My dad is a fan of football, too, and did a good job of making me

When Saquon Barkley said, “My dad is a fan of football, too, and did a good job of making me understand the history of football,” he was not merely speaking of a sport, but of heritage, discipline, and the sacred passing of knowledge from one generation to the next. His words, though simple, carry the weight of an ancient truth — that greatness is never born in isolation, but through the guidance of those who came before. In the voice of a son honoring his father, we hear the timeless echo of mentorship, of the torch passed from elder to youth, from teacher to student, from one life to another.

For Barkley, football was not just a game; it was a language spoken between father and son — a bond of understanding that transcended words. The history of football, as taught to him, was more than the recounting of scores or championships. It was the story of struggle, perseverance, and evolution — of men who worked, sacrificed, and dreamed to build something lasting. In that history, his father gave him not only context, but character. By teaching him where the game came from, he taught him what it means to play with purpose — that every yard gained carries the memory of those who once paved the field.

The ancients would have seen in this a reflection of the sacred relationship between master and apprentice. Just as the young sculptor learned from the old artisan, or the warrior learned from the veteran, so too does Barkley learn from his father. It is not knowledge alone that is passed down, but spirit. His father, a man shaped by his own love of the game, sought not to make his son merely skillful, but wise — to understand that every art, whether of hand or heart, is built upon tradition. To know the history of one’s craft is to be anchored in meaning; to play without that knowledge is to move without roots.

Consider the story of Alexander the Great, who was taught by Aristotle. The young conqueror did not learn only strategy or science, but the history of the world he would one day rule. Through that knowledge, Alexander gained perspective — he saw that every triumph was temporary, every empire a continuation of those that came before. In the same way, Barkley’s father taught him that football, too, is a lineage — that every play, every victory, carries the echoes of those who once stood on the field. And in honoring that history, the son becomes not merely an athlete, but a custodian of legacy.

There is a profound humility in Barkley’s words. He does not claim mastery as his own achievement; instead, he honors the foundation laid by another. In an age that often worships independence and self-made success, his recognition of his father’s influence is a reminder of the ancient virtue of gratitude. Every champion, no matter how gifted, is the result of unseen labor — the voices of parents, mentors, and ancestors shaping their path. To acknowledge that is to remain grounded, no matter how high one rises.

And yet, Barkley’s quote carries another layer of meaning. To understand history, whether in sport or in life, is to understand identity. His father’s lessons were not simply about football, but about knowing who he is — where he stands within the larger story of perseverance and pride. When a person knows their history, they gain not arrogance, but strength; not entitlement, but purpose. As the philosopher Seneca once wrote, “He who looks to the past will learn how to bear the future.” In teaching his son the game’s history, Barkley’s father was arming him not just for the field, but for life itself.

So, my listener, take this wisdom to heart: know the history of your craft, your passion, your people. Whether you wield a pen, a hammer, or a football, understand the hands that came before yours. Seek mentors who not only train your body but shape your understanding. Honor those who built the roads you walk upon, for in remembering them, you strengthen yourself. To move forward without history is to build upon sand; to move forward with it is to stand upon stone.

And finally, pass on what you have learned. As Barkley’s father did for him, so must you do for others. Teach not only the skill, but the story; not only the motion, but the meaning. In this way, the flame of wisdom is kept alive — each generation lighting the next. For when a person, like Barkley, can look back and say, “My father taught me,” then the chain of greatness is unbroken, and the world is made richer by its continuity.