When Love Learns A New Sport

Sometimes the moments we have longed for arrive in ways love always intended.

Last week Joaquín won his soccer tournament.

And while everyone around the field was cheering, clapping, celebrating goals and medals, I stood there knowing—without a single doubt—that my dad was there too.

Not in the stands.

Not on the sidelines.

But present all the same.

Soccer Was Never His Sport

My dad was a devoted sports supporter—just not of every sport. He championed my older brother in BMX racing. He championed my younger brother in baseball. And he championed me in swimming.

Those were his worlds. His sidelines. His comfort zones. In my own life, he never once missed a swimming meet. They were sacred to him. Since his passing, I have had multiple parents of fellow swimmers and my coaches reach out to me and tell me they have never seen such a devoted parent before.

Thus, when Joaquín fell in love with soccer, it was not exactly what my dad had imagined. Soccer confused him. It felt slow. Too many ties. Too much running for too little pay off. It just never quite clicked.

How Joaquín Changed Everything

Over time, something shifted.

Through Joaquín (of course, Lucas had some influence here as well) and early mornings, muddy cleats, long drives, and endless conversations—soccer slowly found its way into my dad’s heart.

Not because of the game itself. But because of the boy playing it. Because when your beloved grandson loves something you learn it. You ask questions. You sit through games. You cheer—even if you fully do not understand the “offside rule.”

The very last TV show my dad ever watched before he passed was Ted Lasso—and he loved it.

He laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that comes from deep joy and perfect timing, because my dad had an incredible sense of humor. He appreciated the soccer parts, but he loved the show for its heart. For its relentless belief in kindness, hope, and joy—the same things my dad carried into every corner of his life.

Who would have ever thought that a soccer show would be the final thing to make him laugh like that?

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“I believe in hope. I believe in belief.” — Ted Lasso

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One Last Wish

For the last year of his life, my dad asked begged me for just one thing.

Just one.

He wanted to see Joaquín play a soccer match in person.

We hoped. We believed thanks to Ted. We thought there would be time.

There was not.

And that truth still haunts me in ways I am still learning how to hold.

But That Day… He Was Finally There

Joaquín scored two beautiful goals in the tournament.

And after each one, he did something that stopped me in my tracks.

If you know Lionel Messi, you know how he celebrates—both hands lifted toward the sky. A quiet, spiritual gesture meant for his grandmother.

That is exactly what Joaquín did. Twice.

Hands up. Eyes lifted. A thank you to someone no longer visible, but never gone.

In that moment, I knew: My dad finally saw him play. He finally saw him win. He finally saw him score. He finally saw his joy.

Not from the sidelines. But from somewhere even closer.

Love Does Not End—It Learns New Ways To Show Up

Soccer may have been my dad’s least favorite sport. But love has a way of rewriting stories.

Today reminded me that grief and joy can coexist. That absence does not mean gone.

And that sometimes, the biggest victories happen far beyond the field.

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