This article originally appeared in the December 2015 issue of SELF.
The winter air was brisk, and the sun beat down.
I was about 12 years old, standing in the football stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts.
It was my first game, a showdown between the New England Patriots and the Miami Dolphins.
I, too, was ready to shout from the stands and wave my enormous foam finger!
Instead, a pack of beer-swilling fans blocked my view.
And what was a blitz?
What really happened is that we barely spoke.
As fans screamed around me, “Squish the fish!”
I felt completely ignored, let down by what I thought would be a bonding experience.
The Patriots took home the win that day, but I left feeling defeated.
In all fairness, I did walk into that stadium with high expectations.
My older cousin Alyssa and her father arecrazy-intense Giants fans.
Football was their passionthe thing they bonded over, talked about and related to each other through.
My dad may have loved the Patriots, but his real obsession was work.
They lived in a modest apartment, and my dad paid his way through college with scholarships.
He was instructive in those days, like a coach, but patient.
But on weekdays, he left for work before dawn and returned home when I was in bed.
But kids are resilient, and I was no exception.
I learned to adapt to my father’s absences.
Friday nights spent sitting with my brother in corduroy armchairs, watchingDukes of Hazzard.
Getting dressed up for school dances.
We butted heads like rivals on opposing teams.
Rather than deal with my anger, I shut my dad out.
When I called home from college, I barely mustered a hello before asking for my mom.
I built a wall between us.
Yet he never pulled me aside to ask what was wrong.
I stewed in my frustration.
He pretended everything was fine, which only made me more annoyed.
It wasn’t until I had two kids of my own that my perspective started to shift.
They became so close that Chloe started to prefer him.
I wondered one day if this was how I’d made my dad feel for the past 20 years.
I felt a stab of compassion for him.
I thought back to those family trips he’d missed.
And so I buried some of my pride and decided to change things.
Once I stopped holding so tightly to my grudge, the ice between us melted a bit.
I’ve also started to see him through my kids' eyes.
I had expected my dad to be uninvolved as a grandfather.
Instead, he changes diapers (so what if he confuses swim diapers with pull-ups?
I just blink in amazement.
There were no jerseys handed out, no pregame warm-up involved.
He jumped out of the way just in time, as her fingers brushed the air.
Game on, Grandpa.
His gaze rested on me, and I fought the urge to look away.
Instead, I smiled back at him.
For the first time, it felt like we were on the same team.
Photo Credit: Gregory Reid
