My dad and I used to joke with one another, typically on an NFL sunday shortly after another Browns loss, that hopefully, one day, we would get to see our favorite team win a Super Bowl before we died. I used to smirk at the idea.

“I’m so young. How could they not win before I die?” I would think to myself.

I’m sure dad thought the same thing when he was my age.

On Jan. 23, dad passed away after a brief battle with leukemia, aged 65, never lucky enough to see the Browns get their heads out of their butts long enough to make it to the Super Bowl, let alone win the big one.

When he was alive, our relationship would, from an outsider’s perspective, likely be characterized as “complicated.”

Dad and I very much loved each other, but I can count on one hand the number of times we had what would be considered a serious conversation about life.

The birds and the bees? Mom handled that.

Financial questions? Mom.

How to change my oil? Mom again, although her advice was to have a professional do it.

The serious conversations between Dad and me almost exclusively centered on sports, including but not limited to: “Should Kevin Stefanski call plays?” or “Should Ryan Day call plays?” or “Should Kevin Stefanski be fired?” and “Should Ryan Day be fired?”

I’m sure I could continue those conversations with others. Honestly, I could probably do that with any guy at the local bar in the fall.

But it wouldn’t be the same.

It will never be the same.

This weekend, my family and I will celebrate the life and memory of dad on the first Father’s Day without him.

Whether I walked downstairs when I lived at home or called him from afar after moving out, it was never too early for me to wish dad a happy Father’s Day.

“It’s about damn time,” he’d say with a grin and an “I’m just kidding” not too far behind.

In fairness to him, I never was – and still am not – an early riser, particularly on Sundays.

But it’s not like he really cared about the holiday; he just wanted to be remembered. He wanted to be loved.

We never really had the type of relationship that you see in all those sappy father-son movies I almost always cry during, but I wish he and I would have had that climactic, emotional moment in which I told him the truth, and what I now know better than ever.

Loved, he always was. And forgotten, he never will be. These last five months without him have proven that.

Happy Father’s Day, dad.

Yes, I know. It is about damn time.

Preston Byers is a staff writer for The Vindicator and Tribune Chronicle.