As I sit here trying to recall my favorite sports memories, there’s always one constant: a figure of a tall, blonde, skinny man standing in the furthest corner where he can see the play best.
If I was playing soccer, he was at the corner flag sneaking in quick words of advice. If I was playing golf, he would stand ahead and diligently locate my ball. And now, if I’m covering a hockey game, he’s up in the standing room of Yost Ice Arena, slipping me texts regarding talented players and potential story ideas.
The man in these memories is my dad, Ryan Matthews. My dad inspired, encouraged and now relishes in my love for sports and — I say this with every bit of weight possible — I would not be anywhere close to where I am today without him.
So how do you write the perfect story for someone like that?
While words are kind of my thing, I don’t believe it’s possible to encompass how much my dad impacted not just my athletic endeavors, but my entire life. In an attempt to do so, I’ll share a few of my favorite memories from over the years.
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Two years ago, my dad and I spent Christmas just the two of us, exactly how we liked it. We had a day curated toward our favorite things: sports, sports and more sports. From the World Junior Ice Hockey Championships to NFL football, that Christmas was the epitome of a Matthews’ dream.
One of the events we planned was ice skating in Detroit. My dad and I walked throughout downtown lugging our clunky hockey skates, eager to step out onto the ice. Skating is my dad’s favorite thing on this Earth — although don’t tell that to our cat, Mouse.
We were lacing up our skates watching other people go around in circles, and right when he tied his last knot, he turned to me with a smile and said he hadn’t skated in over a year.
If there’s one thing to know about my dad, it’s that he has few memories before hockey was a part of his life. Before anything else, my dad was a skater. And a good one, too. So when he got out on that ice, I told him to just go and not worry about me.
Watching my dad skate that day was the closest I’d ever seen him to his younger self. It was as if all the weight on his shoulders had lifted. And I wasn’t the only person who noticed. Another talented skater wanted my dad to film his skills. Now, this part is what my dad told me, but the guy asked my dad to record because he assumed he was the best one out on the ice.
As I’m cruising along the flow of traffic, I watch as the man flies around the ice, while my dad hunches over, gripping a phone, skating right behind him. It made me laugh knowing how special he must have felt to be honored with that task.
And as he’s telling me the story of how he found himself in that position, he ends with, “He was good, but I’m definitely better than him.” My dad’s classic sarcasm never fails, but he didn’t stop talking about our skating endeavor for a week. He was so happy to get back out there, it was as if he’d never left.
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90% of the time, my dad and I have very similar takes on sports. But one place where we will forever differ is the Messi versus Ronaldo debate.
My dad will never give up on Lionel Messi, and understandably so. But he had a daughter whose room was a literal shrine to Cristiano Ronaldo — every poster, every t-shirt, any Nike cleat with ‘CR7’ plastered on the heel and even a pillow case with his face on it. It’s safe to say it was an obsession.
With that came becoming a devoted Real Madrid fan when Ronaldo was coined “Mr. Champions League.” In 2016, the Spanish club played a match at Michigan Stadium, which marked my first trip to Ann Arbor.
I watched Marcelo lead Real Madrid to victory over Chelsea, and it was maybe one of the best moments of my life, even if Ronaldo was still in France winning Portugal’s first Euro title over the host country. Nonetheless, my dad cheered loud for every Real Madrid goal, standing next to me for my first-ever event at the Big House.
Who knew that 10 years later, I’d be attending that very university? It feels special knowing that the very first time I stepped foot in Ann Arbor, I did it with my dad — which was pretty freaking awesome.
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For a college girl, what better way could I have kicked off my spring break than going down to Ohio to watch a hockey game?
In late February, my dad and I trekked down to Columbus, Ohio to see the Detroit Red Wings take on the Columbus Blue Jackets at Ohio Stadium. I had watched plenty of other teams experience an outdoor game and was so excited to see my first one in person.
My dad had been to a couple similar events prior to this one and continuously tried to warn me of the downsides to an outdoor hockey game. The cold, the distance between the stands and ice, the long hours and, of course, the fact that the Red Wings weren’t very good.
For whatever reason, my optimism was guarded by three 100-foot walls keeping all those bad things away. But my ignorance was quickly humbled by the chilly bench seating, and a cold that not even my maize and blue gloves could shield me from. Everyone around us was frozen in place, bonding over the painfully cold weather.
While I had youth on my side, my dad’s joints did not.
He could barely walk after freezing in the stadium’s stands. And we had a lot of walking to do following the game’s conclusion. When calling a car was no longer an option, I essentially coached my dad through our two-mile journey. It was long, and I never thought he’d make it. But for two die-hard sports fans, we had no other choice.
The laughter that ensued once we hit the warm hotel couch was comical. Our hat hair defied gravity and the number of layers we each peeled off was straight from a comedy movie. And all to watch Detroit lose.
But a year later, I found myself back in Columbus, this time interning for the same team that pummeled the Red Wings. I go on my daily walks and think about how impressive it really was that he was able to make it from point A to point B while in that much pain.
What we do for hockey.
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If I had to pick one, my favorite memory will always be when I told my dad I made The Daily’s hockey beat.
All week leading up to the interview, I’d protected my feelings by claiming I had no shot at the job. I said I didn’t have enough experience, or my writing wasn’t strong enough, trying to prepare for the inevitable no.
But my dad was having none of my pessimism. He would, of course, tell me I was more than capable. But he’d also say, “Well, you never know.”
So when my Managing Sports Editor’s name lit up my phone and told me I’d gotten the spot, tears were the default reaction. The relief and excitement and complete shock all caught up to me; I just froze. But the friend I was with snapped me back to reality by immediately telling me to call my dad.
Telling my dad I got the spot was not only rewarding for the effort we put in, but also because it created Michigan hockey’s new number one fan.
On Oct 3 2025, the Wolverines opened their season at home against Mercyhurst, kicking off the craziness that became my year.
That week was maybe the most stressful of my life. I was never home, only there to sleep. And when my dad understandably had to cancel our Thursday dinner to watch a Detroit Tigers playoff game, he decided Friday — the first hockey game — was a good alternative.
I remember feeling mad because of the stress I’d dealt with that week. Friday was going to be absolutely insane with hockey kicking off, and adding another thing on my plate felt like the end of the world. But it ended up being one of the best things he could’ve done.
In the 20-minute walk between my apartment and Yost, my dad got to be with me every step of the way. When the time came for me to enter the rink’s doors, he gave me a quick pep talk before going to his own seat, sitting right below me as I covered the game in the press box.
His presence gave me the calm I so terribly needed in that moment. From the beginning, my dad was with me during the craziest, most amazing year of my life, sending me off into a world of media meals and credentialed access. What a gift.
***
Even with everything I’ve written, there’s so much unsaid. My first soccer practice consisted of a hockey net, since that’s all my dad had. We’ve played countless rounds of golf, each with a hilarious story, typically at my expense. Or just the sheer number of hours he and I spend on our couch recharging our social batteries while watching hockey until 1 a.m.
Right now, a lot of our time consists of long phone calls discussing draft prospects while he absolutely butchers the players’ names. It painfully reminds me that he’ll never learn how to pronounce Charlie McAvoy’s last name. But those are the moments we treasure now that I live away from home.
There’s so much to say, and so little space. But this can act as a placeholder for the endless words I could share about my dad and our nonstop sports conversations. I hope they last forever.
Statement Contributor Sophie Matthews can be reached at sophmat@umich.edu.
