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 found the football in the garage and asked to play with it. I explained he was too young to handle such a special item. He asked several more times over the months, but eventually stopped.
The following fall, after watching a game on TV, Tom asked again, "Dad, can I use that football 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 football. It's special."
He stopped asking altogether. However, he remembered it and later told his younger brother, Dave, about the special football in the garage. Dave eventually came to me with the same request. I patiently gave him the same explanation I had given Tom.
But then I realized it wasn't special anymore.
Standing alone in the garage after my sons had grown and moved away, I had an epiphany. The football was never inherently special. What would have made it special was my children playing with it during their childhood. 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 football.
Now, it was finally special.