​When I am asked what my favorite sport is, I respond "Notre Dame Football."

A distant second is college football in general.

Because as much as I love watching ALL college football, watching a football game feels dramatically different if Notre Dame isn't in it. And for me, that is what Notre Dame football is all about.

The feeling.

I get asked where this fandom comes from. (Uhm, excuse me, this is full-blown love, NOT fandom). But I never attended Notre Dame. I've never even been to a Notre Dame game. Which is appropriate in many ways, since I fell in love with Notre Dame through the television.

As hard as it is to believe, back in the 70s when my passion for sports was developing, the NCAA tightly restricted college football television appearances for fear it would interfere with tickets sales at the stadium.

Therefore, very few teams made it to a living room TV.

Notre Dame was one of those few, along with USC, Alabama, and Oklahoma. (Crazy how things have changed. Today, I'll be able to watch 4 games at a time on one television screen thanks to YouTube TV split screen technology.)

I also grew up Catholic. And as a kid, the words I looked forward to most from the priest on Sundays were his thoughts on the Notre Dame football game the preceding Saturday. (Often delivered with much more vigor than the gospel readings).

Finally, I'm sure what cemented my love affair with the Fighting Irish was playing high school football for Coach John Rockne, the grandson of legendary Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne.

Rockne once said in a 1983 New York Times piece about coaching our rural Ohio high school team: "I went into coaching because I love football, not because of who my grandfather was. We grew up in South Bend. That's all anyone ever talks about there. Outside of Notre Dame, there are no other places.''

And when you interacted with him, you felt every word of that. You felt every bit of his outspoken desire to one day coach at Notre Dame. A dream he never came close to, but a dream that was infectious nonetheless.

All that to say, this is my favorite time of the year. The hours before the opening kickoff of a new season. The hours every fan gets to believe and deeply hope—This Will Be The Year!

This will be the year Notre Dame wins their first college football National Championship since 1988.

If stars do indeed align, as some suggest they do, this would be the year for stars to align.

This season, the team will honor Coach Lou Holtz, the coach of that 1988 National Championship team who passed away back in March. Those famous gold helmets will have a LOU helmet sticker on them as a constant reminder of what he stood for, and where he was always pointing:

To the next title.

Additionally, this team has a chip on their shoulder. They didn't make the playoff last year and feel like they should have. And it officially no longer matters what anyone else thinks about that, because what the team does with that belief is now solely in their hands.

Which is why they've adopted a motto for this season: Leave No Doubt.

Oh how I love these hours before the ball is ever kicked into the air. Because as a fan, I get to have NO doubt they will win it all. I get to believe that while also acknowledging that for thirty seven consecutive seasons, NO doubt has ended with deep disappointment.

Repeated disappointment is often a good reason to walk away, I suppose. And if this was simply college football, I am sure I would.

But this is Notre Dame football.

A love affair that dates back to childhood.

A love affair full of disappointments, yes, but full of far more beautiful memories along the way. (The memory of my oldest son many years ago handing his newborn brother a stuffed football while chanting "Golden Tate baby" ranks up there).

So yes, there is no doubt, my favorite sport is Notre Dame football. And to this years team, I say, best of luck gentlemen.

And please:

Leave No Doubt!! 

​Thirteen years ago.

My boys playing catch with the Washington Nationals' Ryan Zimmerman.

That this moment still shows up as such intense joy in my heart is a reminder that it is the emotions in stories that allow them to carry on through time. I don't remember exactly what my boys said that day or whether their tosses were on target or fell woefully short of Mr. Zimmerman glove, but I do remember the joy.

It was one of those moments this boy dad lived for as a dad.

Elliott will go back to college next week to start his second year at Virginia Tech. Ian will start his last year of high school just a couple of weeks later. Could I have even imagined those days would one day come when I was watching them play catch with a Major League Baseball all-star in 2013?

No.

Would I go back?

Hmm, that's tougher to answer, but also no.

I've written a lot lately—even spoke about it at a couple of events— just how much I some days grieve the passing of that particular phase of fatherhood. Few images could explain why that is more than these.

Two reasons, I suppose, why I move forward with that grief more than I stay stuck in it.

One, to go back in time to relive that moment as a dad is to wish my boys to go back into their childhoods. I've loved watching who they are becoming way to much to selfishly wish them back to what they once were.

As challenging as my life has been at times, I would never wish back my own childhood.

And two, old age and wisdom have taught me that life IS forward motion. Any attempts to slow down or thwart that natural rhythm of life never seem to work out well.

At least not for me.

