Home Team by Christie Tate

On the way home from my Saturday Alanon meeting, I realize it’s my father’s sobriety anniversary. Fifty years. Should I call him? He’s on a ranch somewhere south of Austin with eight of his college buddies, and I feel shy about interrupting the weekend’s festivities. It’s not easy for a group of octogenarians to pull off a reunion. Dad jokes that half the guys can’t hear and the other half can’t see. Many of their comrades have already died—the remaining group has dipped below the required number of players to field a football team. Mom wasn’t keen on Dad’s attendance because the ranch is far from a hospital and what if something happened? But these old friends, who attended Texas A&M and served in the Corps of Cadets during college before shipping off to Vietnam, want to gather, eat bar-b-que, and watch the Aggies play Notre Dame in a game they are not expected to win. They know there won’t be many more reunions. 

On my thirty-minute drive across Chicago, I debate calling Dad. It’s not just the reunion that stops me; I’m embarrassed that I remember his anniversary and that it means so much to me. It feels like I’m butting into something that’s none of my business. I don’t think my brother or sister mark the date or even know it off the top of their head, but every September I think about what it means that Dad sobered up when I was two years old, and what would have happened—to him, to me, to Mom, to my siblings—if he hadn’t. Somehow, by the time I turn on my street, I opt to play it cool, catch up with him next week. 

Who, exactly, needs me to be this breezy?

*

The next day, my husband and son return home from a baseball tournament in Indianapolis. Over dinner, they recount the highlights, including a double cheeseburger at a local joint that also served soft-serv and a lackluster breakfast at the commuter hotel near the baseball fields.

“What did you do Saturday night after the game?” I asked.

“We had a late dinner and watched football,” my son said, while my daughter made the how boring face. “Actually, we watched the Aggie game. They beat Notre Dame, and I texted Pops afterwards. He said, ‘Gig ‘em.’”

“You texted Pops last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know it was his fiftieth sobriety anniversary?”

“It didn’t come up, Mom. We just talked about the game.”

*

The next morning, I tell my therapy group about Dad’s anniversary. “I didn’t call him, and now I feel sad because I missed my chance.” There won’t be many more anniversaries. 

“Did you intentionally not call?” Ellery, one of my groupmates, asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, because I don’t.

She rephrases. “I mean, did you decide not to call volitionally or was it subconscious?”

“I have no idea how to answer that question,” I say, because I don’t. 

What happened was Saturday slipped away. I hung out with my teenaged daughter, ran a few errands, and then fell asleep without calling my dad. 

Did I drop the ball? Can I pick it back up? What should I do with this fucking ball?

I could say more to these people who gather every Monday morning for therapy—so much more—but I don’t think anyone will understand. Not my therapist or the other seven people in the circle. 

I can’t bear to discuss this with anyone who doesn’t understand what it’s like to be the recovering daughter of a father in recovery. 

*

Monday night after dinner, I load the last plate into the dishwasher as my husband heads upstairs to help our daughter with her chemistry homework. I dial my parents’ number, and Mom answers.

“It was Dad’s sober anniversary on Saturday,” she says a few minutes into the call. 

“I know,” I say, because I do. I don’t remember the actual day in September 1975 the way she must because I was a toddler, and she was a young wife, sick and sinking alongside Dad. Recently, she’s made it clear how grateful she is for Dad’s sobriety, which is a change from her former tight-lipped silence about the alcoholism in our family. At Thanksgiving last year, when we went around the table saying what we were grateful for, she said, “I’m grateful Paul’s sober, because if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be with him.”

“They’re having a party for him, but I’ll let him tell you about it.”

When Dad takes the phone, he first tells me about the reunion—the tender brisket they ate, the political talk they tried to avoid, and the triumph of watching their beloved Texas A&M Aggies kick Notre Dame’s ass. “You should have heard us hollering at the TV.”

