Every year we hear dozens of stories of inspirational fathers that do anything & everything to help their child realize their dreams.  Usually we hear about it during a postgame celebration following a championship win.  Jamie Garrett will not be one of those dads.

It's not that I don't think either of my sons couldn't possibly be on a team that wins a championship that leads to a TV interview after one of the two hit the game-winning shot.  I'm just saying I won't be the guy they're thanking.  At least not wholeheartedly.  There's a reason for that.

I don't know when or where it was that sports became not only year-round, but round-the-clock as well.  I remember hearing parents complain about summer workouts for football and how time-consuming it was to transport the kids to practices all summer long.

Now it's not just enough to destroy summers.  Now they're making sure I'm not getting the beauty sleep I'm needing.  My 12-year-old son, in the 7th grade, has practice before school at 6am, during school during his athletic period, and after school for baseball, basketball or football.

That's three different practices PER DAY.  When the before-school practices began first for basketball, I toughed it out.  When they continued for track & field practice, I voiced my displeasure.  I was happy that he was trying something new (shot-put), but I wasn't happy that it took 90-minutes each morning to teach my son how to spin in a circle and let go of a frisbee.

One of these two boys better bring home a championship to make up for all those early morning drives. Photo by Grammie.

My breaking point came late last week when I discovered that, with track season finished, it's offseason basketball practice before school.  If I lived close enough to the school that I could only open one eye, drive him there and hit the sack again after dropping him off, that would be one thing, but we live in a completely different city!

Apparently, I wasn't hiding my disgust in this morning ritual of ours.  I became aware of just how much of a baby I was being when I apologized for my behavior during our drives to school and he said, "I know you're not made at me".  I am a terrible father.  Michael Jordan's dad wouldn't have complained.  Tiger Woods' dad wouldn't have complained.

True, my children aren't the next Tiger or MJ, but they could possibly, one day, in some league, be the last player on the end of the bench that came in during that one blowout loss for mop-up duty.  Those players still get the ring, and that's what really matters.

What also matters is that this dad won't be mentioned in any postgame interview.  If I AM mentioned, it'll be along the lines of, "I'd like to thank my father, without whom I might never have known what a lazy slob looks like and might have one day become one myself".  It hurts already, and it's only in my head.  For now.