So the best plan I have found, or learned, is to go with the flow of that forward momentum of life. Celebrate it.

Yet, be really grateful for pictures—for memories—that pop up to remind you that even though life never stops moving, there are some very cool 'stops' along the way.

Stops that make you stop many years later and simply say:

Thank you.

​The boys and I went to the New York Giants training camp in West Virginia earlier this week. The day was brutally hot, and shade was impossible to find.

There was about a half hour before practice was scheduled to start. We were standing in an area that had several picnic tables with umbrellas covering them, but it appeared that all the tables were occupied.

Then, a gentleman called out to us. He said you're welcome to sit here with me.

I'm by myself.

So we did.

It turns out the gentleman was a life-long Giants fan down from New York for a few days to take in the camp. He used to go their camp annually, but this was his first trip in years. But once he started telling old Giants stories, seasons and players gone by, Elliott—my most passionate Giants fan—was hooked. An instant sponge.

And it wasn't just football. The man sprinkled in some history about our location.

He told us that The West Virginia Wing of the Greenbrier Resort—where he believed the team was staying—was built above a bunker that was built in the late 1950s to house congress in the event of a nuclear attack. The bunker was roughly 112,000 square feet and designed so the legislative branch could actually continue functioning. Its location was close enough to DC and yet far enough away to handle nuclear fallout.

The wild thing about the story: the bunker remained a complete secret until 1992 when Washington Post reporter Ted Gup revealed its existence.

The man told us this story with the enthusiasm of a man who'd lived in that bunker. He hadn't, but he and his wife had toured it the previous day. (Both boys now want to tour as well).

As a dad, the stories this man told my sons were priceless. They were certainly worth way more than the $200 jerseys being sold at the team shop on location.

But it wasn't lost on me how close we came to missing the gift of this man.

There's no way the three of us were going to infringe on this man's table. I don't know why, but when you see someone sitting alone it feels natural to assume they WANT to be alone. I don't know if that's always been a safe assumption, or even if it truly is these days, but it feels like it.

So I am grateful the man didn't hold our hesitation against us and invited us to join him.

It has me wondering, though, about all the gifts I've missed along the way because I didn't ask more people, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Or, all the gifts I might have kept from others because I didn't say, "You're welcome to sit here with me."

We are ALL deep wells of stories. And the older I get, the more I believe one of life's greatest treasures—maybe THE greatest treasure—is when we draw from those deep wells and share them with others.

Life: a beautiful intersection of stories.

Beautiful, that is, when we allow for the intersection.

​There is no bigger microscope than fatherhood. At least that's how it has felt to me.

Before becoming a father, I thought I understood responsibility. And I thought the burden of fatherhood would be practical things—providing, protecting, paying bills, making sacrifices, losing sleep.

And certainly there has been plenty of that.

But those weren't the burdens that surprised me. The burden I didn't see coming was significance; the moment you become a father, every action suddenly feels like it means something more than it meant before.

You are suddenly ever knowing that your children are watching.

Watching how you handle frustration. How you treat their mother. How you talk to strangers. How you respond to disappointment. How you recover from mistakes.

How you love; How you don't.

Whether you mean to or not, your life becomes a lesson plan. And with that, ample opportunity to feel like you're almost always getting one of the lessons wrong. That realization can feel heavy, no matter how old they get.

My boys are nearly grown now, and if anything, the burden has become more complex rather than less.

When they were little, I worried about scraped knees and school projects. Now I wonder about deeper things.

Did I teach them enough about love? Did I model courage? Did I help them believe they matter? Did I show them how to repair relationships? Did I help them trust themselves? Did I prepare them for a world that can be beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time?

The questions never seem to end. Neither does the wondering. Fatherhood has become a journey in realizing that every season reveals a new opportunity to question myself.

Maybe that's why Father's Day always feels complicated to me.

It isn't simply a celebration. It's a reflection. A looking backward; in so many ways my life began with fatherhood.

Some people might object to me calling fatherhood a burden. The word sounds too negative. Too heavy. But I don't mean burden as something unwanted. I mean burden as something weighty. Something important enough to carry.

The truth is, fatherhood may be the greatest burden I have ever been entrusted with. No role has stretched me more. No role has exposed my shortcomings more clearly. No role has taught me more about sacrifice, love, fear, hope, grace, and humility.

Love always carries weight. Real love always does. Love is not destroyed by burden, it is destroyed by those unable or unwilling to carry it.

Maybe that is why fatherhood feels so heavy sometimes. Not because it is a burden I resent, but because it is a burden I treasure. A burden I long to make look completely unburdened.

