“What do you want for Father’s Day?”

I heard that a few times this week.

There was a time when this holiday was about acquiring a new tie or a “World’s Best Dad” mug and consuming artery-hardening amounts of grilled meat. Today, my desires are far more sophisticated, by which I mean incredibly low-stakes and mostly centered around personal comfort.
At 66, I’ve realized that my wish list has evolved. My wants are pretty simple. A bit more... practical.

Top of the list would be the ability to walk into any room and remember exactly why I went in there. Failing that, I’d settle for one of those tiny Bluetooth-enabled tracking discs you stick to the frame of your reading glasses so they never get lost. Of course, in order to use the tracking app to find the glasses, I’d need my glasses to see the phone screen clearly enough to navigate the app. This is all predicated on the assumption that I haven’t misplaced my phone and my glasses.
They usually hide in the same place.

I want to sleep in, but the dog takes that to mean she wants me to hear her tap dance routine on our hardwood floor at 5:30 in the morning so I can let her out.
Then I start thinking about all the things around the house and in my life that need to be fixed, filed, mowed, put away, removed, replaced, rewired, reorganized, resupplied, renewed, cleaned, checked, changed, washed, waxed, emptied and filled back up again, and suddenly my Jewish guilt kicks in. Fortunately, I’ve learned over time not to act on that guilt, roll over and wait for it to pass. That’s about the time the dog decides it’s time for an encore.

So, what do I really want for Father’s Day?
I’ve always wanted a cool convertible.
I want the Mets in the World Series. Oh, and I want seats behind home plate so I can watch the Mets in the World Series.
And, of course, world peace.

When I was a kid, my dad would guarantee his own Father’s Day gift by getting up early on Sunday morning to make me breakfast. Sometimes it was pancakes shaped like a letter. Other times he’d make me a LEO (lox, eggs and onions) scrambled. My favorite, and a Father’s Day staple, was kippers and onions, a delicacy that would leave an aroma — some might call it a stench — wafting in the kitchen for months.

I’m not suggesting Dad was some Galloping Gourmet — after all, we’re talking about opening a few cans of kippers, chopping some onions and frying them together. But I don’t think the finest chefs in Europe could have cooked up anything more satisfying on those Sunday mornings. And I’m not just talking about the food.

I’m sure he didn’t relish getting up early to make breakfast for my brother and me after working late the night before. Dad was an entertainer, and every Saturday night was a late night.
But on Sundays, our small kitchen in Brooklyn was his stage. While Dad prepped, I’d walk a few blocks for bagels and the Sunday Daily News. Dad got Dick Young, and I got Dick Tracy.
We’d make small talk about the Mets. My friends. His work. We’d eat slowly.
On Father’s Day, I’d hand him a card and something I made in school. One year, as a gift, I let him take me to Shea Stadium.

I often think about what I would get my dad if he were around.
I’m pretty sure he would tell me the same thing I’ve told my three sons:
You’ve given me the greatest gift any dad could want by growing up to be the adults you’ve become. I couldn’t be any prouder. Happy Father’s Day.