My husband's current baseball team consists of his best friend's son, his principal's son, his principal's nephew, his assistant principal's son, two local politicians' sons and one of my best friend's sons.
And collectively they have committed 24 errors in four games.
No wonder the poor man is pulling his hair out.
Today it's the first home game of the season. A little less stress, but not much. As long as the concession stand is stocked with peanuts and pickles.
The Wildcats will host Central of Baton Rouge. Well, they used to be of Baton Rouge, now they're just of Central.
And the coach is a good friend. Actually, he is a Destrehan alum and used to be one of The Coach's assistants. Now he's got his own team -- a darned good one. And they even wear the same colors.
But, I have to say that we both slept rather soundly last night. There was little tossing or turning. He was up and out a little early, however. He even had time to do a little laundry.
And there was coffee this morning.
When he leaned in to kiss me goodbye this morning, I whispered, "Good luck" instead of "Win."
I felt like I should have said something more profound, given him a little pep talk or something. But my brain doesn't work that well at 6:30 in the morning.
I just hope "good luck" isn't a jinx like it is in the theater.
But I just can't imagine telling a baseball coach to "break a leg." Because he just might.
It's that kind of year.