Thoughts on Thursday: The Real Hero Didn't Come in a Box

TL;DR: When I was a kid, my dad's GI Joe ritual made me feel seen. He followed through and always showed up. Now, at 40, I see the real hero wasn't the toy, it was the man choosing small missions and speaking my language. My work now is to do the same for my daughter, partner, and players: find their GI Joe and keep making coming home the best part of the trip.

Last month would have been my dad's 65th birthday.
I turned 40 not long before that.

Those two numbers have been sitting beside each other in my head like coffee cups on the same table. I'm in this weird in-between: trying to find my way into a new version of me as a leader, father, partner and at the same time looking back at the man who modeled a lot of that without ever using those words.

When I think about my dad, I don't think about big speeches or life lessons at the kitchen table.

I think about GI Joe.

My dad travelled for work when I was a kid. Nothing glamorous. Just the kind of trips that steal days and airports from you.

But he had this ritual:

Every time he went away, he'd bring me home a GI Joe.

Not "when I remember."
Not "if they have one."
Every trip.

I remember the feeling more than any specific figure. Standing at the door, listening for the key. That tiny buzz in my chest: Did he get one? Which one will it be?

Most of the time, it wasn't about the plastic at all. It was the quiet proof that somewhere in the middle of his long days and hotel nights, he had carved out a few minutes to think about me. To walk into a store, scan the shelf, and choose a little toy soldier he thought I'd love.

That was his way of saying:
"I was gone, but I never really left you."

I look at my life now juggling teams and coaching, coordinating calls, building a company, trying to show up for my daughter and my wife and I wonder how he did it.

The older I get, the more I see how much intention was hiding inside that simple act:

• He followed through. He said he'd bring a GI Joe, and he did. Over and over. That's how trust gets wired into a kid's nervous system.
  

• He turned work into connection. Trips weren't just "Dad's gone again." They became missions with a homecoming.
  

• He spoke my language. He didn't bring back generic souvenirs. He brought back my world full of heroes, battles, imagination.

It's funny: as a kid, I thought GI Joe was the hero. 

At 40, I know better. The real hero was the man who kept finding ways to show up.

The three things I'm stealing from him

Now I'm here, trying to grow into this new version of me. I feel the gaps. I feel the days where I'm tired, distracted, "on my phone again." I feel the pressure of wanting to be a better dad, a better partner, a better leader for the athletes and staff around me.

So here's what I'm learning to do differently:

Small missions, big message.
It's rarely about the grand gesture. It's the text you actually send. The 10 minutes on the floor with LEGO. The quick call after a tough game. That's you walking into the airport shop, looking for GI Joe, not because you have to, but because you're thinking of someone else in the middle of your own day.

Follow-through is the real love language.
Kids, players, partners don't measure our intent. They remember what showed up.
"You said you'd come to my game, and you did."
"You promised feedback, and you followed through."
"You told me you were working on yourself, and I can feel the difference."
Every kept promise is another GI Joe on the shelf.

Speak their language, not yours.
My dad didn't lecture me about work ethic. He just kept arriving with little soldiers that made my eyes light up. Today that might look like sending an athlete a voice note because that's how they like to communicate. Asking your partner, "What would feel supportive this week?" instead of guessing. Getting on the ground with your kid and entering their world with barbie dolls, dinosaurs or whatever game their are engaged in.

Find their GI Joe. Then meet them there.

What I'm holding onto

I miss my dad. I miss the version of him I knew, and the version I'll never get to meet now that I'm 40 and finally starting to understand what he was carrying.

But maybe this is how I keep him close: every time I choose a small mission over a grand plan. Every time I follow through on something tiny that will be huge to someone else. Every time I learn the language of the person in front of me and speak love in that accent.

The toys are long gone. The lesson isn't.
My dad made coming home feel like the best part of the trip.

Be the person who makes coming home feel like the best part of the trip.