I've been called a lot of things in my life, some good, some bad, but the one word I will never tire of hearing my children call me is "Dad."

It is a privilege and a gift from God for me to be a father. My wife has given me two wonderful children whose unconditional love provides me with joy and laughter every day.My 8-year-old daughter skips through our home singing songs. She draws wonderful pictures and dances with her bedroom family of stuffed animals, each with its own name and distinct personality.No matter what despair a day may bring, she picks up our spirits with her homemade music videos and colorful love notes.She takes horseback riding lessons, and when she trots Rosie around the corral while playing Simon says with her trainer, it is an experience this father shall never forget.In her first ever basketball game, she was accidentally knocked down to the floor, her eyes filled with tears. She came out and did not want to play anymore.After I offered her my compassion and encouragement, she returned to the game.She ended the season as her team's best defensive player and second leading scorer. I was so proud to see her conquer fear and to have some fun."Yay!" is her favorite word, and she says it whenever she feels happy, which is nearly always.Other parents warn me that her teenage years will come soon enough and instead of being her hero, as one father said, I will become "like something stuck to the bottom of her shoe."I'm prepared for that phase of her life. I plan to embarrass her often by saying, "I love you," to her in front of her really cool friends.My 11-year-old son is becoming the athlete I wanted to be before a serious eye injury ended my sports career.He is a very good baseball player, wears number 7 for my hero, Mickey Mantle, and plays second and third base, my old positions.He wants the bat in his hands with the game on the line or the ball hit to him where he has to make a game-saving play.One very special moment I share with my son is playing catch, something my father never did with me.In my soon to be published novel, I wrote a passage about a father and son throwing a baseball to each other. Here's a paraphrased version of that description:"The intricacies of this one-act play performed on a backyard stage prove that the rewards of having a catch with my son have little to do with throwing a baseball."When sound, scent and sight are added together, it adds up to a sum of our souls. The sound of the ball thumping against our gloves resonates like a native drumbeat, an awakening of my childhood and the beginning of his manhood."In between throws, we stand tall, facing each other, holding our gloves to our noses like we are raising glasses for a toast."The pungent scent of the leather fills our lungs with an energy that feels raw and spiritual. The small, white sphere speaks to us with every sling of the arm." 'You are my dad,' says the ball each time it pops into my glove." 'You are my son," says the ball each time it returns to him."The repeated throwing and catching ritual mark the giving and receiving of our love along with the passing of a tradition from one generation to another."And when my son becomes a dad someday, he will drop what he's doing and grab his glove when he hears his boy ask the one question that invites a magical opportunity to authenticate fatherhood in the eyes of his adoring child."Hey, Dad. You want to play catch?"It's been said that we don't own our children. We only rent them for a while before they move on to their own lives.No matter where my children or I go in this world or beyond, I will not be just their father.I will always be their dad.Rich Strack can be reached at

katehep11@gmail.com.