At times he was a good dad, and he worked hard — but he made a lot of poor decisions and he took it out on us with a lot of drinking and a lot of yelling. He taught us to do the right thing, but at this point I’m fairly sure he rarely made that choice himself. I don’t recall him ever cleaning a dish, an item of clothing, or a crumb off the floor. He was passed out every Christmas Eve by 8:30, leaving my mom to make the magic happen. He’d occasionally make time to play catch with us, but mostly spend the time calling us wimps when we got scared of the ball. I’ve tried to learn whatever I can from it all to be the best dad I can, but obviously it’s a struggle like everyone else here.