Five Hundred

What do you think you have you done 500 times in your life?

I'm not talking about the mundane things like driving to work, brushing your teeth, or setting your alarm. Those are things you've probably done thousands of times. 

But do you think you've mowed your lawn 500 times? Gone for a run? Washed your car? Done 500 loads of laundry? I'm pretty sure I picked Barbie's shoes up off my floor 500 times. Maybe not.

It isn't easy, is it? Neither is doing something 500 times -- successfully.

Which is why what my husband, Riverside Academy baseball coach  Marty Luquet, did last week is so extraordinary.

On April 11, 2024, his young, inexperienced and injury-riddled baseball team defeated West St. John by the score of 16-0. That in and of itself would not be notable except that it was a much-needed win for this group of boys on a six-game losing streak. But it also happened to be Coach Luquet's 500th win in his long and illustrious career as a high school baseball coach.

Think about that for a second: 500 wins. That's 500 wins out of roughly 800 games in 27 seasons over 44 years at five different schools. 

Some were easy. Some were not. Some were really not. Some were thrillers. Some were somebody's first game; some were somebody's last. 

He went into this season knowing he needed only five wins to reach the milestone. He certainly didn't expect it to take until the middle of April, though. After going into the season with very high hopes and expectations, the Rebels have struggled to put it all together. The losses mounted quicker than the victories and Coach hit the 300 mark on the right a few weeks before the milestone on the left. 

His players tried. They really did. But a couple of games got away from them. A few were never meant to be. Slidell, not likely to lose on their senior day, one-hit them. But they were so ready to dunk the old man with the water cooler, they even lugged it on the road to Pointe Coupee, something they hardly ever did. 

And it's probably a good thing Newman rallied for two runs in the top of seventh inning to win that one because the cooler was filled with blue Powerade instead of water on that day. 

It would have been cool to do it in my hometown of Houma against Vandebilt Catholic. Instead, I left with a fresh dent in my car from a home run one of their players hit. 

Needless to say, it got pretty stressful in the Luquet household at times, with him tossing and turning through the night and me trying my hardest to find the bright spots in the dark. 

"This is like a bad joke," he said.

One parent suspected someone had a voodoo doll somewhere.

But thankfully, the milestone finally was reached in the second-to-last week of his 27th season.

Marty was a young, energetic, dark-haired man when he started his career at the now-defunct John F. Kennedy High School in New Orleans in 1980 (ahem -- the year I graduated from high school!). The Cougars weren't so good though. The next year he moved to O. Perry Walker High School (also now defunct), where he went 118-70 over 10 seasons.

He left in 1991 to become the coach at Hammond, but never made it to the baseball season. With a divorce from his first wife looming and split time with his children, Daniel and Courtney, he opted for a job as Assistant Director of the St. Charles Parish Recreation Department. That's what he was doing when I was introduced to him through a fellow sports reporter who used to cover his games at Walker. 

He still coached a little though -- the summer recreation All-Star teams, a 30-over Men's League team, and a lot from the bleachers.

Then came an election cycle and the guy he backed didn't win. The guy who did win was unforgiving and let a lot of people go, including my husband.

But it didn't take long for him to land. My old friend Rick Gaille, the football coach and athletic director at St. James High School, just happened to be looking for a baseball coach. The Wildcats were a gritty, hard-working and hungry bunch. They went 9-17, but one of those wins was against the team that went on to win the state title that year. It was their only loss.

Then he got an opportunity to coach at Destrehan, where his son was a senior and his daughter was about to be a sophomore. Our newly adopted baby girl was in daycare and I was covering Orleans Parish sports at the time. He went 286-125 in 14 seasons at Destrehan with two trips to the state championship -- but alas, no titles. He was still coaching when his mom moved in with us.

Then he gave it all up. Retired -- or tried to. He tried to like golf. He tried to relax. Lord knows he isn't handy. He discovered internet memes and World War II documentaries. Then he became an Uber driver -- something he really enjoyed until UberEats got into the mix. 

And he coached a very successful American Legion summer team that won two state championships and earned one trip to the World Series. He coached a game on ESPN. He also has coached a few very successful collegiate league teams to national titles. But none of those wins are included in his 500.

While he was driving me crazy showing me old videos and memes while I was trying to do my freelance work, another longtime coach pal asked me what he was doing. I all but begged him to get the man off my sofa. And that's how he became the coach at Riverside Academy. That has been an adventure in and of itself, with his first year as an assistant, then the season lost to Covid. 

According to the National Federation of High Schools record book, only 45 active coaches have reached the 500 mark in their careers. Roughly 200 men have won 500 or more games all-time. I'm certain a few are missing from the list because I'm told it's pretty hard to verify.

And you have to wonder how many more there might be. There aren't that many of the old-timers, the guys who now have bad backs from hours sitting on sunflower seed buckets and worn out dugout benches. Who walk with a slight limp when they go out to the mound to pull their struggling pitcher. Who no longer even try to make a play on a foul ball near third base. And all those young guys who don't believe in wearing a full uniform on game day will probably never coach long enough to win that many games. 

