“My dad means a lot to me. He’s the one who put a football in my hands.”

I love my son. I love my kids, my family. Like I said after I took the misdemeanor plea.

I can catch the ball. You’ve got to throw it to me.

Age really don’t matter.

I dedicate myself and work hard in the weight room and treat every practice as if it were a game.

Then push through it no matter what the outcome is.

He didn’t move a muscle, not one inch, and he didn’t drop one tear. I tell you that and you are probably like, “Wow, how is that even possible?”

I have to continue to be a great leader and contribute in any way that I can, and get guys to follow suit.

I understand that my son loves me and I love him, and everything just really got blown out of proportion, and I’m OK with that.

To me, when you got a 20-year-old running back or 21-year-old receiver that’s just coming out of college and you’re out working these guys.

But I’m still from the country. I love my fried food and my neck bones and all that, too.

I want to win four or five championship rings. That’s how I dream. I dream big.

So it’s a lot of different things that I do. I don’t want to overload the body too much, but when we do the hill, it’s not like workouts.

It’s modern-day slavery.

When I go out on the field, I just put it in my mind that I’m playing for my family.

When I’m out, maybe I’m looking at the fried chicken, but I know I need to order the grilled.

It’s not like I had to throw the football and deal with that as well.

When I was about 12 years old back in Houston, my Dad used to take us to the driving range.

The first thing I remember is that my dad had a big iron Olivetti typewriter and he worked all night.

My dad is the best and funniest newspaper columnist. There is nobody anywhere near as good.

My dad was very successful as a journalist, so I didn’t want to be one. I wanted to be a novelist.

The world’s most competitive man, my dad. Wouldn’t let us win at Monopoly… he wouldn’t cut any slack for his children.

My dad Alan loved Westerns and we watched them together when there wasn’t much else on TV. I had toy cowboys I’d call Richard Widmark or Gregory Peck and we’d restage the Battle of the Alamo.

My dad never really wrote what he thought. None of his inner rage and darkness and problems, which we all have, made it on to the page. For him, writing was a process of making everything appear funny.

I was 41 when I became a dad. I try to be as much fun as my father was, but I’m at home more – and less of a disciplinarian.