My Dad is what I like to call a sports fan by necessity, and while this article serves no major purpose other than to expand upon a simple revelation that occurred to me in the middle of some uninteresting conversation, I am writing it in honor of Father's Day and because I think there are many other fathers like him.

I’m betting that he never thought that one day he’d have to have a semi-awareness of major sporting events to maintain a friendly relationship with his daughter, but that’s what it’s become.

My brother plays X-Box. I think that pretty much sums up their relationship. When my Dad comes home from a long day at work and asks my brother what he did in school, the reply is typical of a 15-year old X-Box connoisseur – "nothing."

As for me, I’m a self-proclaimed sports fanatic. I admit that while I try to converse with my Dad on some level other than the typical how-was-your-day level, his knowledge of sports -- or at least his feigned knowledge -- is crucial to our relationship

I can’t complain, though. Since birth I’ve been free to choose the teams I like, for my own unintelligible reasons, and root for them.

My friends, whose dads are "typical," were born into families of diehard Boston Red Sox fans and have had no choice but to side with Boston and sport red and navy apparel since birth. However, since my Dad never aligned himself with any team in particular, or at least not enough to subscribe to their cable networks, I’ve had the ability to root for whomever I please. Sure, I’d assume he’d be a little curious if I suddenly decided to become a New York Mets fan, but he’d get over it in a few minutes and might even bother to learn the names of the Met's pitchers.

As long as I can remember, my Dad was a New York Giants fan. I don’t know where his allegiance to the Giants originated, but apparently it wasn’t a deep one. Last fall, as I cheered for the New York Jets in the playoffs, my Dad sat next to me on the couch and cringed at the missed field goals.

My Dad is the type of sports fan who roots for teams because of their players. The history of a team means nothing to him, and if the Schmorgozborgs came to town, and had players who donated money to charity and seemed like all around decent guys, my Dad would immediately become a Schmorgozborg fan. The 26 World Series rings of the New York Yankees have nothing to do with the reason he roots for them. Bernie Williams seems literate and he plays guitar, and that is enough to keep my Dad cheering on his team.

And so, my Dad will come home from work at night and say, "Hey Lauren, I heard the Yankees won." I’ll know he’s basing this conversation on the sports brief he heard on the news radio broadcast on the ride home. And I’ll continue to read him the standings at breakfast, and he’ll continue to pretend he’s listening. And he’ll continue watching the Jets because Herm Edwards is a good guy, until I decide I like some other team. And he’ll continue pondering my playoff predictions, and letting me fill out his brackets in March. And while I know I don’t have a SportsCenter-obsessed-macho-GameDay father, he’s pretty okay.