Tales From a House Divided: Texas and Tech in the WCWS

This week feels like my childhood all over again.

My wife and I went out for an early dinner on Monday night. When we got home, Texas Tech and Oklahoma were in the 7th inning of a game that could send the Red Raiders to the National Championship in softball. Some late drama and heartache later, Texas Tech was onto the final—against the Longhorns. 

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The recruitment of children and arguments ensued.

Because my five-year-old—the inspiration for writing a children’s book about the Longhorns—was immediately swayed into the Red Raider camp by my dad. He’s obsessed with Babe Ruth right now and as the announcers essentially in last night’s broadcast, my father compared NiJaree Canady to the Great Bambino. My mom was clearly annoyed. Then during Game One last night, my sister and I were in separate group texts with each parent. They’re obviously watching the game together, but both are stewing in silence. I can only imagine how the base obstruction and the botched intentional walk went over. Thank you Reese Atwood. I imagine the silence after the Longhorns won. Oh, the quiet satisfaction you have in victory.

After review, this pitch was obstructed by @atwood_reese bat. #HookEm | 📺: ESPN pic.twitter.com/UUGgsJxVsY

— Texas Softball (@TexasSoftball) June 5, 2025

Everyone on my dad’s side of the family who went to college went to Texas Tech. All from small towns in West Texas. My mom’s from a small town in South Texas, and the family she’s still close with went to Texas A&M. Even though my parents have been in Austin since the early ’70s, my mom was stuck on a bit of a burnt orange island—until I finally joined the good guys. Still, I have a lot of love for many of the Spike Dykes and Mike Leach teams. Even on the Llano Estacado, family roots run deep.

My first football memory at DKR was the game where Tony Brackens destroyed the Red Raider kicker. I don’t remember the hit, but I remember the cold, the bite in the air, and the Longhorns rolled. I vividly remember the 1998 game in Lubbock, the Ricky Williams vs. Ricky Williams shootout that Tech won. The tires of my mom’s Suburban screeched out of our driveway as she peeled out to drive around in the aftermath. The 2002 game sent my older sister into labor with my nephew. I’ve seen my dad go on postgame walks after heartbreaking Red Raider defeats in 2003, 2006, and 2020.

We won’t get into the Michael Crabtree game. Or how Chris Beard and leaving for the SEC went over.

Back when Texas A&M left the Big 12 and the game moved to Thanksgiving weekend, it often fell on my parents’ anniversary. So, not wanting to fight, they’d go to a movie when the game started. But of course, the movie was never long enough, so they’d get out during the fourth quarter—and someone would be in a bad mood.

Taking this too seriously is literally in our blood. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Here’s an excerpt from something I wrote a few years ago about a fight that became legendary in our family:

“The only times I remember my parents fighting were when the Longhorns and Red Raiders faced off. They were always pretty cordial around blowouts—usually my dad accepted that the Matadors didn’t have ‘it’ on that particular day. Then, there are the legendary close games between the two, and on those nights, I can still hear tires screeching out of the driveway and an introduction to curse words. My parents never watched the game in the same room. In fact, one of the last times they watched it together became a legendary fight with aftershocks still going today. The fallout from it almost disrupted their wedding. Here’s the story in each of their words. Keep in mind, I haven’t fact-checked or edited for accuracy. I’m just letting their memories give you an idea of what I’ve dealt with the past 31 (35)*** years.”

Dad: In 1986, at the end of the football season, David McWilliams, the Tech coach, left for his alma mater, UT. It was a big year! I asked your mother, a Longhorn, to marry me. Two nights before the wedding, we watched UT play A&M. I was angry with UT for stealing our coach, so I wanted the Aggies to win. My about-to-be bride would not kiss me goodnight when she left.

We had a great wedding and early marriage until Tech’s bowl game weeks later. McWilliams did not coach the game. Some of his assistants stayed for the game, but they wore orange UT caps on the Tech sideline! We haven’t argued much in 34 years. Those two nights, we did.

Spike Dykes, the only one who wore a Tech cap, became our coach.

Mom: David McWilliams got hired to come back to UT after being head coach at Tech only one year. Tech was in a bowl game that year, and McWilliams’ coaches were staying to coach the bowl game. They wore a white cap with a big Double T on it. The Double T was RED, RED, RED—but never ever in 50 million years will anyone convince your Dad. He’s convinced McWilliams’ coaches wore a burnt orange cap to that stupid game, and he was incensed.

The T was red. No one is either that stupid or that insensitive that they would wear another team’s logo to a freaking bowl game! For one thing, the players would’ve never stood for it and would’ve ripped it off his head. Plus, McWilliams was a decent guy and cared about his players and wouldn’t have flaunted leaving like that.

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Here’s to Game Two of the Longhorns and Red Raiders tonight. And to family feuds and rivalries, the lifeblood of college sports.