What are you doing tomorrow?

It’s conference championship weekend, and it’s time to pay your dues.

We all know the Super Bowl. Other than Star Wars movies and the last season of Game of Thrones, it might be the last American monocultural event.

Somewhere between one third and one half of Americans watch the Super Bowl. My girlfriend, for instance, watches one football game per year. She doesn’t care about the sport or the teams, but she tunes in for the main event. But of course she does! Not watching the Big Game is choosing cultural illiteracy.

So go to your parties. Go see a large group of people, half of whom are there for the food and commercials. Be social with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. But do it in 15 days.

Tomorrow, put in your reps. Part of being a good dad is being a good son. Forget the arbitrary weekend in June; if there’s one day a year you can give your old man 6-8 hours of your day, it should be this weekend.

My grandpa died when I was 16. I suppose I had three grandfathers, but the one I was closest to–the one who taught me to read–was the first one I lost.

Of the hundreds of things I remember about him, towards the top is how dedicated my dad was to the old bear. In a house with four kids, there were always a million things to be done. Those last couple years of my grandfather’s life, my dad put his priorities in the right order.

Chores to be done? Not during a Skins game. A project to be finished? Not while Army plays Navy.

I distinctly remember my dad turning down something my mom believed needed doing those last years, telling her it might be his last year to watch football with his dad.

He was right.

The time ends earlier than you expect. Life happens, and it gets in the way of things we forget are the most important.

In two weeks, I’ll be drinking too much with dozens of people who care too little about America’s actual pastime. It’s fine, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. It might even be a decent game.

But tomorrow? I’ll be spending Championship weekend with the man who taught me the game. Corrected my three-point stance. Pointed out missed blocking assignments. Made me get back up again.

My dad is healthy, and if there’s any justice, I’ll have another 30 years of Sundays at his side. But life isn’t always just, and what if it’s only 15.

Or 10.

Or 5?

No thank you; I’ll hedge that bet. I’ll make sure I have no regrets. As a son, I regret exactly zero minutes I’ve spent watching football with the man who raised me. As a father, I know there’s no chance the time means as much to me as it does to him.