My father’s generation didn’t say “I love you” the way we say it now, casually, at the end of phone calls and in text messages and before bed. His generation showed it by showing up, by being there, by doing the work of preparation so thoroughly that when the moment came, you were ready for it, and that readiness was the proof, that was the love letter, even if nobody ever called it that.
He signed us up for Indian Guides when I was young, which was this father-son program through the YMCA, and I remember the meetings and the projects and the camping trips, but what I remember most is the preparation. Dad didn’t just show up to things. He prepared for them like they mattered, because they did, because everything involving his kids mattered, and so before the pinewood derby he was in the garage helping me shape the car, not doing it for me but making sure I understood the principles, the weight distribution, the aerodynamics, the paint, all of it, so that when race day came I had built something I understood and could be proud of.
Little League followed the same pattern. Tryouts every spring, and every evening before tryouts Dad was in the backyard with me. Fielding drills. Batting practice. Learning how to position yourself, where to stand when the ball is hit to the left side, how to read the batter, how to anticipate. He wasn’t a coach. He was a father who believed that preparation was a form of respect, respect for the opportunity, respect for the competition, respect for the thing you were trying to do. I was the only nine-year-old drafted to the majors instead of the minors that year. And I’ll be honest with you, by any objective assessment, I was a terrible baseball player. But I was there. I was prepared. I showed up knowing what I was supposed to do, even if my body couldn’t always do it, and that made a difference that talent alone wouldn’t have.
You know, I carry that with me into everything I do now, and I see it in my teaching, in how I prepare for a class, in how I approach a project. Nothing starts without preparation. Nothing gets my best unless I’ve done the work beforehand to understand what my best even looks like in that context. And when I watch students try to wing it, try to show up to a presentation without having rehearsed or submit a design without having researched the audience, I think about Dad in the backyard, throwing ground balls until the streetlights came on, and I understand something he never had to explain, which is that the preparation is the love. The rehearsal is the respect. The practice is the proof that you take this seriously enough to give it everything you have before the moment arrives.
He’s gone now, and there are a hundred things I wish I’d said to him and a hundred things I wish I’d asked him, and I can’t do either of those things anymore, but I can do this. I can stand in front of a classroom and teach the way he taught me, which is to prepare thoroughly, show up fully, and trust that the readiness will carry you through the parts you can’t predict. And when I do that, when I pour preparation into something until it’s ready, I hear him in the backyard, and the streetlights are on, and he’s saying one more, just one more, because that’s how you get ready for the thing that matters.
