ONE SUMMER HOLIDAY, when I was around nine years old, another family visited our home. As we barbecued burgers in the backyard that afternoon, the father of the other family began to wrestle with his sons in the grass. The boys climbed on his back and held on to his legs as he fought them off like an embattled bear. Then he picked them up and spun them around like airplanes. My father was busy with something at the time, and as I watched the other family I felt left out. My father doesn't wrestle with me like that, I thought. And in a rush of deep sadness I childishly concluded that those boys had a better father than I did. I went sulking to my room, and then later tearfully told my mother and father how I felt.

The truth was, my father and I did many great things together. He took me to White Sox, Bears, and Bulls games. We played baseball together, and he attended many of my Little League games. He never spoke a critical word to me, but rather affirmed me often. He provided a comfortable ...