And if I'm being completely honest, of all the burdens I've carried in my life, fatherhood may be the only one I'd immediately volunteer to carry again. Most burdens I celebrate their passing, but fatherhood I gladly keep picking up and carrying onward.

But because no burden has given me more than it asked from me than fatherhood. No burden has taught me more. No burden has changed me more. And no burden has made my life richer.

The burden I didn't see coming turned out to be one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.

I suspect most fathers live with the same tension. We know all the places we fell short because we've spent years looking at ourselves through the microscope of fatherhood. We remember the mistakes more vividly than the moments we got it right. We carry the burden of wondering what mattered and what didn't.

But maybe that's part of the gift.

Maybe the very fact that we still wonder is evidence of how deeply we love. Maybe fathers aren't supposed to feel like they have mastered the role. Maybe we are simply meant to keep carrying it.

And if that's true, then despite all the questions, all the second-guessing, all the moments I wish I could revisit, I remain grateful for the burden. Because the burden I didn't see coming gave me two sons I cannot imagine my life without.

And given the chance, I would gladly carry it all again.

Burden and all.

​On my way to Damascus yesterday, I stopped at Virginia Tech to take Elliott to a movie. After the movie, he asked if we could stop and get a phone charger. His had died. (And when a college student's phone charger dies you have to fear the student's passing is sure to follow!!).

So, I said sure. Walmart is just across the street.

I have to confess - it has been years since I've been in a Walmart. Nothing against Walmart - but EVERYTHING against giant buildings filled with lots of people looking for the ten zillion things they do (and mostly don't) need. So, three steps inside the doors, my central nervous system was in full fight-flight-freeze mode - and Walmart is one of those rare places that can trigger all three at once.

We quickly found a phone charger. Then I asked Elliott if he needed anything else.

He said no. Then I prodded - you sure you don't need any snacks or anything. He said, "Well, I guess some snacks wouldn't hurt."

And when he said that - and as we headed to the snacks - it hit me how much I needed him to NEED snacks. It hit me how good it felt to return to that part of fatherhood - if only for a brief stroll through the snack aisle and a checkout line - where being dad meant taking care of a kid.

I remember the days of taking little boys into Walmart with deep dread. Nothing compounds the chaos of Walmart like the chaos of toddlers.

But yesterday, he was no longer a toddler. Or chaotic. Just a young man that now fully understand that all of that stuff in Walmart - not the least of which is phone chargers - doesn't grow on trees.

It's not free for the taking.

Unless you're with a dad longing to take care of his kid one more time.

Then it's free for the taking.

​Elliott and I went to see the movie "Project Hail Mary" Sunday. I will issue a spoiler alert for the following article, but I don't think what I'll write could spoil the experience of this movie. To me it's spoil-proof.

The main character in the movie, Grayson, is forced into an act of heroism. He is forced to sacrifice. He's forced because on his own he wasn't about to choose sacrifice or heroism.

One of the characters in his life explained this by saying it's difficult to sacrifice when you have no one in your life to sacrifice for.

It's true. Grayson came across as a bit of a loner. Because of this, I related to him in many ways. Although, I have sons, so I do know what it's like to have something I'd be willing to make ultimate sacrifices for.

But in the midst of Grayson's forced sacrifice, he meets a friend. A most unexpected alien friend, but a friend nonetheless. And in the midst of this new friendship, Grayson is presented another chance to choose sacrifice.

And this time he seizes the chance.

In reflecting on this movie, it's occurred to me that we often hesitate to take leaps in life not because we are afraid to leap, but because we don't have a good reason to leap. When we live life alone - disconnected - life becomes about self-preservation and not about taking risks.

This idea of a "Hail Mary" - a prayer - one last long throw downfield hoping for a miracle catch - well, hope intensifies when you actually know there will be someone downfield trying to make the catch.

If there's no one downfield, who even begins to throw the Hail Mary pass?

I don't know that we take enough chances for one another these days. A lot of us are acting in self-preservation. We see too many of the people around us as aliens.

I wonder if good things happen when we open ourselves up to the possibility that aliens can be our friends.

Can good things happen when we find our reason to start taking more chances; start making more sacrifices.

I know it sounds like a Hail Mary. But I've seen many Hail Marys answered.

​I have always marveled at Elliott's eyes in this baby picture. Less than a day old, and his eyes are staring the world down. As if dreaming of chasing down all that can be seen.

Babies do that, don't they? If they see it, they chase it. It's why we parents lock cabinets and put 'do-not-ingests' on the highest shelves.

