Draft Days

My father and I, as far back as I can remember, loved to talk sports, especially the Pittsburgh Steelers. It is true enough that we had plenty of valuable and enjoyable conversations on knotty theological issues and subtle biblical texts. It is even more true that we almost always agreed. I remember telling him, though I’m not sure he was persuaded, that even where we disagreed it was because I was seeking to take a position we shared to its necessary logical conclusion. Downstream disagreements flowed out of shared upstream sources.

When I was in elementary school I admired my dad, and wanted to be like him, in the realm of sports. He had earned a football/baseball scholarship to college. When I entered into high school I continued to admire my dad, and wanted to be like him, in the realm of theology, philosophy and apologetics. While there were times when I behaved badly, I was never in open rebellion against my father, always hungering for his approval. That has never changed.

What has changed is that I no longer hear from him. He went on to His reward more than six years ago. Were he still with us, however, I wouldn’t be having those heavy conversations with him right about now. Instead we’d be talking about the NFL draft. He’d start out by asking me what positions I’d pick for the Steelers in the first three rounds. Then he’d wait patiently to break down his first three choices. Then we’d go back and forth awhile until the conversation would veer into epistemology, how we know things.

That is, I’d say, “I can’t for the life of me figure out how come no one seems to know who will do well and who won’t. When two of the best players of the last twenty years were both 6th round draft picks, when the majority of first round quarterbacks either ride the bench or don’t even play five years in, it sure seems like a crapshoot. I’d argue that we won’t really know until the end of the following season, and we’d measure by wins, losses and play-off births.

I wasn’t, mind you, arguing that our conversation was fruitless. No, I loved the conversation, even though it never led to any definitive conclusions, for one simple reason- they were conversations with my father. I got to listen to his gravelly voice, to his infectious laugh. I got to watch his eyes light up. I got to see him relax. I got to be the skeptic and he the optimist, until the regular season began and we’d switch positions, he bemoaning that the Steelers were doomed, me believing magic would strike again.

For some people it is the holidays that bring to mind the blessings lost from loved ones who have passed on. For me it is NFL draft season. I doubt he’ll be watching, but if he is, it’s probably around a table with Chuck Noll and Myron Cope. I miss my dad, and love him. I miss in turn loving the Steelers with him.