My dad is 92 years old. We call him Big Clint. He's 5'9" on a good day. I'm named after him. And there are no Hurdle-isms without him. Sixty-two years ago, he walked out to the backyard with two gloves and two baseballs and asked me a question. "Son, you want to play catch?" I said, "Catch what?" He said, "A baseball." My life has never been the same since. He gave me my work ethic. He gave me my love for the game. He gave me the thing that has held the center through over 50 seasons of professional baseball, through the wins, the losses, the letting go and the starting over. But here's the thing about my dad: he came from a generation where men didn't say I love you out loud. They worked hard. They showed up. They gave you everything, except maybe the words. So one day, I decided to say it first. I looked at him and said, "Dad, I love you." He looked back at me and said, "Me too." That was the beginning. We worked at it. Both of us. Slowly, the words got easier. The hugs got real. Now whenever I see him, I give him a hug, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him I love him. And he looks me in the eyes and says, "I love you too, son." Doesn't get much better than that. Happy Father's Day, Dad. You started something in that backyard that I'm still passing on today. I love you.