I have two heroes and no more. My mom and dad. And, as clocks tick and vibrate towards Sunday – Father’s Day – thinking of my dad becomes more profound and special: I think of Dad, a lot, every day of the year. But – and he was a great hockey fan all his life – as we’re knee-deep in the Stanley Cup playoffs, when champions are made through discipline, effort, and desire, Dad’s story resonates with great passion and grit.

My father was born in Saskatchewan – Meota, a small town on Jackfish Lake. Like most men in the 1960s and ‘70s, sharing honest feelings with their sons wasn’t done very much. Dad and I could talk at length about the Toronto Maple Leafs, or the Saskatchewan Roughriders, or current grain prices or almost anything else. I could not – despite how much I wanted to – ask him for love life advice, or other really important stuff. I just didn’t feel comfortable.

I knew Dad cared. Sure, but I just couldn’t find the words to discuss really important things. As time and the years wheeled on, Dad and I managed to share important, really important stuff, moments I’ll forever cherish.

I always knew Dad was proud of me, he only told me … once, and I know, far beyond a lingering shadow of something important: the work of the David Foster Foundation and how they support families who have small children needing life-saving organ transplants, he would share those three words he graced me that night in March of 1978.

I’m proud of you.

To all fathers, including my son Darren: Happy Father’s Day.