I was nine years old when I ran seven yards for my first touchdown playing pop warner football in Plainfield, NJ. I remember the name of our team was the Plainfield Blue Devils, which my mother never really liked. I remember the excitement I felt having my teammates jumping on me as we celebrated our score, but there was something that I remember more than anything else. More than the bright gold and blue colors of our uniforms. I don’t remember if the weather was sunny, cloudy, warm, or cold. I don’t remember if I was hit by two, three, four, or more members of the opposing team. I don’t remember if I spiked the ball or did a little dance in the end-zone. The one thing that I do remember above everything is the fact that my father was standing on the sideline and that I could see him and he could see me. I remember hearing him shout out, “That’s my boy!” I don’t remember the final score of the game, but the memory of my father being present will forever be etched in my heart and mind.