My dad passed away in 2020 due to complications from Parkinson’s. He’d been in a wheelchair for a decade and was in and out of the hospital that year. Because of the pandemic, we couldn’t have an outside caregiver in the house, and he was largely paralyzed by the end. It was a tough time.

In one of his hospital stays that last year, he was in a delirious state and suddenly turned to me and asked if I was proud of him. I didn’t know what to say. I had never really thought about it. I should have said yes.

He had been difficult to get to know. Of true German stock, rigid, stoic, and methodical, where I was passionate and artistic, more interested in human stories than mechanics and numbers. We had little to talk about.

But now that time has passed—the end of the pandemic, a career change, a move halfway across the country—I’ve had more time to think about my dad. Sometimes I notice myself sitting or pondering in the way he used to. I’ve come to understand that a lot of the way I think comes from him and things he taught me without even realizing it.

Quite the pool shark back in his army days, he said the mistake all beginners make is that they pick a ball and a pocket and try to crack it in as hard as they can like you see in the movies. If they miss, though, the ball goes careening around the table and they end up in no better a position than they started, or maybe worse.

The shark, by contrast, gently pushes the balls in the direction of the pockets. No flash, no crack, no worry about getting them in—just getting them close. Then, just when the other player has only a ball or two left, the shark walks around the table and plunks his in one after another.

I’ve come to realize this is a metaphor for life, although I don’t think he meant it that way. It’s not about do or die. It’s about making progress so one day, you can look back and be surprised at how much you accomplished.

I still haven’t cried for my dad, but I think about him often. One of these days, I’ll have to get out and play some pool.