In my mind, my Dad’s been a coach his whole life. Heck, he must have been born a coach. And I was always the spectator. He coached, and I cheered–we lived by the roles that suited us best.

But I never imagined the day when we would have to switch roles—the father-daughter version of “Freaky Friday.”

Just last year, for Dad’s birthday, everything was normal. I wrote about the pivotal moment in 1983 for my Dad as a coach and me as a spectator when we celebrated the 76ers World Championship parade.

But then I got cancer, and everything went topsy turvy. Somehow I ended up in Dad’s shoes while he found himself in mine. The center court became my chemo chair, and Dad found himself watching, cheering, and praying on the sidelines.

Not that we’ve reached our new normal yet, but since Dad just celebrated another birthday, it’s time to reflect on the greatest lesson he ever taught me.

There were so many powerful lessons, mind you. Dad led by example with perseverance, determination, grit, stamina, truth, and honesty. Every commercial saying you wish you’d come up with applies to him.

“Just do it” -Nike
“Be All You Can Be” – US Army
“Push through the pain” – Tylenol

I sat on the sidelines my entire life watching my Dad, and other athletes bring these sayings to life. They did things to their bodies that we never thought were humanly possible.

We called Dad Superman at home because sometimes he’d work out so much only a superhero could have withstood such a regimen. He would hardly be able to walk up the stairs some nights, but he always did.

Never an athlete, I didn’t need to push my body to such extremes. Instead, I preferred cheering everybody else on as they did miraculous things and praying when a tight game was in the balance.

But, as Reebok would have it, “Life is not a spectator sport.”

In my 20s, when it was time to give up being a spectator and go out and live my life, I told Dad I didn’t know what to do.

It was a difficult time in my life when I needed a pep talk.

Dad and I had just finished dinner, and the waiter had cleared the table. Dad put the remaining silverware in the middle of the table.

He said, “Most people live their lives here in the middle, where it’s safe. This is where I am, too.”

I looked at him incredulously. With all his basketball achievements, he couldn’t have done them from the middle of the table.

He moved the fork to the edge. “I’ll come here for a little while, but then I’ll have to come back.”

He moved the fork back to the middle and put the spoon to the edge.

“You, you’re here. You don’t go back to the middle where it’s safe. You stay here. It’s what I’ve always admired most about you. You live your life right here, and you don’t come back when it gets scary.”

The reason for him telling that story is long since gone, but the power behind it has never left me. That day Dad showed me what a coach was made of. He gave me the courage to face the hard parts of life. It’s what Lady Gaga sang about, The Edge Of Glory.”

It’s what all great athletes do–they beat the odds. It’s what got me through my cancer journey. It’s what I did when I stepped in my Dad’s shoes this past year. Through the agony of loss, the physical stresses demanded of me, the heartbreak–things were done to me that I didn’t think were physically possible– my team and the fans got me to the other side.

If only for a year, what Dad has done for a lifetime.

And Dad didn’t have it any easier this year being the spectator. Sitting on the sidelines is a sentence far worse than any pain of playing through a game with a broken finger.

But Dad is forever the coach, even when coaching means cheering others on to victory. Even when he stepped into my shoes, he couldn’t give up the title he lived so hard to earn.