I lost my father, Gerald “Big G” Grocholski, on July 30, 2023.
He was 78 years old.
No matter how much you know that day will eventually come, I don’t believe you are ever truly prepared for the finality of losing a parent.
My dad was a larger-than-life figure in my world. His influence shaped who I became as a father, husband, athlete, and professional. Although he is gone, I know the lessons he taught me will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Now, it is my responsibility to pass some of that wisdom on to my own children.
When I think about my dad, three lessons stand above the rest.
1. Triumph Over Adversity
My dad grew up extremely poor.
His parents, Alex and Evelyn, had six sons, and life was difficult.
There were times when the family simply did not have enough food. My dad told me stories of his mother sending the boys out to find food wherever they could. During especially difficult periods, they hunted squirrels and pigeons so the family would have something to eat.
When he was in high school, he had one pair of jeans that he wore to school every day.
As if poverty wasn’t difficult enough, his father struggled with alcoholism and left the family when my dad was in third grade.
My dad learned at a very young age that nobody was going to hand him an easy life.
After graduating from high school, he moved out and went to work.
Then he kept working.
For the next 48 years.
This isn’t a traditional rags-to-riches story. My dad didn’t become a millionaire or build some enormous business empire.
Instead, he did something I consider equally admirable.
He punched the clock.
He worked hard.
And he created a better life for his children than the one he had been given.
My brother and I grew up in a small, safe rural community. We never worried about having enough food on the table. We had good clothes. We had the athletic equipment we needed. We had a comfortable home.
We had a wonderful childhood.
My dad couldn’t change the childhood he had experienced.
But he could change the childhood his sons experienced.
And he did.
Considering everything he endured while growing up, his life could have gone in a completely different direction.
Instead, he became a hardworking man who took care of his family.
That lesson has stayed with me.
There are moments in my own life when I become frustrated or feel sorry for myself.
Then I think about my dad.
I think about the obstacles he faced before he was even old enough to drive.
And I ask myself:
If he could overcome all of that, why can’t I overcome what is standing in front of me?
My dad taught me that where you begin does not have to determine where you finish.
2. The Will to Win
If you spent any amount of time in the Grocholski household, you learned something very quickly:
We were competitive.
Extremely competitive.
Everything had the potential to become a contest.
And I mean everything.
When my brother and I were young, Friday nights sometimes meant family Monopoly.
Most families probably picture Monopoly as a wholesome evening gathered around the kitchen table.
That was not our version.
There was trash talking.
There was posturing.
There were accusations.
There were hurt feelings.
There were probably questionable real-estate transactions.
Everybody wanted to win—including my mother.
Losing gracefully was not exactly the Grocholski family specialty.
One family vacation produced another perfect example.
My dad decided we should have a family golf tournament.
He assessed everyone’s ability and created a handicap system designed to make the competition fair.
Then we teed off.
Apparently, the United States Open had nothing on the Grocholski Family Golf Championship.
Everyone became so focused that we barely spoke to one another for 18 holes.
I remember the round being almost uncomfortable.
For the record, I won.
And yes, I continued reminding family members of that fact for years afterward.
My dad instilled that competitive drive in me.
It followed me into athletics.
It followed me into my professional career.
Whether I was playing basketball, competing in a sales contest, or chasing a business goal, I wanted to win.
As I have grown older, however, I have come to understand the lesson a little differently.
The value wasn’t simply winning at all costs.
The value was learning how to compete.
Prepare.
Work harder.
Don’t quit.
Expect more from yourself.
Find a way.
Competition taught me to push when things became difficult.
That competitive fire has been an important part of my professional success, and I know exactly where it came from.
Big G.
3. Listen Without Judgment
For all of my dad’s competitiveness, one of his greatest qualities was something much quieter.
He knew how to listen.
And I mean truly listen.
If you came to him with a problem, he didn’t immediately tell you what you had done wrong.
He didn’t force his beliefs on you.
He didn’t interrupt every thirty seconds to explain what he would have done.
He listened.
He allowed you to talk.
He gave you space to work through whatever was bothering you.
Then, if you asked for his opinion, he would give it.
That made him someone people trusted.
He became a confidant not because he always had the perfect answer, but because people knew they could talk to him without immediately being judged.
I didn’t fully appreciate how valuable that was until he was gone.
Not long after his death, I was driving when the check-engine light came on.
Almost instinctively, my first thought was:
I need to call Dad.
Then reality hit me.
I couldn’t.
He wasn’t there.
That small moment hurt far more than I expected.
For most of my life, there had always been someone I could call.
Now there wasn’t.
And I realized something else.
Perhaps I am not supposed to replace what my dad was for me.
Perhaps now it is my turn to become that person for my daughters.
To listen.
To let them talk.
To resist the urge to solve every problem immediately.
To offer advice when they want it.
And to make sure they always know they have someone they can call.
That may be one of the greatest gifts a father can give his children.
One Final Memory of Big G
I want to finish with my favorite memory of my dad.
It happened in March 1989.
My high school basketball team, the East Troy Trojans, was playing the Whitnall Falcons in the sectional championship game.
The winner was going to the state tournament.
We were significant underdogs.
Very few people gave us much of a chance.
Unfortunately, my dad couldn’t attend the game.
He owned a tavern in Whitewater and had to work that night.
The game began.
And somehow, everything went right.
We played one of our best games of the season.
With about four minutes remaining, we were ahead by roughly 20 points.
My brother left the stands, found a pay phone, and called Dad.
He told him:
“We’re going to state.”
There was another piece of information my dad needed to know.
Hundreds of East Troy basketball fans were probably going to descend on his tavern very soon.
We finished the game.
We had done it.
We were going to state.
As the team boarded the bus to head home, I approached our head coach with an idea.
I wanted the bus to stop at my parents’ tavern.
One quick victory stop.
One curtain call.
Thankfully, the coach agreed.
When the bus pulled up, people poured out of the bar and into the street.
They were cheering.
Clapping.
Celebrating.
I stepped off the bus.
And there was my dad.
I walked toward him.
He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a huge hug.
For many fathers and sons, that might not sound extraordinary.
For us, it was.
My dad came from a generation where affection wasn’t always expressed physically.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times I remember him hugging or kissing me.
But that night, he hugged me.
And I knew exactly what the hug meant.
He was proud of me.
I was his son.
And for a few seconds, nothing else in the world mattered.
More than three decades later, I can still picture that moment.
The bus.
The bar.
The fans standing in the street.
And my dad waiting for me.
I will carry that memory for the rest of my life.
What My Father Left Behind
When someone dies, we naturally think about everything we have lost.
Their voice.
Their advice.
Their laugh.
The phone calls.
The ordinary conversations we assumed would always be available.
But I have also started thinking about what remains.
My dad remains in the way I compete.
He remains in the way I respond when life becomes difficult.
He remains in the way I try to listen to my daughters.
He remains in the stories I tell about him.
And hopefully, parts of him will continue through my children as I pass those lessons along.
That may be one of the responsibilities we inherit when we lose a parent.
We become the keeper of their stories.
So I will keep telling mine.
About the little boy who grew up with almost nothing.
About the man who worked for nearly five decades to make sure his children had more.
About the ridiculously competitive Monopoly games.
About the family golf tournament that I would like history to record that I won.
About the man I could always call when something went wrong.
And about a cold night in March 1989 when a father stood outside his tavern waiting for his son to step off a bus.
Thank you for allowing me to tell you a little about my dad.
His name was Gerald “Big G” Grocholski.
I loved him.
I miss him.
And I will always be proud to be his son.