The language only we speak

I wrote several stories about Greenspan’s Serra teams his senior year, including another column called “Serra scores ‘Cool’ victory at Folsom,” in which I had fun detailing Serra’s dramatic road win to open the 2024 season.

Included in Greenspan’s recent email was a column of his own, inspired by Father’s Day and his relationship with his father Drew, and how that relationship served as the inspiration for what Greenspan called the best game he ever played in that 2024 season opener.

Ordinarily, we don’t run guest perspectives in the Daily Journal sports section. But, after reading Greenspan’s column, I was inspired to call an audible. It isn’t just a touching insight into a father-son relationship to complement Father’s Day weekend, but it really encapsulates the perspective of a 19-year-old Greenspan, who moved away in Sept. 2025 to attend University of Michigan and, now that he’s nearly one year gone from the move, is putting life into perspective the way so many young people must after making such a big leap.

I thought about beginning this column with the title “Seven years gone,” signifying some kind of sequel to the one I wrote two years ago about Greenspan and Leder. But, this isn’t a sequel. The column and its inspiration isn’t even mine, it’s Greenspan’s. So, I was compelled to start with the title he penned, and am honored to share Greenspan’s column in its entity. ...

The language only we speak

By Noah Greenspan

There is a question I get asked sometimes — usually in the way people ask when they think they already know the answer: “Who are you closer with, your mom or your dad?”

My answer is always the same, and it always catches people off guard.

“I talk to my dad more. But my mom probably knows more about me.”

That duality is not a contradiction. It is the most honest thing I can say about the relationship my father, Drew Greenspan, I have built over a lifetime. My mom holds my secrets, my anxieties, the quiet interior stuff. My dad and I? We talk for hours upon hours. Our conversations usually consist of circling through games, seasons and moments the way other people circle through the same conversations about weather or work. With us, it has always been a sport.

It started early, in my elementary school years to be exact. The first conversations were about my baseball tournaments at Twin Creeks Sports Complex on Sundays at 7 in the morning, the kind of ungodly hour when dew still clings to the outfield grass and every parent in the bleachers is nursing coffee and silently questioning their life choices. My dad included. He did not want to be there. He will tell you that himself. But, he was there every time.

Then it was Little League. My dad and I found ourselves kvetching about everything from the cold Martins Field winds, to the kids who were unwillingly there because their parents decided to sign them up. Then, the same group of 12-year-olds bestowed upon my father the nickname “Big Drew.” This was notable for one reason in particular: My dad is a 5-foot-5 Jewish guy from the suburbs. The name had nothing to do with his stature and everything to do with his energy, his passion and the sheer audacity of his investment in whatever was happening on that field. The kids recognized something real. They always do.

But the conversation I tend to recall the most — the one that crystallizes the relationship between my dad and I — revolves around the Folsom game.

***

It was the end of August and I had just started my final years of both high school and football. Serra versus Folsom. Three years of back-and-forth battles between two California high school programs that knew each other well. Folsom had Ryder Lyons, a star quarterback who was not supposed to lose three years in a row to anyone. Our Serra Padres had rebuilt the team almost entirely, with 18 of 22 starters from the previous season graduated. I was a senior who had spent freshman, sophomore and nearly all of junior year contributing nothing meaningful to the varsity team. Not because I did not love the game, but because love and readiness are not always the same thing. But I had spent that offseason working relentlessly, and thankfully it paid off. I got the start, Game 1.

***

It was an away game. The bus ride from Serra to Folsom is three hours. Three hours to sit with your thoughts, your nerves and the particular mix of anxiety and quiet pride that comes from knowing you put in the work and now the moment is actually arriving. I sat with all of it.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from my dad, sent before kickoff, before I had done a single thing to justify it:

Think about today as one of the greatest learning experiences of your life. Not the game itself, but the process to become a starter. All summer long it was etched in stone that a younger person would be starting. And you never over-thought it, you just worked. That’s a microcosm of life and a lesson that can only be learned thru experience. That is no different than other journey’s you are currently on including college admissions, continuing to play competitive sports, and as a soon to be 18-year-old (adult). Keep this mindset and you will be successful in life.

I wouldn't change anything. You're a better person for your effort to improve and grind. Trust me, that will go a long way. As John Wooden said, sports don't build character, they reveal it. And you've certainly shown what type of teammate and person you are. You are a real mensch.

Couldn’t be more proud. Go make some plays, and be safe.

Love you,

Dad

I will not pretend that it didn’t hit me. It did. A few tears welled in my eyes, the kind you blink back fast on a bus full of your teammates.

With nauseating nerves leading up to my first ever game starting on the varsity level, the message definitely alleviated some. This allowed me to play with no fear, which allowed me to perform at a level I did not even know I had in me. Both statistically and just based on feel, it was the best game I ever played. I ended up with nine tackles, a fumble recovery, a couple of pass breakups and a sack.

The game was a nail-biter all the way. We found ourselves down 21-13 late in the fourth quarter, and with the luck of a late touchdown, an onside kick and a 44-yard field goal, we took the lead and won as regulation expired. The kind of ending that sounds scripted. However, that is not the part of the night that stays with me now and will forever; it is my dad’s embrace after the game. The hug that made every early morning practice, every injury and every late night in the weight room worth it.

The bus returned to Serra High School around 1:30 a.m. My friends and I did what you do after a game like that, replaying every play, laughing too loud, still buzzing. I reached my home around 2 a.m.

My dad was sitting in the kitchen, just the low lights on in a quiet house, waiting patiently.

If you know Drew Greenspan, you know he is asleep on the couch by 8:30 on a normal night, 9 at the latest. He had stayed up past 2 a.m. to talk to me about a high school football game. We sat there for another hour, just the two of us, going through every moment of it together.

That is what sport has been for us. Not just a hobby or a shared interest. A language. A means of saying things that might otherwise go unsaid — like that text I received.

I am grateful for the game. I am more grateful for the man who showed up to every field, every early morning and every late night, just to be part of it with me.

Happy Father's Day, Big Drew. You are a real mensch, too.