The year was 1964 in Chicago. A colleague was selling a few all-leather, NFL-regulation footballs inscribed with "1963 Chicago Bears" at a great price. With my first son on the way, I bought one as a special "coming home" gift for him.
Years later, my young son Tom, around five or six, found the football while rummaging in the garage. He asked to play with it. I explained, as logically as I could, that he was too young to handle such a special ball carefully. He asked a few more times over the next months, but eventually stopped.
The following fall, after watching a game on TV, Tom asked again, "Dad, remember that football in the garage? Can I use it to play with the guys now?"
I replied with exasperation, "Tom, you don't understand. You don't just casually throw around an all-leather, NFL-regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football. It's special."
He eventually stopped asking altogether. However, he remembered it and later told his younger brother, Dave, about the special football kept in the garage. Dave came to me one day with the same request. Though it felt familiar, I patiently explained again why we couldn't just play with that football.
But then I realized it wasn't special anymore.
Standing alone in the garage after my sons had grown and moved away, I had a sudden revelation: the football had never been inherently special. What would have made it special was my children playing with it in their youth. I had sacrificed those precious, irreplaceable moments to preserve a mere object. For what?
I took the football across the street and gave it to a family with young children. A couple of hours later, I looked out the window. They were throwing, catching, kicking, and letting it skid across the cement—my all-leather, NFL-regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football.
Now, it was truly special.