Open Salon is a flood of posts today about fathers who found redemption in their children's eyes, about forgiveness and loss, about special Father's Day memories. My dad was never abusive, never mean ... he has nothing for which to seek redemption, or desire forgiveness, from his children. He was just dad, working every day to support a family on less than it needed, stretching that used Buick for another 50000 miles, rewiring a cousin's house. But, perhaps like any father, there are moments that stand out for me, moments when he showed what it means to be a father in ways that perhaps even he didn't realize at the time.

This is not a story about Father's Day, but it is a story about a father, and about what fathers do for their children. In Alberta where I come from, there is a giant football game every Labour Day, between the Calgary Stampeders and the Edmonton Eskimos. It is called the Labour Day Classic, and for as many years as I can remember, Calgary and Edmonton have battled in their rivalry on the football field. Since my birthday is Sept 5 and usually falls on or near Labour Day, the Labour Day Classic has always held a special birthday significance for me.

One year, in the early 70's (I think it was the year I turned 6, but I'm not 100% sure), my dad decided to get us tickets to the game as a birthday present for me. More than just tickets to a professional football game, they represented a chance to spend the day with my father. He'd specifically only bought tickets for me and him, leaving my older brother at home with my mom. I looked forward to the day for weeks, bouncing off the walls in anticipation.

When the day finally arrived, Dad and I loaded into his old white Buick for the trip to Calgary, a 60 mile drive from our small town.  On the way up, we talked excitedly about the game until my dad turned silent, a concerned look on his face, glancing at the dashboard of the car.  Within minutes, we were slowing down, and he was pulling the car to the side of the road, near a bridge over a small creek.

As steam poured out of the radiator of the car, my dad trudged up and down the embankment, carrying creek water to try to cool the engine down, while I sat in the car listening to the pre-game show on the radio.  As the announcers got closer and closer to the starting kickoff, I started getting worried that we'd miss the game.

Despite his best efforts, Dad wasn't able to fix the car.  After a couple hours of trying, while I listened to the game on the radio, we finally managed to limp back home, the car still sputtering and spewing steam.  I remember being intensely disappointed that  we missed the game, and throwing a tantrum as 6 year old's are wont to do.  As a 6 year old, all I could see was that we didn't get to see the game.

In the nearly 4 decades since that missed football game, I've had a lot of time to think about it.  I no longer think of that day as the day my dad couldn't take me to a football game.  Instead, it's the day I spent with Dad trying to get to a football game.  Its the day he put every ounce of his effort into trying to get me to the game.  It's the day he entertained a bored, disappointed 6 year old while he tried to fix his car.  It's the day he apologized to his son for something that was completely outside of his control.

It's one of the many days he proved he was my dad.  He was never a showy dad, never the dad that demanded attention.  He was always the dad who made sure we got to baseball practice and who could be counted on to fix that problem with one of my string of "beater" cars.  He was the dad who quietly did all those things that dads are supposed to do, without ever asking for thanks or recognition.  So, even though you never asked for it, Thanks Dad, for being Dad.