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I thought my dad was out of work, because my friends had fathers with briefcases who'd go off somewhere with bow ties on. But my father would finish breakfast and go back to his room.

My dad was a workaholic. I saw him work seven days a week.

My dad took on every job he could get. He worked like mad. But then, at some point, he had saved up enough to open his first pub.

Because I was so quiet, my father let me spend hours and hours next to him while he would sketch. Everyone else was always asking things from him. I wasn't asking anything. I was just happy to be there.

I've never been a hands-on dad. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but you can't run a restaurant and be home for tea at 4:30 and bath and change nappies.

My dad, he worked rebar, an ironworker. Watching my pops get up every single morning, going into work, working hard - I think that really made me want to work that hard, wanted to make me get up early and go for a run or get a lift in or get some extra hitting in and really try to better myself every day.

When I spent time with my father, it wasn't playing ball in the back yard. I came to his office and listened to him do business or sat in on meetings. I walked job sites. On Saturday, we'd see my grandfather in Queens for a couple hours, and then he'd say, 'Let's go collect rent!'

My dad's a worker, an electrician, a bog standard job. Nothing glamorous like a footballer, but yet he still provided me with what I needed.

My dad is very successful in his business. He's always been big in having hobbies and having little ways to get away. He always made time for hunting and fishing. He always encouraged me to do it.

I missed my dad a lot growing up, even though we were together as a family. My dad was really a workaholic. And he was always working.