“Happy anniversary,” I said, a hitch in my throat from impending tears, not because I’m two days late, but because I’m grateful I let myself have this moment. “Mom says there’s going to be a party.”

Dad sighs. “I didn’t want some big to-do with a receiving line or whatever. I told the guys from the meeting I wanted it to be intimate.”

“How many people are coming?”

“Twenty-two,” he says, and we both laugh because that’s a pretty sizable crowd for a Wednesday morning breakfast. 

*

I checked Wikipedia to see what else was happening on my dad’s first day of sobriety in September 1975. There are two entries: First, in Argentina, Isabel Perόn, teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, initiated a leave of absence from running the country from which she would return one month later.

More importantly, the Texas A&M Aggies beat the University of Honolulu Warriors in the first game ever played at the Aloha Stadium in Honolulu. I once heard a recording of my dad telling his sobriety story. On the day he decided to get sober once and for all, he called AA to ask for help, and the woman on the phone told him there was a meeting in his area starting in an hour. “Oh, I can’t make it tonight,” he said, “the Aggies are playing.” She must have thought this guy will never get sober.

In that same recording, my dad told the following story: A few months into his sobriety, he skipped his regular Saturday night recovery meeting—his “home meeting” in AA parlance—to watch the Aggies in a play-off game. My mom, however, went to the meeting by herself, as spouses were encouraged to attend and learn the principles of the program. When Mom got home, she stood between Dad and the TV and announced that she would no longer be walking on eggshells around him. Whether he drank or stayed sober was not within her power or control, so she was going to live her life and stop pouring her energy into keeping him sober. 

I’m guessing Dad didn’t enjoy the rest of that game.

*

In November 1990, I was a senior in high school, and it was time to visit colleges. Dad and I woke before dawn and drove three hours from our house in Dallas to College Station, Texas so I could walk through the A&M student center, eat in the dining hall, and get a feel for the institution that meant almost as much to him as his recovery program. That night, we attended the famous Texas A&M bonfire—a tradition that began in 1909—that involves various student groups spending weeks building the three-story stack of logs in advance of the game with their chief rival, the University of Texas. That year, as the tower of almost 8,000 logs was set aflame, we joined thousands of spectators in chanting a host of traditional cheers. Dad and I linked arms with the people around us, our faces lit by the fire, and sang the nonsense words, Hullaballoo canek canek, Hullaballoo canek canek. I’d never seen Dad so joyful, never heard him sing so loud. 

I chose to attend A&M because the application didn’t require an essay and because I wanted to be closer to my dad. “Score points with him” in football parlance. It must have been obvious, but I was afraid to admit how hard I was trying to get his attention. Emotionally, I was a mess, convinced I was too fat, all wrong, and would never have a deep connection with another person. I had a mean boyfriend and bulimia; I wanted the glow of my dad’s love and recovery to fix me.

*

In 1999, four years after I’d graduated, during the construction of the annual bonfire at A&M, a 40-foot-high stack of 5,000 logs collapsed at two o’clock in the morning. Fifty-eight students and former students were actively working on the site at the time—during the final week of construction, students work round-the-clock shifts to complete the structure. Twelve students died and twenty-seven were injured. 

By then, I lived in Chicago and worked as a paralegal while applying to law school. I’d been in Alanon for almost a year and had begun the long-term work of sifting through my relationships with alcoholics, including him. I didn’t join Alanon because of my dad’s long-ago drinking. It was my beloved boyfriend. When he drank, I disappeared into a white-hot fury that stole my speech, my memory, and my ability to think clearly. I was scared I wouldn’t survive intact.

My dad asked if I’d heard about the collapse. “I just can’t believe it.” His voice broke. It was the first time I’d heard him cry. 

The New York Times reported on the collapse and the subsequent state-wide mourning. “In Texas, where football is often described as a secular religion, the news that a hallowed tradition had brought catastrophe prompted immediate and widespread grieving.”