But at some point, for most, the chasing stops.

I've wondered lately, what happens first. Do we stop seeing, do we stop having visions, or do we lose the courage to go after what we see?

I think I believe it's the latter.

Baby Elliott's 12-hour old seeing involved no analytics. There is no calculation in his gaze. There is no memory of disappointment. No voice whispering, "Careful." There's simply seeing followed by going. Instinct. As if vision is all the momentum one needs to take a step.

What changes? Trust?

Do we start attaching footnotes to what we see?

Yes, but last time...

Yes, but who am I to think....

Yes, but I know how this ends.

I don't think vision ever goes away, but belief does. And without belief, seeing can become cruel rather than inviting. So we protect ourselves - not by closing our eyes, but by staying put.

I've always loved the innocence in this picture of Elliott. He hasn’t learned yet that going can cost you something. He hasn’t learned to wrestle with fear. He hasn’t learned that going sometimes leads to more hiding than chasing.

I don't think we all need to return to our baby picture age of innocence. But I do think many of us need to recover some permission in our lives.

Permission to go again, even with scar tissue. Permission to believe that failure doesn't need to blur our vision, it can deepen it. Permission to trust that what we see now isn't foolish just because something else didn't work before.

Elliott could see, but he really didn't know where he was going. He just knew life was moving toward him and he was allowed to meet it.

I've learned, in no small part from being a dad to a baby, that growing older isn't about seeing less. It's about learning, slowly and courageously, how to go anyway. 

​Yesterday, I wrote about New England Patriot's coach Mike Vrabel, and how he made connection with his team a priority in his coaching style. I wrote he does that because that is what each of us requires - longs for - relationship.

I thought about that deeper yesterday in terms of Jesus - and Christianity. There's an old saying - a cliche' of sorts - that says 'Christianity is not a religion, it's a relationship'. What that is saying is the heart of Christianity is not about cleaning up your act, it's about drawing closer to the one who gave you your act to begin with.

It's about loving the one who gave the rules so deeply that rules feel more like a path to love than mandates that begin to feel like the price of love.

And this is how Christianity often gets distorted into something transactional:

“If I do this, God will do that.”

“If I behave, God will bless.”

“If I fail, God will punish.”

That’s not relationship. That’s spiritual management.

As someone who has experienced a failed marriage, I started thinking of this spiritual management in terms of marital management. How you can be committed to following every rule of marriage and still land in an emotional desert. How if you don't wake up every day centered on growing and nurturing the love in the connection, the rules of the connection can become quickly meaningless.

Behaving like a happily married couple doesn't always mean there is happy love between the couple.

And I think of it in terms of fatherhood. How a dad can raise children to fully understand the rules of a home so strongly that the child's greatest desire becomes leaving that home. It's easy for parenting to become about establishing and enforcing rules at the expense of not growing a connection.

Rules will never bring a child back home; connection will make it impossible for them to stay away.

I think that's what Jesus longs for - a connection that makes it impossible for us to stay away. And too often, it's breaking the 'rules and commandments' of Christianity that leaves folks believing they are unworthy of a connection with Jesus.

That's a completely upside down understanding of Jesus, and a repellent to those longing for a connection with something bigger than themselves.

Jesus came to help us understand that following rules is not the path to him, but rather, loving him is the path to following the rules. Jesus love is built on accepting that he came to love the flawed rule breakers, not the folks who believed they could become flawless enough to earn his love.

Following rules is rarely the path to a loving connection, but a loving connection is often a path to longing for guardrails and rules that will protect that connection.

Memorizing the rules of love will leave you in a constant pursuit of love. Getting to know someone - a never ending desire to do so - that is the path to love.

That, is the ONLY path.

​Mike Vrabel is the first year coach of the New England Patriots. He just led the Patriots to their first division title since a guy named Tom Brady was around - which makes Vrabel and his team quite a story.

Before their playoff game yesterday, one of the pre-game shows interviewed several Patriot players about "how did you do it?" The players referenced something that happened before the season, and off the field, as a big piece of their success.

In a team meeting before the season began, Vrabel asked each player to share their 4 H's. He asked each player to stand up and share their: History, Hero, Heartbreak, and Hope.

The players said initially they felt uneasy about the request - until Vrabel volunteered to go first. They said their coach being vulnerable felt like an invitation for them to do the same.

It's my observation that the leaders who don't lead well - who are leaders with far more subordinates than followers - skip this vital step that Vrabel put first. The step of connecting.

And the first step of connecting is always - "I want to know you."

