My Father’s Day was May 11, 2011 at 7:28 p.m.
How so, you ask, when this day of recognition has been celebrated on the third Sunday in June since becoming a national holiday, courtesy of the pen stroke of President Richard Nixon?
Easy. Because if May 11, 2011 had never come, the third Sunday in June wouldn’t belong to me.
What’s so special about May 11, 2011? It’s the day that I became a father. It’s the day that my son, Micah Courtland Stovall came into the world.
He came stubbornly and not without some challenges and trials. But when God spared his life, He also gave me a new lease on mine.
I became a father. It’s something I always dreamed of. No, literally. My fatherhood dreams began as early as age 14 when I’d ask my ninth grade physical science teacher for a hallway pass to go the restroom.
Most times I didn’t really need to go to the restroom. I just wanted to think of something other than atoms, molecules and the Periodic Table.
So I’d go to the restroom, lock myself in the big stall against the wall and near a window, and I’d gaze out the window and daydream.
I’d ask the atmosphere questions like, “I wonder who my wife is or what she’s doing right now,” or “How many children will I have, and what will they look like?”
I used to say I wanted four. I got one biologically and three bonus from my wife, Shawnda. But that one who made me a father 13 years ago has certainly lived up to his billing.
Fatherhood was an aspiration of mine because of the amazing father I had. Mr. Joe Stovall, a churchman, a deacon in his church and the guy who introduced me to my love for sports, wasn’t perfect. But he was a better father than I could’ve ever drawn up for myself.
He taught me things I didn’t even know I knew until after he passed away in June 2020 after a decade-long stint with Alzheimer’s disease.
I preached his eulogy the day before Father’s Day 2020, and then the very next day, I spent my first Father’s Day without him preaching a message at my childhood church home in Omaha, Neb.
Though my dad wasn’t there, guess who was? That’s right. Micah, my son.
And that’s when I realized that Father’s Day didn’t have to be sad, even though it now triggers some emotions that didn’t exist for me prior to 2020 with the absence of my father. What I’m learning is that God’s gift of Fatherhood to me keeps my dad’s spirit alive.
My dad introduced me to college football through the old Nebraska-Oklahoma Thanksgiving Day rivalry. My dad was an Oklahoma fan, but he grew to like Nebraska simply because he saw how much I did.
So, it’s kind of surreal when I think about my son, a rabid Georgia Bulldogs fan. Just as I was born in Nebraska and learned to be a Cornhusker, Micah was born in Georgia and learned to be a Dawg.
And just like my father, I learned to hold a secondary place in my football heart for a team I previously didn’t really think too much about, all because of my son.
Micah’s love for sports took a new turn when he began to express interest as an athlete. We put him in basketball and tee ball and all that stuff as a kid. Tried swimming lessons for a while — let’s just say, he won’t be the next Michael Phelps. He’s about as afraid of water as I used to be.
But then came taekwondo when he was about 6 years old. He began sort of on a whim because his slightly older cousin was doing it, so, “why not?”
I remember his first tournament. He did well, but lost his first fight. He cried, and we figured, “Well, that’s the end of that.” But Micah showed me something special about himself that day.
After his tears and frustration lingered a little longer than I thought they should, I asked him, “Why are you still upset?”
“I don’t like to lose,” he said. To that I replied, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Get better,” was his two-word retort. And you know what? He absolutely did.
Fast forward seven years, and my son has won national championships in taekwondo. He’s met and been trained by some of the sport’s biggest stars. At one point, he was the nation’s top-ranked fighter for his age range. He literally has traveled the world with this sport, winning national and international competitions.
Though he’s been fighting and competing black belt for a couple of years now, he’s one “stripe” away from earning his first degree black belt. My son is a certified beast. In three weeks, he’ll be headed to Dallas to compete for a USATKD National Championship. Later in the month he’ll compete in Mexico.
Additionally, he started playing AAU basketball this summer and has improved on the court by leaps and bounds. He’s a consistent A/B honor roll student, and he’s learning how to run our media room at church.
At 13 years old, he’s already accomplished more than his dad. I think he’s already better at taekwondo than I’ve ever been at anything else. But that’s the goal, isn’t it? To see our kids take the proverbial baton and run faster and farther on their leg of life’s race than we ever could in ours?
Because of work demands, travel and sometimes just financial limitations, I don’t get to see every competition. But I’m there as much as I can. I have to be. I spend so much of my time and career tracking the athletic achievements of others’ children. What kind of man would I be to not bask in that of my own son?
He gives me the chance to put down my journalist hat and be a true, bonafide fan of whatever sport or activity he’s competing in, and that is worth whatever price tag that comes with it. Whenever he finishes competing, I don’t feel a need to analyze his performance or talk about what he could or should do differently next time.
Instead, I embrace him, rub his head and tell him, “Good job, Son. I’m proud of you. You make us proud.” Win, lose or draw, that’s my refrain. Being a sports dad keeps me mindful of the responsibility I have as a sports journalist.
It keeps me from being tempted to be salacious in how I report on someone else’s son or daughter because I know someone is up in those stands watching, not caring as much about the outcome as they are the simple fact that their child is making them proud.
I’ll acknowledge that since my father has gone to heaven, Father’s Day can be kind of tricky for me. For the last four years, every time I walk past the greeting card section in a store, there’s this phantom aspiration to reach for a card to send to my dad. Then the letdown feeling when I realize I have no real reason to do that anymore.
It hurts not to have someone to call “Dad” anymore. But you know what helps that hurt heal more than anything? It’s being called “Daddy” by the one who carries your last name. By the one who made you a father.
And then that’s when the legacy kicks in. Every time I pray with my son and teach him how to pray or study the Bible, I’m keeping my father alive because my dad was the one who taught me how to do those things as a child.
I give my son, verbatim, some of the same bits of advice my dad gave me. And that keeps him alive in my heart.
As I walk through this challenging season of adolescence, puberty, etc. with my son, I’m reminded to be patient with his growth and maturation, just as my dad had to be with me when I was 13 and full of out-of-control hormones and emotions.
He makes Father’s Day matter even after the departure of my own. And I hope one day, once the early teen years have passed and it’s considered “cool” to be expressive and show his emotional hand to the adults in his life again, he’ll recognize how much he was loved by his Daddy.
Bonus points for him having his own daddy daydreams that come true one day. And that Stovall fatherhood legacy can continue even when I’ve gone to be reunited with my own father.
As I give thanks for the legacy of my father and the opportunity to BE a father on this Father’s Day, I also want to wish every dad, granddad, uncle, godfather or other father figures a happy Father’s Day.
I hope whatever is said or done for you today will remind you of just how needed and vital you are in the lives of your children. Even if they sometimes seem to act like you’re not needed, know that you always are. And you always will be.
Gabriel Stovall is the sports editor for The Augusta Press. He can be reached at gabriel@theaugustapress.com.
