By Mike Lopresti
Gannett News Service

At 10 a.m., nearly every day without fail, the phone would ring, and at the other end would be the voice with all the questions.

How was I feeling? How was work going? What were the kids doing? A father's daily curiosities, wanting to know if there was any problem, and if so, what could he do to help. At the end, rain or shine, good news or bad, would always be the same last query. "Need anything?"

I suppose it is the comfort of such connections, multiplied by millions and millions, that gave us Father's Day, as we bequeath the new tie or the garden tool.

Fathers ask lots of questions, often not understanding the answers. We are easy to confuse, but we never, ever ask for directions.

We prefer simple and straightforward solutions, as easy to understand as baseball box scores. But life is not that uncomplicated, especially with children.

And when we make a muck of things - good-hearted but inept - the mothers come in and clean up the mess, and everyone goes on.

The kids know what the problem is. The mothers know how to fix it. The fathers are the ones who go through life with a baffled look on their faces.

But always, they want to know. At least he did.

Need anything?

My father died this week. And maybe I didn't make my answer quite clear enough to his daily question.

Yeah, I needed something. I needed him.

Which is why this particular Sunday will be a long one. But if I have no father with whom to mark this Father's Day, I at least can commemorate what it should represent.

We can be a befuddled lot, we fathers. But it is important work, and there is study after study that shows the damage done to children when the father is absent, or uncaring, or indifferent, or irrelevant. Or sometimes all of the above.

And yet to see the faces of deserted families, to read the list of those who must be shaken down for support, apparently a lot of men don't want the job.

In the world where I spend most of my time, where all is supposed to be hot dogs and soda and balloons, it has become a disturbing and sickening and often seldom discussed underside of professional sport. The number of athletes who have children spread over the map, left to their own fates, the father never forgetting to call his agent on his birthday, but not his son.

I have never understood the rejection of the occupation of fatherhood, even with all its headaches and loud music and spilled juice on the carpet. Least of all this day, this week, this year.

Doing work - any work - right was important to my father. Which is why the last words we shared, through his oxygen mask at the hospital, was that certainly I should go to Detroit to cover the NBA Finals. There was a job to do. He'd be fine.

He was gone by the time I got back. And now there will be pain every day at 10 a.m., with a phone that doesn't ring.

So Sunday is for those who take the father job and try their best. As they fumble the diaper change and put together the bike and annoy the prom date and take pictures at graduation. For those who ask the questions, even if they can't comprehend the answers.

For those who just want to know.

Need anything?

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

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Mike Lopresti is a veteran sportswriter for Gannett News Service. His father, John F. Lopresti of Richmond, Ind., died at the age of 78 on Monday after a lengthy illness.