On Sunday, many of us will do the same thing we do every year at this time. We’ll set aside a bit of time, visit dad, and hand him a gift he neither needed (he has everything) nor asked for (he wouldn’t, because he has everything).

We’ll hang out. We’ll make plans to do something together when the weather warms up a bit more or when work isn’t so hectic, or when we get back from vacation.

What many of us won’t do, though, is say a few things we’ve always wanted to say.

Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you.

All those things you figure your dad knows. All those things you’ve never gotten around to saying.

All those things that sum up your appreciation for a life’s worth of simple acts and special memories.

Memories. We’ve all got plenty of those. They’re all different. But maybe you’ll recognize some of mine.

Sports was always a common theme in our house. Dad talked. I listened (sometimes). And years later, I began to understand.

He’s the one who taught me to hit the broad side of a barn with a fastball … barely. (We did, in fact, have a barn, which served as a backstop when I practiced my pitching as a 12-year-old. And I did, in fact, miss it on occasion. Sad, but true).

He’s the one who tried to teach me this: Throw it. Don’t steer it.

And this: In basketball, a good shot is a good shot, whether it goes in or not.

And much, much more important things.

A favorite: There are givers and takers in this world. When it’s all said and done, you want to be remembered as a giver.

That’s one of those messages that made plenty of sense at the time, but meant even more when dad retired, then volunteered to start a cross country program at a middle school that didn’t have one.

Dad’s the one who taught me that having an opinion isn’t a bad thing. Neither is sharing it. … as long as you’re sure you’re willing to deal with the consequences.

He’s the one who taught me that sometimes, you have to do something you don’t want to do … because it’s just the right thing to do.

And for years, he and mom taught me a lesson I hope I’ll remember when I have children: If your kids have a game, you have a game.

For years, he and mom drove thousands of miles to varied athletic events that had only one common thread: One of their three kids was competing.

They arrived early. They left late. And they fed every random teammate who stopped by.

Dad taught me that you’re rarely as bad at something as you think … nor as good.

He jokingly taught me that if you can do it, it’s not bragging. And he taught me that most times, it’s better to shut your mouth anyway.

He doesn’t fish, but greeted the idea of taking up the sport with this memorable response a couple years back.

“I don’t have any interest in that. But if you want me to sit in the boat and ride around and talk, I’ll do that.”

There’s a lesson there, too.

Maybe this won’t be the year you tell your dad what’s on your mind. Maybe it won’t be the year I do, either.

It’s hard to bring up the topic smoothly, after all. And the sentiment isn’t one you just slip into conversation. How about those Red Sox, dad? I love you. Wait until Manny starts playing again.

If this isn’t the year, your dad will understand. That’s what dads do, you know.

But if you just happen to clip this column out of the paper and leave it in front of his Wheaties on Sunday? Well, I suspect he’ll understand that, too.

Thanks, dad.

John Holyoke can be reached at 990-8214, 1-800-310-8600 or by e-mail at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net