Thanks, Dad...

So what is the secret to being a good father?

Don't ask me, I can't even find a wife yet.

As the sun sets on yet another June holiday filled with cheap ties, new drills, and breakfast In bed, all of us seemed to have taken a few moments and remembered the Dad's in our lives. The ones who would play catch in the backyard with us, teach us how to ride bikes, tell us stories late at night while tucking us in, and everything else cliche' about what defines a Father.

But it's more than just those stereotypes that makes our own Dad's who they are. We all know this. We all grew up with the unique traits and characteristics that chiseled out who our Dad's were, and are, and will be for whoever knows how long. Small things. Things that nobody else understands. Things that only relate to us. Things that make no sense in the eyes of someone else, but are perfectly clear to us. Those are the things that we are all grateful for. I know I am. My Dad was one unique guy himself. He had those things.

Things like eating a bunch of Oreo cookies, plastering them all over his mouth then turning to a crowd with a big smile on his face and saying "Is there anything in my teeth?". Or jamming out to "Honky Tonk Woman" by the Rolling Stones and then explaining to me, awkwardly that the song is about Prostitution. (We didn't jam out to that song anymore for some reason after that.) Or cheering on the Buckeyes every year. Yes, my Dad is the reason that I bleed crimson and grey.

My Dad was a great man. A great big boob if you ask me. Ironic that I give him that nickname despite the fact that I have 11 sisters, I'm just saying this because he would get emotional and break down in tears after seeing a motivational Nike commercial. Trust me, he did. On multiple occasions.

The man was a wrestler. That didn't go well with me being the 6'5" basketball junkie that I am. It didn't really bother me that he grew up getting all tangled up with other sweaty guys for hours on end, the thing that got me was the fact that this two-time Wrestling State runner-up could beat me one-on-one in my sport with a pathetic hook shot and meager three point jumper, day in and day out. I don't know what it is about never being able to beat your Dad.

He was a great man in my eyes. And always will be. It's been over six years now since depression, a sour job turn and shotgun cartridge erased him from my existence. But those memories of him will always stay strong with me. Especially when I jam out to Honky Tonk Woman and cheer on the Buckeyes.

So wherever your Dad is, thank him. I sure will.