Dad attended the next home football game against University of Texas, the game for which the collapsed bonfire was constructed to rally the Aggies and inspire a win on the field. He described the tribute to the fallen students—“there wasn’t a dry eye in the entire stadium.” I remember wondering why he was so upset about the deaths of kids he didn’t know. I didn’t yet have enough recovery to cry for strangers. 

A&M beat UT by four points.

**

I suppose I should mention that I hate football. Hate’s a strong word, but it’s the right one. I hated football long before I knew about CTE or the exploitation of players or the link between football and toxic masculinity. I hated it because it was boring—nothing much seemed to happen. A ref was always blowing a whistle, while some guy moved a flag up and down the field. I couldn’t see the players’ faces, and it was hard to keep my eye on the ball. Dad tried to explain first and second downs to me, but I couldn’t make sense of it.

One Sunday, I sat next to my dad at a Cowboys game—I’d been excited to rush from Mass to the stadium where thousands of people decked out in gray and blue cheered for America’s team. But the excitement fizzled a few minutes into the first quarter. Some player would throw a ball, and then there’d be a clump of men trying to prevent the player who caught the ball from advancing. We’d brought snacks with us—Mom’s leftover lemon poundcake wrapped in tin foil. I was hungry and bored, and the cake solved both. In my memory, there’s my dad and I sitting high up in the stadium; Dad’s watching the game, and I’m licking lemon icing off my fingers. Honestly, I’m a little annoyed I didn’t try harder to get into football. Millions of daughters all over Texas managed to become lifelong fans, including my sister. Why not me?

*

Dad’s recovery world captivated me, though. He once took me to a Christmas party hosted by someone from his meetings, and I could feel the warmth in the room. The nice sober people slipped me candy canes and told Dad how adorable I was. I dipped my chip into melted Velveeta and drank punch while my dad and his friends patted each other on the back. “You taking it one day at a time?” “Holidays can be tricky.” “Easy does it.” Am I mis-remembering when I say I wanted to know everyone’s story? Certainly—what six-year-old craves adult drunkalogues? But I understood something about the meetings that bound my dad to these people in holiday sweaters: they told their stories to each other, and they got well. He passed that to me, and I caught it with both hands.

**

My dad isn’t the stern, disapproving type. He’s affable and easy going, the embodiment of don’t sweat the small stuff. When I lost a check he’d given me for ballet tuition, I waited until Mom left the room to tell him. When I rammed the car into the garage, I called him at work instead of Mom. When I couldn’t control my bulimia in college, he was my first call. He generally responded to difficult conversations with slogans from his recovery program.

Darlin’, just take it one day at a time.

Darlin’, you need to turn this over to your Higher Power.

Darlin’, your job is to do the footwork and then surrender the outcome.

I can only recall two times when he expressed disappointment in me.

The first was when one of the elderly nuns at my Catholic high school died, and we had the day off from school. I didn’t know Sister Emmanuel personally, so I didn’t go to her memorial Mass. Instead, I drove to the mall and bought a floral bikini for spring break. When Dad asked about the service, I tossed off a glib, “How would I know? I was at Northpark.” His eyes flared with shock. “What do you mean you didn’t go?” He hung his head but didn’t say another word. Later that night, he called me into the living room to tell me how important it was to attend funerals. 

“A funeral is a way to honor, not just the person who died, but also your community. It’s part of being a member of a community.”

I hadn’t noticed until then that Dad attended funerals all the time—for people in AA, from the small farming town he grew up in, from work, school, and, of course, family members. I felt shame about missing the funeral, but I really loved my new bathing suit.

The second disappointment happened when I was a sophomore in college. That winter, A&M’s football record earned them a spot at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas on New Year’s Day. My roommate and I got tickets to attend the game, even though we’d spent every home game in the library studying while thousands of other students cheered for the Aggies on their home turf, Kyle Field. But this was the famed Cotton Bowl, and I hoped that the spectacle of a championship game might win me over. 

