“I kept playing catch with my dad through my 20s, and I’m due to do so again this summer even after I turn 30.”

I never did.

That was a line from my May, 2008, Athletic Aesthetic column about a renaissance in baseball in the Chippewa Valley. Baseball has always been my favorite sport, so much so that it was the one sport I was still involved with beyond my kid years: by playing catch with my dad. Despite my prediction, I did not get around to playing with him that summer. The thought crossed my mind again this year. In fact, I thought about it a day or two before the Fourth of July this year. The Fourth of July, 2009 ... the day my dad died.

You may know my dad: John Hoffland, News Director at WEAU. A tried and true Wisconsin sports fan, always rooting for the Packers and Badgers, and thoroughly enjoying Bob Uecker. He loved the Lombardi era, players like Ray Nitschke and Paul Hornung. After all, the Titletown era occurred during the prime years of his life, when dad was between the ages of 16 and 23. What an era of football to be exposed to while growing up.

I’m sure my dad was excited at the prospect of having a son. This would mean raising another Packer fan like him, having his own kin with him to experience the highs and lows of the green-and-gold; being born in 1978 and growing up in the 80s, this was an era of mostly lows. Yet I threw him a curveball, and you can probably blame the Packers. Or Les Steckel.

The first NFL game I remember watching was the December 16, 1984, Packers 38-14 blowout of the Vikings at the Metrodome. This was during perhaps the worst season in Vikings history, the year of 3-13. I recall watching the game on our television in Grafton, the six-year-old me witnessing Packer score after Packer score. The sympathy/underdog factor must have kicked in, and being easily impressionable at a young age, I decided to become a Viking fan.

At such an age, allegiance can take a quick and firm hold, and by the following spring, I was already a Gophers and Twins fan. My dad must have been catatonic. My mom, Minnesota native that she is, was likely somewhat pleased, even though she still thinks runs in baseball are points and that one team “wins” another.

Yet my being allied with Minnesota likely led to a more fun sports relationship with my dad. I would defend the Vikings and Gophers. He would razz me about the “Queens’” tendency to choke, about all the Packers’ Super Bowl titles. He’d keep asking me why I didn’t root for a “real” team. However, he grew to respect my Minnesota teams – even, to a very slight degree, the Vikings – and maybe you can thank my persistence for that. He also showed ever more that he was a practical fan, taking note when the Packers were in need of improvement instead of simply being a partisan homer.

I, in turn, gained respect for the Packers, as we made numerous expeditions to Lambeau Field. We went to seven Packers game in the last eleven years, and we loved every trip. Plus the trips to Camp Randall, to Milwaukee to see the Brewers, to the Dome to see the Twins. And despite his lack of NBA enthusiasm, we would always joke about the hilarious dry wit of the fans sitting in front of us at Target Center during the 2000 NBA Draft. He’d always recall their line when Sid Hartman got interviewed over the arena speakers: “Charley Walters owns this town!”

Thankfully, we got to do most of the sports fan experiences that he wanted us to do. Perhaps the one big thing we never got the chance to do was to attend a Badger basketball game at the Kohl Center. Yet, in a way, this does not matter. He can now be there anytime he wants, wearing that spiritual form of his beloved red Badgers sweatshirt. And after every big basket, he’ll say what he did after every clutch Badgers’ score: “Y’ssssss! Goooo Bucky!”