My late father bought me a Joe Montana jersey when I was a boy. Home red with white stripes. I don't remember when he gave it to me, or why, but I'll never forget the way the mesh sleeves felt against my arms. The last time I visited my mom, I looked for it in her closets. She said it'd been put away somewhere.

On trips home I half expect to still see my dad sitting at the head of the long dining room table, papers strewn, working on a brief or a closing argument. He was an ambitious man who had played quarterback in high school and loved what that detail told people about him -- here, friends, was a leader, a winner, a person his peers trusted most in moments when they needed something extraordinary.