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This column is in memory of my father, Leonard Morgan (March 4, 1919-May 18, 2004).

When I was a kid, I thought my father was a combination of Superman and Captain Marvel. I thought he was invincible. As an adult, I've always felt the same way. He always bounced back from any adversity.

I found out last week -- on Tuesday, May 18, the day my father passed away -- that he was not Superman. My dad was just a great man ... and not only a great man but also a great father and a great teacher.

Heartfelt Gratitude

I want to thank all my colleagues at ESPN -- especially president George Bodenheimer, Mark Shapiro, Tim Scanlan, Jed Drake and John Walsh -- for their personal calls and expressions of sympathy. I will never forget their kindness. I also want to thank all my friends who have come from around the country to support me and to honor my dad -- especially Enos Cabell (my former teammate with the Astros and Giants), Joe Forrest, Ernie Hodge, Tom Reich and Tom Roberson.

He taught me how to be a man. He taught me responsibility. I inherited a great work ethic, and he taught me what it meant to be a Morgan. Sometimes I hear people say that their dad was their best friend. My father wasn't my best friend -- he was my dad. My friends didn't teach me these life lessons, my dad did. Moreover, he always took time to tell each of his children that he loved us. And my dad and I would take time to say we loved each other.

I have enough great memories of my dad to last me another lifetime. During the Cold War with Soviet Russia, I remember coming home from school upset because we had been told what safety measures to take in case Russia dropped an atomic bomb on the United States.

My dad told me, "America is the greatest country in the world. We have the greatest military, and we have the greatest leaders." He assured me that we were safe -- and that came from a man who had fought for America in a segregated army in World War II. He was proud that he had served his country, but he never spoke of the war. His main hope, he said, was that when I grew up there would be no need for me to go to war.

The fondest memory my dad and I shared was not the first time he saw me play in the major leagues. It was not the first time he went with me to the All-Star Game. It was not the times we shared at the World Series in the 1970s during the Big Red Machine years. It was not even the time we were together at Cooperstown, N.Y., before my induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

The greatest time I shared with my dad was on one of his birthdays.

I have enough great memories of my dad to last me another lifetime.

My father grew up in Bonham, Texas, during a time when segregation was the rule in the South, and legendary boxer Joe Louis was one of the few role models for black people in America.

My dad told me stories about how people would gather around the radio and listen to Louis' fights. He said that every fight Louis won felt like a victory for all black people.

My dad loved Joe Louis.

I happened to meet Louis in Las Vegas in the lobby of Caeser's Palace -- as I recall, it was in 1980 (Louis died in 1981). It was only two weeks before my dad's birthday, and I wanted my dad to be able to meet him too. I told Louis, "My dad would cut off his right arm if he could be standing here with you."

When my dad's birthday arrived, my mom (Ollie), my sisters (Linda, Glenda and Patricia), my brothers (Jimmy and David) and I took him to Las Vegas to celebrate as a family. We took him to Caeser's Palace without telling him why we were going.

I had arranged with Joe Louis to surprise my dad. When we walked through the door, Louis walked toward us. My dad froze. The great boxer extended his hand, and as my dad stared into his eyes, I could see the tears flowing down my dad's face. Then he shook Louis' hand -- and Louis, my dad and I shared a group hug.

That was the greatest gift I could have given my dad. From that day on, my dad would become emotional each time we recalled the meeting ... and obviously I would follow.

During my Big Red Machine years, manager Sparky Anderson, Reds announcer Marty Brennaman and a number of my teammates -- including Johnny Bench, Pete Rose and Tony Perez -- all spent time with my father. Each one would ask me, half-jokingly and half-seriously, "Why can't you be more like your dad?" When each of them called last week to express their condolences, I was reminded of what they said three decades ago.

The greatest time I shared with my dad was on one of his birthdays.

My family and I will create an appropriate memorial for my dad related to education. My personal memorial to him will be to do everything I'm involved in better -- including being a better father. Most of all, I'll try to be more like my dad, which will make me a better person.

Now that my dad is gone, the toughest times for me will be Sundays. Sunday was my dad's favorite day. He would go to church in the morning, spend time with his family in the afternoon and then watch ESPN's "Sunday Night Baseball" (for which I've been an analyst since 1990).

When I retired from baseball, someone said to me, "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." I'm crying now because my dad's life is over, but I will soon be able to smile again because I was blessed to have such a great father.

An analyst for ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball, Hall of Fame second baseman Joe Leonard Morgan won back-to-back MVP awards with the Reds in 1975 and '76 (the Reds won the World Series both years). He contributes a weekly column to ESPN.com. Joe will take your questions in an ESPN.com chat Friday at 10:30 a.m. ET.