I don't know how many more years my husband will keep doing what he loves to do. Until he can't do it anymore, I suspect, or until our school decides they want someone else to do it. I don't know what the final numbers will be on the left or on the right when he finally hangs it up.

But more than all the wins and losses, the big games and the small, the trophies and the accolades, he will tell you, without a doubt, the more important number to him is the number of lives he has touched in one way or another. The countless men who blew up his phone sending him messages of congratuations -- and some of their parents. 

Just last week his former team, the 2003 Destrehan Wildcats, who were the school's first team ever to go to the State Tournament, had a little reunion. They were recognized on the field and got to throw out the first pitch to this year's Wildcats. One of the old Cats, in mid hug/handshake asked him about his current team. 

Marty truthfully told him that it was a tough season, that things haven't been going their way, they haven't had much luck.

With a shine in his eye, the former player looked at his former coach and said, "I hope they know how lucky they are to have you as their coach."

Retired tired

In the spring of 2014, my husband decided not to do the job he loves anymore.

He had spent 25 years coaching high school baseball at five different schools, the last 15 at Destrehan High School.

At the time, I had been laid off from my full time job as a sports writer for the big city daily newspaper and was spending nearly all my time as a caretaker for his elderly mom. If you're a regular reader of this little blog, you know what a full time job that was. He felt a little guilty about putting the lion's share of the work on me but, truthfully, he just wasn't enjoying himself very much. Too many coaches in his dugout, too many runners on the bases of his mind, you know.

But shortly after the Coach made his decision and his announcement, his mom passed away. Well, he couldn't very well go back and say, "Um. Never mind," could he? So he retired. Not from his "other job" of teaching, mind you, just the baseball part.

But for the past five years, everyone I bump into has asked me, "How's Marty enjoying his retirement?"

I patiently explained that he was, in fact, still working for a living, still teaching special education students, just not coaching.

Then he went and got himself a summer job coaching a very good American Legion team and that started a whole new bunch of conversations.

"I see Marty came out of retirement!"

Well, sorta.

Then, over the summer, he finally did retire. For real. As a teacher. He got the jacket and the certificate (but not the money yet) and everything.

So now I'm getting a whole new bunch of conversations beginning with "How's Marty enjoying his retirement?"

To which I reply: "We are going to be divorced any minute."

Seriously.

You see, for the past decade, while you and I were watching all those funny videos on Facebook and You Tube, my husband was teaching students and/or coaching baseball. Up at 5 a.m. (every damn day) and at school for 6:30 a.m. and not home sometimes until 8 or 9 p.m., he didn't have time to check his Twitter or his Instagram and see what was going on in the world.

But boy, he does now.

See, God didn't bless my husband with woodworking skills or car fixing skills or, really, any kind of fixin' skills. He likes his grass green and his pool blue and that's about it. He doesn't have a shop or a garage, just a room with a bunch of his awards.

He does sleep in a little more -- usually until 7 a.m. -- and then he goes downstairs to sit in his cozy chair next to his cozy fire (once he gets the poodle out of it), and he spends the next several hours catching up on all the fun stuff he has missed over the last decade.

Remember the whale that was caught in the fishing nets and the nice guy in the boat used his pocketknife to cut him loose? The goofy kids who turned the airport escalators into a bunch of sporting events? The evolution of dance?

He's just seeing them. And he wants to show me, too.

Frankly, I'm getting a little tired of saying, "I've seen it."

So, while he sits in his chair in the early morning hours, I stay upstairs. I have a nice, warm comfortable bed and a friendly little poodle to keep me company. I also have a little work-at-home office up here, where I can watch the newest viral videos and whatever else I want.

Once I'm done with my "work," I go downstairs to hang out with him for a few hours. Then, when 9 p.m. rolls around and he's ready to call it a night, he goes upstairs and I take over the living room.

Hey. It works.

He does get a little antsy at times, though. He misses the camaraderie of his fellow teachers and some of his students. So, when he's bored he goes out and Uber drives for a couple of hours, giving tips and advice to tourists and locals alike.

As for me, I'm still only partly employed as a freelancer for the newspaper I used to work for and the one that bought it. I also work as a substitute teacher at the local high school, which means I'm the one getting up at 5 a.m. and getting to school at 6:30. And the first thing everyone asks me is, "How is Marty enjoying his retirement?"

Trouble in paradise

When my husband Marty and I first started dating some 22 years ago, there were those who said we'd never last.

He certainly wasn't what I was looking for in a husband -- the tall, dark, handsome guy with rock hard abs and a well-diversified 401K. No, Marty was short, kind of roundish, had more of a keg instead of a 6-pack, and he was paying child support to his ex-wife for his two kids.

But he was cute and funny and he liked to dance and he thought I was pretty cool, being a trailblazing female sports writer and all. He wasn't one of the guys who asked me how I could write about football when I never played it. And he thought it was cool that I got to go to really good baseball games. He even offered to go with me to one, then stood me up.

