We interrupt this marriage for this important message:
It's the opening day of the Louisiana prep baseball season. But you knew that already. That's why you were pacing the floor last night like a caged Wildcat, why you were pretty snippy and grumpy, and why you couldn't pay attention to a thing I was saying.
It's also why you were awake at 1 a.m. Well, one reason.
And today you got up out of our bed and left me for your "other love," which, for the next five months will get more of your time, more of your attention and, yes, more of your love than either me or your daughter.
While I stay home with the bills, your snarky tween daughter, the neurotic poodles and your mother.
After nearly 19 years of marriage, I have come to accept the fact that you have this other love. It's actually a love we share. Sometimes, we swing.
I know you always will come home to me, though. Eventually. With the evidence all over you. I have come to accept that too.
So as you head out today for your first game of your 24th season (and the 13th since you made me a baseball widow) I just want to say:
I wish you many wins, fewer losses, dry days, short rain delays, no lightning, good umpires, wide strike zones, level fields, good hops, wicked curves, solid pitching, comfortable bus rides and happy parents.
I hope this is Next Year. The year. Your year. And that you finally get that golden trophy.
I may not always be there in the stands, eating hot dogs and sunflower seeds and ruining my back even more. But I'll always be rooting for you. Mostly from the pool.
I will cheer for you when you get home, though, and pat your heinie when you lose. And offer you a cold beer and a warm heart.
So go out and do what you do. I'll see you in June, my love. Don't dawdle.
Your Baseball Widowed Wife,