That morning, a cold drizzle fell from a concrete-colored sky. My roommate and I were hungover from our antics the night before—she’d been drinking, and I’d been drinking and bingeing on stale holiday cookies. The last place we wanted to be was a football game with near-freezing rain pelting our faces. We barely made it a quarter. 

Back home, I mentioned to Dad, whose seats were in a different section, that we didn’t stay until the end of the game.

“When did you leave?”

I loved him too much to lie. “The second quarter.”

A wide-eyed shock replaced his smile. “Really? It wasn’t that cold.”  

*

In 2018, A&M played LSU the day after Thanksgiving, which meant whatever we did on Black Friday, we had to be parked in front of the game by kick-off. My mom, my brother, and his wife are LSU alumni, and while not as committed to the Tigers as Dad is to the Aggies, my brother owns a purple and yellow sports jacket that he regularly wears to tailgate parties. I made a firm resolution: This year, I will watch the game and help my dad cheer for the Aggies. We gathered in my brother’s family room, stuffed from a weekend of holiday eating, our eyes fixed on the TV.  I hung in there, having forbidden myself from sneaking off to watch Dance Moms upstairs or wander into my niece’s room to admire her Taylor Swift vinyl. I did peek at social media a few times and clocked friends from high school and college posting about the game. Go Aggies! Beat the hell outta LSU! My brother had posted earlier in the day: Geaux Tigers! Jimbo Fisher has a tiny penis!

“Who’s Jimbo Fisher?” I asked during a commercial break.

Dad leaned over and stage-whispered: “Honey, he’s the coach for A&M.”

At 10:00 p.m., my eyes begged for sleep, but the game went into overtime. My dad and brother yelled when the refs made bad calls and when passes were intercepted. In the fourth overtime, my nephew, still three years from enrolling at LSU as a freshman, joked that I’d picked the worst game in history to give my full attention. At the fifth overtime, and four-and-a-half hours into this blasted game, I posted on Facebook: Come watch this football game, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. It only lasts three hours, they said. When the game went into a sixth overtime, my mom and I began to giggle hysterically because what was happening in this insane football game? Why were will still sitting in front of the TV all these hours later? After the seventh overtime, the final score was 72 to 74 with Aggies taking the win. ESPN.com tells me that this game set the record for most combined points scored (146), and Wikipedia informs me that it tied with four other games for lasting roughly a millennium. 

Following this game, they changed the rules in order to prevent a college football game from going into seven overtimes. 

*

The week after my dad’s anniversary I’m back at my home Alanon meeting. All the regulars are there—Evan, Vicki, Sandra Jo, Christa, George. A visitor from Philly named Katie offers to read the daily meditation, which will serve as the inspiration for the subsequent discussion.

The topic: We expect other people to change so we will feel okay.  

As Katie reads, I think about the conflict I’m having with a friend who says hurtful things but, when confronted, says she has no idea what I’m talking about. Oh boy, do I want her to change!  I need to talk about this dynamic. I’m excited, shifting in my chair, ready for my turn to talk.

When I open my mouth, I talk about calling my dad two days after his anniversary, and then I’m saying, “I went to the same college as he did because I thought it would make us closer.” I’m crying. I’m also thinking, I need to talk about my friend, but I’m stuck on my relationship with my dad. “I wish I liked football,” and somehow the people in the meeting nod like they understand. I believe they do, so I keep talking about my dad. 

How much I love him.

How glad I am that he’s sober.

How I wish we were closer.

How I’m learning to love him exactly as he is, the way I trust he loves me.

How I hope, come Thanksgiving, I can sit next to him during the A&M game and cheer for our team. 

Christie Tate is an author and essayist in Chicago who writes about addiction, recovery, eating disorders, growing up in Texas, and group therapy. She’s published two memoirs that have been translated into 20 languages and is working on a novel. 

7 May 2026