In a perfect world, dad would play out his role in our lives without so much as a hitch.  He would teach us the intricacies of melodic compositions which we would later on define as our own version of music.  He would introduce us to John, Paul, George and Ringo and later on to Mick, Keith and the rest of the boys in the hopes of someday seeing indulge in our own creative tendencies.  He would engage us to a few one-on-one games, acquaint us with Larry, Magic, Kareem and Doctor J taught him and let us fly our own way the way Michael did.  He would instruct us in the fine art of ideological and physical self-defense, all the while reminding us not to provoke but never to back down from a righteous battle.  He would point to Mohammed Ali and make an example of how the greatest champion who ever lived chose his fights well, and backed out of the kind of fights he did not believe in.  He'd be the first hero we'd ever meet and he'd be the man we'd love to grow up to be.

    My dad was my first hero.  Back when I was a kid, I'd look at my father, eyes gleaming, and marvel at how well he could slap that bass guitar and bring a much needed gusto to his band's performance.  I'd see him play in the seniors division of our community's annual summer basketball league and watch with awe as he sank sky hook after sky hook.  I'd proudly listen as dad tell the story of how he didn't back down when he'd witnessed an anomalous transaction and stood up against some powerful people to right what he felt was wrong.  In my perfect world, dad was doing every single thing the right way and I was certain he'd keep doing so until we were both old and gray.  He was larger than life itself -- more courageous than any other hero I ever saw on screen, stronger than any super hero I've ever read about in comic books.

    Then, reality kicked in.  I tried my best to avoid that day -- in the hopes of preserving that close to omnipotent image I once had of dad.  "That'll be the day," he once stressed.  "When you beat me in a ballgame, fair and square."  That day never came, of course, because the last thing I wanted to do was run rings around my childhood hero.  So as I grew stronger and faster, more adept than I'd ever seen with the ball, I watched him shift to the more refined sport of golf -- and I let him enjoy his newfound passion.

    As I grew into my own, it became evident how dad had his own standards of value, the kind which did not necessarily agree with mine, even off the courts and off courses.  Often, I'd find myself questioning the wisdom of dad's decisions.  Occasionally, I'd silently mumble to myself, "Is there a point to all of these?" each time he'd put his foot down on any matter I had even just began to question.

    Sometimes I'd hear him say the silliest things.  There was this time, I remember, while I was nursing a broken heart over a few bottles of bear, he sat beside me, he began drinking with me in a doomed effort to make me feel that he understood the pain that I was going through, and he said something remarkably insensitive like, "Don't worry son, you'll get over her.  There are other fishes in the sea."  Or something to that effect.  I'd have believed him even if he took the time to get to know her.  Unfortunately, dad never even met her, he didn't even know who she was.

    Somehow it seemed that the bigger, stronger, older and wiser I became, the smaller, weaker and less convincing dad and his ideas turned out to be.  And as much as it pained me to walk at a pace much faster than he did, I didn't really have much of a choice.  Like a frustrated Anakin Skywalker, I lashed out (in the privacy of my room, of course) -- "It's all dad's fault!  He's holding me back!"

    As the years rolled by, I found myself relying less and less on dad more on myself, my friends, my ideas and my decisions.  What I didn't realize, however, was that my dad was actually letting me out on my own -- on purpose.  It was his intention all along to let me out of my shell and become my own man.  In retrospect, I realized that I turned out to be a better man for it --stronger, wiser, more principled than the old man himself.  What's that they say about parents?  That they all secretly wish their kids would turn out to be much better individuals than they ever were?  I had been feeling that way recently -- until reality kicked in one more time.

    Close to three months ago, my family and I rushed my dad to the hospital.  He was suffering from intense pain caused by tumor that was growing in between two bones in his rib -- and in turn, he was having difficulty of breathing.  The doctors gave him a minor dose of morphine, to help relieve him from pain -- that's when all hell broke loose.  An allergic reaction caused by the morphine introduced into his bloodstream brought his blood pressure down to a precariously dangerous level, and he slipped into seizure.  I watched my dad fighting the battle of his life with his one hand in mine, his every breath threatening to be his last.  Twice his body shook to alarming proportions.  Before it was over, my dad looked to the ceiling and squeezed my hand tightly, I didn't realize that he has broken the rosary that was in both our hands.

    My dad's first brush with cancer was a terribly trying ordeal for everyone in our family.  And though it pains m to admit it, I was probably more terrified by the fact that being the eldest child, there was tremendous amount of responsibility that fell on my shoulders had my dad passed away.  Quite frankly, I don't know how I would have handled it.

    My dad probably realized my fears as he was just about to slip away.  And my hero, he just decided then and and there that he'd save me one more time.  My dad fought back from that battle to stare down a fist-sized tumor and have it shrink to an almost non-existent level today.  With the specter of death looming in the horizon, he fought his way back without so much as a weapon.  He knew that his family was counting on him to fight back, so that's exactly what he did.  Staring down a life-threatening disease is perhaps one of the most courageous things anyone can ever do.  It's the kind of thing only the sturdiest among us are capable of.  It's the kind of thing we can expect only from heroes.

    I now realize that the world isn't perfect -- that my vision of dad doing everything right until we're both old and gray is but a pipe dream.  But that doesn't cloud my vision at all.  My father is a hero because of his ability to overcome his mistakes, his ability to rise above difficult situations, his will to lead his family in the right direction.  And the most amazing thing is that he isn't alone.  There are thousands, million of fathers out there who stumble and fall, who succumb in various battles but who still rise to the occasion when needed.  If there is one thing I will forever cherish from our family's brush with the Big C, it's the fact that only by going through such an ordeal was I able to rediscover my childhood hero.

    My dad, the hero, will receive all the honor his children can muster up today.  And my fervent wish is that by writing this piece, I will have reminded the millions of other children out there who still have their heroes with them to do the same.  Our dads, the heroes, deserve nothing less.