My mother remarried when I was four years old to a man that I had difficulty understanding. He was a real man, but not my biological father. A father isn’t just a title and simple biology and legally, but a person that can push you to be your best and nurture your success. That is my definition, ascertained through my experience. Edward Warring, my father, was a simple person that believed in a hard day’s work and living to your maximum potential. My father’s beliefs drove him during times of strife and opportunity. I struggled understanding this until now.

My father, or “Big Ed” to his family and friends, was diagnosed with esophageal cancer at the age of 57 in fall 2006. He was a sturdy man, built for high school football and a stint in minor league baseball. His hair was fading with time, but it's loss was hastened by the chemotherapy, the chemical treatment of poison that kills cancer cells.

Edward Warring, my father, never received the opportunity to attend college, but he was the wisest man I ever knew.

When he spoke, Ed meant it—100%, no doubt—and believed it. The same intent, and deliberate motivation, was expected of me. I struggled understanding this until now.

After months of chemotherapy and experimental medication, he struggled to maintain his job, his family, and the same spirit that guided him through life. Because medical bills piled up, he continued working his blue-collar job in the cold rain of the Puget Sound.

He worked up to 14 hours some days. His full face withered as the disease ravaged his body. This curse robbed him of his physical health, but his mental health remained as stoic and unyielding as a statue. He manicured his lawn in between trips to the bathroom, nauseated from the poison in his body that fought the cancer. He continued to work. Refusing defeat, he kept going tirelessly. Edward was a winner and a success.

Fading as the battle with the disease continued, my father refused to quit. He was completely bald after a year of tumultuous struggle with the disease.

On a cold November day in 2006, Ed collapsed at work from exhaustion. Paramedics urged him to visit the hospital. His robust frame, deteriorating to a minuscule 175 pounds, couldn’t tolerate the physical demands of his work. As the sturdy granite of strength in our family, he was now as fragile as tissue paper.

As the sole supporter of his family, he continued. That is what he knew—what he learned from his father. I struggled understanding this until now.

The hospital was his home for the next six weeks. Frail and weak from the battle, he hobbled around as the cancer spread to his liver. Nauseated from the cancer that ate away at his throat, my father came home for the holidays because, “That’s what families do!” explaining with an ere of practicality.

We sat and watched the Seahawks on that briskly clear day in December. Guffawing in frustration as they lost, he explained, “They have no heart; that’s what winners need is heart.” I agreed as I awaited a surprise I had prepared for him, a symbolic token of my support of his struggle. I shaved my head that day to show my father how I appreciated and supported him. He taught me this. He expected this, but would never ask.

Edward, my father, returned to the hospital the next day as he deteriorated further. Family and friends visited to keep up his spirits, but he was losing his fight. I struggled seeing the man, who pushed me to be better by fighting, fading away before my eyes like Alkaseltzer dissolving in water. Doctors gave him little chance, reducing the numbers from percentages of survival to the amount of days he had left.

The evening of January 3, 2008, I staggered into his hospital room, preparing myself for imminent grief, to say my final piece. He struggled to remain lucid as his internal organs began to shutdown with decay. I expressed my adoration for the years of wisdom he gave me.

On that somber January afternoon, I said, “Be at peace. You have fought hard. Everything is in good hands; let us take care of you! You have raised me and prepared me for this. I understand…” He struggled to speak, searching for the right words, while the hum of the machines and monitors helping him breathe drowned out his raspy voice.

He smirked and looked me in the eye. He said, “That…is perfect.”

Edward Warring, my father, faded in and out of consciousness for the next few hours until his body finally quit that evergreen, gray evening. He slipped away knowing he was a winner—a perfect man. Portions of my life that have meant the most since— marring the love of my life, coaching my first championship, buying my first home, bringing three amazing children into the world—he never would witness. His legacy and memory would always be present though. A part of him remained in every event.

“Big Ed” understood that life was about achieving your maximum potential. He looked people in the eye knowing that he was focused, expecting their mind, body, and spirit. He lived in that moment in his relationships with his family, friends, and himself. He measured the worth of his life on being perfect, his definition of it. Are you perfect?

Edward Warring was. He had my back. These sentiments (CEFHCL) are on the back apparel worn by my MBMS players as a reminder—I have your back. MBMS journalists are asked this before every deadline. When I wear an ugly tropical shirt, tear up watching a sports movie, quote Wooden in the huddle, or talk to my own kids about being great teammates, he's there. He taught me this. He expected this, but would never ask. Are you? Perfect, I mean!

He believed Coach Gaines’ words, “Being perfect is about being able to look your friends in the eye and know that you didn’t let them down because you told them the truth. And that truth is you did everything you could. There wasn’t one more thing you could've done.” I understand this now. “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose” (2004).

I struggled understanding this until now.