As Father’s Day rolls around it is funny the memories it conjures up of earlier times.

As a child, I played basketball thinking I was Larry Bird and baseball pretending I was Shawon Dunston.

If I was inside the gym at Myrtle Beach’s Pepper Geddings Recreation Center, I’d dribble into the corner and throw up a 3-pointer.

If I was on the diamonds, I’d throw the ball as hard as I could to first.

And, many times, I did this much to the ire of my father.

“Stop throwing up threes, you’re not Larry!”

“Make the routine throw!”

Yep, those were the words of my father, Paul E. Gable III.

I learned those two lessons, and many more from him.

Growing up as a kid, I could expect several things – trips to Hardee’s in the morning to talk sports with dad, there was a strong hatred for the New York Yankees, Notre Dame football was the only thing we could find on television on a Saturday – even in South Carolina – and dad was going to teach the “proper” way to learn the basic fundamentals, regardless of the sport.