The Steady Hand

A Reflection on Fatherhood

Permit me, if you will, a few minutes to contemplate a figure oft overshadowed by his own reticence: the father.

Not the blustering patriarch of caricature, nor the emotionally aloof man of cultural shorthand—but the real article. The father whose strength is quiet, whose presence is consistent, whose wisdom is sometimes offered through words and often through example.

I speak here from the peculiar vantage point of one who has himself been fathered, and fathered well. My own father, a man of deep conviction and disarming humour, passed down many things to me: not least among them, a love for the English language, a tolerance for mildly absurd cricket analogies, and a belief that the measure of a man lies not in noise, but in steadiness.

I remember, with remarkable clarity, the evening I was preparing my first speech as Head Boy, to be delivered on the grand occasion of the retirement of my Head Master. I had the passion of youth, but alas, not the structure. My father, who could wield words like a craftsman does his tools, sat with me, not to dictate, but to draw out. He taught me that a speech must not only sound good, but mean something. That one speaks not merely to be heard, but to connect. And when nerves overwhelmed me, taught me the oldest trick in the history of speech making, find a friendly face in the back off the room, or in this case the back of a cathedral seating two thousand, and maintain eye contact! It was a small act, perhaps. But behind it lay a great truth: fathers help us find our voice, and trust that it is worth hearing.

That same lesson of leadership echoed far beyond that speech. I saw it in the way he carried himself at home, at work, and, perhaps most vividly, on the cricket field. Playing under his captaincy, I learned that authority need not shout to be firm. That a captain listens more than he speaks, reads the rhythm of a team as surely as the spin on a ball. That leadership, at its best, is an act of service. He never once raised his voice in anger on the field, but somehow, we played our best under his watchful eye.

Fathers give many gifts. Some are wrapped in formality, education, direction, advice. Others are subtler: the memory of a hand on the shoulder after a failure; the shared joy of a match won; the unspoken message, “You’ve got this, son,” as they take a step back and toss you the “leather”.

Of course, not every father is perfect. Indeed, none are. But the great ones, those we honour and remember, they give us something of themselves, over time, with great care. Not in grand gestures, but in constancy. In faith. In showing up. Being present.

Fatherhood, I’ve come to believe, is not merely a biological designation. It is a vocation of presence. To father is to anchor, to offer something solid against the shifting currents of life. It is to believe in your child even when they cannot quite believe in themselves. It is, in the words of the philosopher-poet, to plant trees under whose shade you may never sit.

And so, to my father, and to all fathers who have loved well, led wisely, and laughed freely, I offer deep thanks. For the speeches you edited, the boundaries you set, the cricket balls you threw in the fading light, and the faith you carried when we faltered.

You may never know the full reach of your influence. But we, your children, do. We carry it quietly, like a well-worn bat or a favourite line from a book: solid, familiar, and ready when it’s needed most.

Happy Father’s Day. And thank you, for everything.