June 20 issue - His ocean-blue eyes and pale white skin, topped by a head of light brown hair, can throw you off. You're certain when you look at him that you are beholding a guero (white man). But after just a few sentences, his accent is hard to miss.

Bruno Sandoval came to this country from Mexico almost 50 years ago. He was a strapping 18-year-old lad, aiming for something as great as his six-foot-tall frame. The United States offered that. Hard work did not intimidate him, so he took a job in Texas driving a tractor for 50 cents an hour. He returned home to finish his schooling, then ventured back in 1962, this time to Chicago, where he worked for a dollar an hour in a cold-storage warehouse. Then for $1.25 an hour in an auto-parts factory. Then $1.50 an hour storing Christmas decorations in a warehouse, $1.75 an hour as a welder for General Motors and $2 an hour as a punch-press operator for General Electric. His life continuously illustrated that hard work pays off.

Ultimately, he put his talents to work in the rail yards as a mechanic for Chicago, Burlington and Quincy and then Santa Fe. He met my mother, Carmen, at a neighborhood dance and they married in 1967, when she was 20 and he was 27. A year later, daughter Marie arrived. Five years later, I was born. By then my dad owned a three-flat apartment building in the city. When he sold it in 1976 to move us to California (the warm climate enticed him) for a job with Amtrak, he was able to pay cash for our new house. Bruno would never know a mortgage payment.

My dad is retired now. But what I remember most about his working days is that he never complained about his job. He was up at 5 every morning without an alarm clock, and back at 3 or 4 in the afternoon to mow the lawn, chat with neighbors and watch his beloved documentaries on PBS.

He may be strong in stature, but my dad has always had a gentle spirit. The neighborhood kids used to line up so he could lift them one at a time into the air with one arm. He was known as Big Bruno, and he remains the most patient man I have ever known. He is slow to anger and has a heart of gold. You rarely hear insults or criticism from his mouth. He may not have the most sophisticated vocabulary (his native Spanish will always be more familiar to him), but that has not stopped him from accumulating a multitude of friends throughout the years. Phone call after phone call comes from former co-workers or gym buddies or neighbors. My normally quiet father chats and laughs exuberantly, and I imagine that they are doing the same. These men have found a treasure in my father. A role model and a true friend.

They say that actions speak louder than words, and observing the kind of life that my father has lived has influenced me more than any lecture he could have given. I do not remember a time when he sat me on his lap and imparted a life lesson, but spending even an hour with him leaves me with the feeling that he is a man who understands his role in the world. He defines that role as being someone who does good, loves everyone and doesn't expect anything in return.

At times his temperament has confounded me. How could life's ups and downs not cause Big Bruno to raise his voice or get his feathers ruffled? Shouldn't the man who could bench-press 405 pounds act gruff or angry or macho? About the extent of his gruffness toward me was when we'd go to the beach and he'd put me on his shoulders and run straight into the ocean—as I screamed all the way. I didn't like the deep, scary water. He never seemed to fear it.

My brother, who was born in 1980, is now the spitting image of my father. He's also named Bruno, and at 6 feet 7 inches tall, he, too, is a gentle giant. In church on a recent Sunday, as the pastor spoke about "running the good race" and living a life that would please God, my brother turned to me in tears. Our dad had completed a 26-mile bike ride that morning (he's in better shape at 64 than many 24-year-olds). My brother said, "Liz, that's Dad. He's finishing the good race."

Baseball players like Sammy Sosa can earn more in one game than my father did in any given year of his life. I compare the toiling and sacrifice of Sosa and Sandoval and, well, there is no comparison. I look around at those we call heroes, and I am convinced that the title is handed out too freely. Professional athletes and singers and movie stars can provide inspiration, but the title "hero" should be reserved for a man like my father, who shows us what it means to work tirelessly for his loved ones. That is a life to be admired. That is a hero. So here is a thank-you to all the Bruno Sandovals of the world. Happy Father's Day.

Sandoval lives in Whittier, Calif.