I have never been fond of Valentine’s Day. To me, it always felt like a frivolous occasion, concocted by greeting card companies and retailers—a contrived blend of romance and consumerism.

Interestingly, my birthday falls on the day before, but I never made that connection. It may sound odd, but celebrating birthdays has always seemed equally ludicrous and self-centered to me.

Last year marked a unique instance: the Super Bowl, a major event in American sports, coincided with my birthday for the first time, creating a stir about the potential impact on Valentine’s Day celebrations. This year, my birthday lands on a Monday, which is less than ideal, especially since it follows my team’s bid to secure back-to-back championships with different coaches. What kind of hangover awaits me?

Since my father passed away, I've found myself in more frequent conversations with my mother, though perhaps not often enough. She lives a two-hour drive away, which complicates visits, so our talks are mostly over the phone. Nearly four months have gone by, and we’re still addressing the aftermath of his death: financial matters, government dealings, and sorting through belongings in a home once shared by two.

Our discussions have shifted from memories of my father to topics like her new dog, Molly, a rescue Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and the art projects we each pursue. Surprisingly, we’ve also started talking about sports.

My mother has always enjoyed sports, albeit in a more understated manner. She never owned team apparel or displayed overt allegiance, similar to my father. Nonetheless, they were loyal fans of their alma mater, Oklahoma University, and the Philadelphia teams they grew to love.

Today is February 12, Super Bowl LVII, featuring the Philadelphia Eagles and the Kansas City Chiefs, both with impressive 16-3 records. The matchup is so closely contested that the odds are nearly even—just a point and a half separating the two teams. The Eagles have a slight advantage, partly due to Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs' star quarterback, still recovering from an injury. Despite the Eagles being favored, many analysts predict a potential upset by the Chiefs.

As always, the outcome is uncertain—a toss-up.

My mother was a cheerleader in her youth and continued to support our family of six children, all of whom played sports. Two of my brothers even excelled at soccer, playing for Messiah College, a nationally recognized program.

Years after they graduated, my parents remained avid supporters, seamlessly transitioning when my brother Brad returned to coach the team.

On October 19, 2022, the day my father went into the hospital for kidney surgery, the Phillies were advancing in the playoffs. They had a surprising season, overcoming challenges to reach the postseason, which no one expected.

My father was generally healthy despite his cancer diagnosis, and at 80, he was deemed fit for surgery. Initially, my parents thought I need not be there, but I chose to accompany them for my mother’s support, considering the risks associated with his age.

Throughout my life, my father grappled with various health issues that stemmed from environmental sensitivities, which he later learned were not food allergies. His condition affected his sleep and quality of life, making normalcy a challenge.

In his earlier years, he bore his struggles quietly, but as he aged, he began to seek solace in technology, finding connection through email as the CEO of Gospel Friendships, a mission dedicated to promoting values of humility and grace.

Though he preferred not to talk on the phone, he and my mother remained engaged with the world through online means, often streaming their beloved sports instead of attending live events.

They thrived as a team, finding joy in shared interests, although they often spent time apart pursuing their own passions. As the surgery approached, my older sister, fearing the worst, rushed to the hospital, arriving before us.

My father was admitted to Fox Chase Cancer Center, known for its excellence in cancer treatment. When I arrived, my mother and sister were already waiting, and my father was being prepped for surgery.

After a few hours, we received reassuring news: the surgery had gone well, and they believed they had removed all the cancer. Feeling relieved, we stepped out for lunch, buoyed by hope.

However, the Phillies lost that game, and as they struggled, so did my father. What initially seemed like post-anesthesia effects soon revealed a troubling reality. His blood pressure dropped, and his condition worsened. By the time he was moved to the ICU, the game had faded from our thoughts.

In retrospect, it’s likely that a clot formed after surgery due to his elevated platelet count. He passed away shortly after 7 PM that evening, leaving us shattered.

Meanwhile, my brother Brad was coaching his soccer team in the playoffs and received the news at halftime. His team triumphed, but the second half became a blur for him.

In the days that followed, I stayed at my parents’ home, coordinating funeral arrangements, connecting with family, and keeping an eye on the playoffs. The Phillies made an unexpected run to the World Series, while my father’s absence loomed large.

The number 13 has always held significance in my family; my parents' first date was on a Friday the 13th, making it a lucky number. Ironically, I believed I was born on a Friday the 13th too, but I was actually born on a Tuesday. Yet, my birthday now serves as a poignant reminder of Valentine’s Day—a day my father can no longer share.

Recently, my mother and I discussed our enthusiasm for the upcoming baseball season, the Eagles' prospects in the Super Bowl, and our shared sorrow over losing my father. We reflected on the many firsts she faces, navigating life without her companion of 60 years.

The fact that he died a day before my wedding anniversary will forever alter my perception of that date. Whether the Eagles triumph or falter, this season marks the first without his cheers in the stands. The thought of a new baseball season feels both exciting and incomprehensible in a world devoid of my father.

How can life continue as usual, knowing he is not here to cheer for it? How can the Phillies hope for another World Series run, or the Eagles another Super Bowl victory?

This will be the first Super Bowl devoid of his presence beside me. He will not be here to debate the game with my brother. Many more firsts will follow, each sibling facing their own reality.

Baseball often symbolizes generational connections, a bridge between fathers and sons, a sport that one inherits rather than discovers later in life. The same can be said of football—both embody the spirit of America.

In my family, I am the sole passionate sports enthusiast. My wife and children are more inclined to watch youth sports than the Phillies. For them, the score doesn’t carry much weight. So, my mother is all I have left to share in my fandom.

My sister Stacy supports the teams through her husband, but she resides in Florida, cheering for Philly only when no other options are available. My brother Brad, the most dedicated fan among us, is often preoccupied with his own coaching duties.

The others have their interests and live far away, yet we’ll still engage in a lively group chat during the game, our devices buzzing like a busy casino floor.

But my father will not be part of it, and that thought brings a twinge of sadness.

With just two hours until kickoff, as I prepare pizza, I ponder the significance of tonight's game. If the Eagles win, will I feel reassured that my father’s spirit is with us? If they lose, will I see it as a sign that this season isn’t ours? Or will I simply chalk it up as another first in a long series of life without him?

Regardless, we must move forward without him, cherishing the lessons he imparted—his love for competition and his unwavering support for the underdog.

Earlier today, I reminded my family of his belief that to win, one must confront adversity. He taught us that overconfidence could be a team's downfall. He preferred to be the underdog, wary of the burdens that come with being the favorite.

Tonight, he would have liked our chances: favored by 1.5 points, in a dead heat, everything on the line against a formidable opponent. Confidence and pride have no place in this equation. No one would be surprised if the Eagles fell to the Chiefs; both teams are exceptional.

Ultimately, the outcome will likely hinge on fate—a missed opportunity, an unfortunate penalty, or a stroke of luck.

It won’t hinge on who is watching or not. Despite any misconceptions, our support doesn’t influence the game. The players on the field are oblivious to us; they aren’t here to fulfill our dreams. We connect to their journey, hoping for the best.

If there is an afterlife, I doubt my father is fixated on something as trivial as a football game. Yet, I carry a piece of him within me, and in my heart, we will watch the game together.

And it won’t be the last time.