Father’s Day is an ever-evolving holiday. Before I became a father, it was generally a fun round of golf with my dad and brother, maybe a dinner and a few beers afterward. When I was younger my grandfather would join us, too. My own dad never made much of a big deal about it, nor did my father-in-law.

Having children changed that, as it changes everything. The first few Father’s Days as a dad found me not really altering my typical June weekend of playing in a beach volleyball tournament, only now I had a young cheering section and kids to frolic with in the water between games.

Yet change keeps coming through the doors, no matter how hard I try to keep them closed. I lost my last grandparent in 2013 and my beloved father-in-law in a terrible span of two weeks. My own father has had some health issues too, though thankfully nothing serious but enough that we’re all aware he’s not a young man anymore.

Father’s Day quickly turned from a celebration of important men who guided my life to a memory of two people I adored who passed and the realization that my dad and I haven’t golfed together in five years. My wife and I devoted some of last year's Father’s Day to sharing memories of my father-in-law with our kids, a tear-filled tradition in the making.

Change charged through the door once again this year, and this time it’s a permanent change every man feared. This Father’s Day probably would have been my last.

I’ve known about a heart condition I’ve dealt with for many years, a defective aortic valve discovered about 15 years ago. The technical term is aortic valve regurgitation, and it was fairly innocuous for a long time. “You’re good until you’re at least 50” was the common refrain from my doctors, as I was a competitive multi-sport athlete and my heart was functioning just fine. But a trip to the cardiologist in December was a game-changer.

My valve had quickly and dramatically deteriorated. All of the sudden this seemingly minor ailment emerged as a potentially lethal condition. Just six weeks after running a 5K in less than 25 minutes at 42 years old, I found out that previous estimates of my cardiologic fitness were greatly overestimated.

I could tell, as much as I didn’t want to listen to my body. I was more easily fatigued and slower to react when playing basketball and volleyball, in no small part because as much blood was jetting right back into my heart with every beat as it was pumping through my body. I got cold very easily and often lost feeling in my fingers and toes for no rhyme or reason. Surgery became a quick necessity.

On June 2nd, after weeks of agonizing wait, I had the first surgery of my life. Open heart surgery is a pretty stark introduction to being hospitalized, like learning to swim in a pool full of piranha. Thankfully I had the resources to have it done at the renowned (for great reason) Cleveland Clinic, and I’m happy to report I’m doing quite well in rehabilitation. My defective valve was the only thing wrong, thankfully; I’ve got nothing to worry about for at least 20 years with my new valve. The old valve had less than six months before “something catastrophic”, words you never want to hear from a heart surgeon.

This is a major game-changer for me. Instead of being the competitive male in the family, a role I’ve proudly held for years, I now must accept my son seizing the torch. Instead of him cheering me on, I’m now the bystander. My sports glory now comes from my children.

Thankfully they are up to the task. My son Layne is a 5’4” rising fourth grader who already has better handles and a commitment to physical play in basketball than I ever had. He’s the kind of player where opposing parents approach me after games and congratulate me. My daughter Elizabeth is a naturally gifted athlete too, one of those kids who is instantly good at every sport she tries. She scored more goals in her first game of kindergarten soccer than I did in three years of youth play. And they’re both advanced volleyball players for their age groups, a skill they inherited more from their mother.

This Father’s Day marks the transition from competitive dad to proud dad. While I knew this day was coming, its premature arrival catches me like a Draymond Green moving screen. I was going to be that dad, the one still schooling his teenage son in one-on-one in the driveway as I turned 50, the one winning co-ed beach volleyball tournaments with my daughter. Those can still happen, I suppose, but the reality is a lot different now.

Taking glory in the development and accomplishments of our children should be enough for fathers. I hope my own dad is proud of what his very diversely skilled children have become. I used to cringe a little when my father’s words and tone came out of my mouth, or when I saw the legendary Risdon “angry eye” in the mirror. Now I embrace them with a resigned pride, the same feeling I get when I watch my son emulate my maddening refusal to drive to the hole and instead settle for a 15’ baseline jumper, or hear my daughter warble horribly off-key just like I do singing Coheed and Cambria songs in the shower.

So on this Father’s Day, embrace your dad for what makes you who you are. If you’re a father, take some time to celebrate the parts of you evident in your own children. Do what you can to foster the positives, because you never know when the day will come and you won’t have the opportunity any longer. Happy Father’s Day!