passed down until long after we grow out of childhood.

My father has been gone five years now. To say I miss him every day, but especially this one, is a cliche that rings true nonetheless.

And, yes, most of that is about those ties, and how they've defined my own life.

From my father I learned to swing level and not try to kill it, and to do the job right or don't do it at all, and to be honest and dependable and true to your word. My passion for history, and the lessons it teaches, I got from my father. Ditto my creative temperament -- for me, writing; for my dad, crafting lovely things with a pocketknife and a chunk of  wood. 

He also passed on his appreciation for all manner of old things.

Here on the bookshelves in our den, for instance -- so close I can reach out and touch it -- is my dad's old baseball glove. One bookshelf over is the football he played with as a child. Propped up in the corner is a child-size hockey stick that belonged to his father, and in the hall closet hangs Dad's old uniform from his Civil War re-enactor days.

And then there are my old things.

A 29-year-old thank you note from Ernie Harwell, the legendary voice of the Detroit Tigers. An autographed photo of Ned Garver, the Shohei Ohtani of the 1950s St. Louis Browns. A photo of me buckling my helmet the night I drove in a charity race at Anderson Speedway 40 summers ago; media credentials and Indianapolis 500 badges that go back 30 years, 35 years, 44 years.

Old things. Cherished things. Ties that transcend mortality, and that are the legacy of fathers.

Happy Father's Day, everyone. And to my own dad, thanks for everything.

Even if I never could swing level, dammit.