Leading without connecting is managing. Or more honestly, it’s controlling. You can get compliance without connection. You can get motion without meaning. You can even get results for a while. But you will not get loyalty, trust, or transformation.

I see it often in the business world, in the pastoral world, in the coaching world - and really, quite often, in the parenting world. Leaders - those in some position of authority - who have no idea how to connect to another human being on a vulnerable level, so they overcompensate for it by doubling down on control. Intimidation. Fear-based guidance.

Without connection, people don’t follow the leader, they follow the paycheck, the rulebook, or the exit sign. I hear a lot about 'burnout' these days - and in many cases, burnout is simply a case of not enough connection.

None of this is surprising. Our brains are wired this way. They are always seeking safety - they most often feel their safest inside connection - and inside that connection is where they are eager to listen, learn, and follow.

When you stand up in front of a room of teammates and share your biggest heartbreak, and your teammates listen with interest and compassion, you feel safe, seen, and known. And when this is all arranged by your coach, invited by him, you're suddenly a player who wants to not just play for that coach, you want to follow him.

Some days the world feels pretty chaotic to me. I feel like that's because we don't have enough leaders. And I'm not talking national level politicians - I'm talking leaders in our families, and businesses, and churches, and communities.

We have too many people in charge who don't know how to connect (often because they grew up without it) - who do not VALUE connection - so they lead with control. And eventually, too much control starts to look like too much out of control.

If you want to become a better leader today, maybe ask those you want to follow you about their 4 H's. And when they look a little uneasy about it - you go first.

You lead the way.

​What kind of man sends an open letter to a college football team that will never read it? The kind of man who’s less interested in telling them something and more interested in telling himself something.

Many of you know writing is my way of processing life. To include disappointment.

And - many of you know I am a diehard Notre Dame football fan. Have been dating back to the days of playing high school football for Knute Rockne's grandson. We weren't very good, but he was still Knute Rockne's grandson!

As such, I had many friends reach out yesterday asking my opinion about Notre Dame being left out of the college football playoff. I don't know, honestly - my son Elliott and I exchanged a lot of text messages yesterday after the announcement, and I'm sure I included some opinions in there, but with age I've become much more interested in the lessons available in conflicts and unpopular decisions than I am with opinions.

Which gets to the letter. Because more than anything, my heart hurt for the kids this decision impacted. I know fans assume no one is more impacted by sports decisions than fans - but that's a myth. The folks actually playing the games have a little bit more invested in the outcomes. Hard to believe, I know, but it's true.

And the young men on this Irish football team had every reason to believe that for the second year in a row, they were headed back to the college playoffs. And, like last year, when they made it to the championship game, they believed they could make a run at winning it.

When your mind gets to believing a plan and the plan is suddenly swept away, spirits can be swept away as well.

My heart for this team got caught up in that sweeping yesterday. I don't know a single one of them personally, but you get to know a team over the course of a season watching every second of every one of their games. Not REALLY knowing them - but enough so to wish away disappointment in their lives.

With almost perfect timing, I heard Steven Furtick say today, "God often sends a problem as an answer to a prayer." The idea being that sometimes our plans being swept away IS part of the plan.

God's plan, not ours.

I look back on my life and I can see it - more times than I can count - disappointment that my Plan A didn't work out being transformed to a Plan B - or C - that made disappointment suddenly feel more like a gift.

This team is lucky. They have a coach whose greatest gift might be helping young people see the path ahead when the path they're on seems washed away in a storm. They have a coach in Marcus Freeman who helps people - players and fans alike - see sunshine where there is none.

None present and none in the short-term forecast.

Only one team will win the college football playoff. And after they win, their lives will take on a direction influenced by that outcome.

And our beloved Notre Dame players. They are not included in the playoff. That will influence life direction as well. I don't have an opinion about that, really. There is too much wrong with the world for me to be too opinionated about what is wrong with college football.

But I do have a prayer for the players on this year's team. That they will one day walk a path on which they can look back at this moment, and even if not find beauty in it, they will at least come to know that disappointment is far more often a building block than it is destruction.

Plan A is nice when life goes according to Plan A.

Life rarely does, though.

Which makes embracing the Plan Bs in life - or Cs - one of the keys to embracing a fulfilling life.

When it comes to Notre Dame football, Plan A for me is still living long enough to see the team win another National Championship.

Plan B has given me something a championship alone never could - countless Saturdays with my boys, watching young men chase something bigger than themselves.

For that, I’m deeply grateful.

So, to the Irish players and coaches, thank you. May your plan B work out as beautiful as mine, even if today it is hard to see.

And forever, #GoIrish🍀