Joe Eggert
My dad was a man of quiet strength, steady presence, and a heart that never wavered. He didn’t need attention or praise — he showed his love through loyalty, patience, and the way he was always there when it mattered. His laugh was rare but unforgettable, that deep, genuine rumble that came out only when something truly hit him just right. His stories were slow and thoughtful, told in that way only he could…
My dad was born in Cleveland and faced more hardship in his early years than most people ever know. His mother passed away when he was still young, and life pushed him into adulthood long before he should have had to carry that weight. With no safety net and no one to fall back on, he learned to fend for himself, to survive, and to keep moving forward no matter how hard things got. That toughness wasn’t something he chose — it was something life demanded of him. And instead of breaking him, it built him. He eventually joined the Army, where he found structure, purpose, and a place to prove what he was capable of. He did well there, rising to become an MP guard and serving with pride as he helped defend the Panama Canal. It was one of the first places where his strength, discipline, and determination were truly recognized.
When he returned to Cleveland, my dad found joy in the simple things, especially playing softball — a game he loved and played with the same quiet determination he brought to everything in life. It was during those years that he met my mom, Darlene, and the two of them built something real and lasting. They were married in 1967, beginning a partnership rooted in loyalty, hard work, and love that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood. Soon after, they started their family with the birth of their sons — Joseph in 1968 and Michael in 1971. Those were proud years for him. He had come from so little, fought through so much, and now he had a home, a wife he loved, and two boys he was determined to give a better life than the one he had known.
As the years went on, his family grew again when he became a grandfather to Danielle and Mikey in 1998, a role that brought him a quiet pride and a new kind of joy.
When we were living on Governor Avenue, some of my favorite memories were the nights when the heavy winter snows would roll in. Most people stayed inside, but not us. Dad, Mike, and I would bundle up and head out into the street to play late‑night football under the glow of the streetlights. The snow would be coming down hard, the whole neighborhood quiet, and there we were — slipping, laughing, tossing the ball like it was our own little world. I always looked forward to those nights. It didn’t matter how cold it was or how deep the snow got; if it was coming down, I knew Dad would be out there with us. Those moments weren’t just games — they were the kind of memories that stay with you forever, the kind that remind you what it felt like to be a kid with a father who showed his love simply by being there.
While we were in the hospital, we found ourselves remembering one of those moments you never forget — golfing at Little Met Golf Course. It was getting close to dusk, the light fading fast, and it was getting harder and harder to see the ball. Dad walked ahead a bit to watch where it might land, and I decided to hit before he was really ready. I struck the ball clean — one of the best hits I ever made — and then we all heard it: the sharp crack of the ball hitting something it definitely shouldn’t have, followed by a yell that echoed across the whole course. His smile disappeared instantly, replaced by that classic scowl he gave when he was trying not to lose his patience. Even in the hospital, when we brought it up, he wasn’t too thrilled about reliving it. But that moment, that mix of pain, surprise, and stubborn toughness, was so perfectly him
In closing, my dad wanted nothing more than the best for his family. He worked hard his entire life, right up until his body simply couldn’t do it anymore. He was proud — and he had every right to be — of paying off two homes, something he accomplished through grit, sacrifice, and determination. He helped us get started in our own adult lives, giving us the foundation he never had himself. We didn’t always agree on things, and we didn’t always see the world the same way, but as I look back now — at where he started, at what he built, and at the life he created for us — I realize I’m still learning from him. His lessons didn’t end when his words did. They live on in the example he set, the strength he showed, and the love he gave in his own quiet way.