But we ended up together somehow, and we've shot down all those naysayers.  This December we will celebrate 20 years of wedded bliss. And it has been mostly bliss. When I tell you that I can remember exactly two arguments between us, I am not exaggerating. Two. I can't tell you what they were about, though. I just know that one time I stormed out and, with no place really to go, I drove myself to Walmart and refused to answer my cell phone for a couple of hours.

This is why we do not have a reality show

We have been this perfect little sports couple, he the coach, me the sports writer, both of us going to games, watching games, talking about games, reliving games planning our lives around games -- both his and mine.

Until now.

As you probably know by now, my husband decided that the 2014 high school baseball season was going to be his 25th and final one. He announced this big decision last year, rather innocuously on his own little blog, but then it blew up into 5, 6, 10 and front page news. And then he got to turn the final season into his very own Farewell Tour, which also garnered 5, 6, 10 and front page news.

Yeah, well now it's over. The season and the career. And, if things keep going the way they are, our marriage soon will be over too. It's only been two months and the man is driving me crazy. He is coach without a team, a man without a mission, a retiree without a hobby. He doesn't play golf, or cook, or garden, or clean the house, he doesn't have a girlfriend and he isn't handy. That means he's just IN MY WAY.

You see,  I have a routine. I get up every morning at 7 a.m. At 7:30, I go walk. At 8:30 ish I come back all hot and sweaty and all I want to do is sit down and cool off. I usually do that by sitting at my computer and seeing what's going on in the world. But since he's RETIRED, The Coach has taken over MY computer. I come home and he's in my chair, all cool and collected and relaxed, sipping coffee and cruising the Internets. Not only that, he's watching some stupid YouTube video that you and I and the rest of the world watched and enjoyed some two years ago, while he was playing baseball. And he wants me to watch it now.

Coach: Come see this cool video of this whale being rescued by fishermen!
Me: I've seen it.
Coach: Really? When?
Me: Oh.. a few years ago. Want me to tell you how it ends?
Coach: %*#(%*^

Later in the day he watches baseball, non-stop, on the MLB Network. But now that he's a coach without a team, a manager without men, he has no one to talk baseball with except me. I don't really mind. I do love baseball. It's the film sessions I can do without.

Coach: (remote in hand) Watch this play. (Rewinds the game)
Me: 0_0
Coach: See where the third baseman is? (Rewinds again.) He's playing the lines! (Rewinds again.) Why is he guarding the lines in this situation? (Rewinds again) He just cost his team the game!!
Me: 0_0

OK. Truth be told, things did get a little better last week. My husband is coaching a group of college-age boys in a local summer league. Many of the players are his own former players who went on to star at LSU, UNO, ULL and other places. They're some good ones. Being a coach again put a little extra hitch in his giddyup - bum knee and all.  He's back to making lineups and talking pitching and running off to games. Unfortunately, there are no practices to run off to, but it's enough to get him out of the house a few times and out of my way. He's happy. I'm happy. And we're not tripping over each other as much.

Our marriage is saved! (Maybe.)

Game over

The final out had been called. The final post game speech had been given. The balls and bats had been stored away.

The opposing team had retrieved the gloves and hats they had thrown into the air in celebration, but were still hooting and hollering into the air.

But on the other side, the tears were still falling.

Inside the fence, the Destrehan Wildcats were taking their sweet time putting away their gear before they had to walk off the baseball field -- some for the last time. Some had a harder time than others, wishing for one more chance, one more at bat, one more inning, one more game.

Outside the fence, their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins were waiting to hug, to kiss and to share their tears. Flashbacks to that first hectic t-ball game and the hundreds backyard pitch-and-catches overwhelmed some as they waited for their sons to come through the gate.

And off to the side, a small family hugged and consoled and shared tears with The Coach.

It was a tough loss, yes. But for him, this was it.  There will be no more next time. No more next year.

After 25 years of coaching high school baseball, my husband Marty Luquet, decided that this was to be his last season on the Destrehan baseball field. He had his reasons, some he has shared, some he has not. I know that he's not having as much fun as he was the day he started back in 1981 at a now-closed New Orleans high school. I know that he's not as happy as he was the day he got his first team after a 10-year hiatus to work in recreation. That day, he bounded into my house and shouted, "I got my first name back!"

"Coach."

And he can't move the way he used to.

So I guess it was time.

And what a 25 years it has been.

• 447 wins, 251 losses
• Two state runner-up finishes
• Class 5A All-State Coach of the Year in 2002, 2003 and 2005
• All-Metro New Orleans Coach of the Year in 2002 and 2010
• All-River Parishes Coach of the Year in 2002, 2004 and 2010
• 14 consecutive playoff appearances
• A 33-1 finish in 2004, with a 30-game win streak and a No. 2 national ranking

And that's all fine and dandy.

But to him, his proudest moments have been off the field.  

The guy in the grocery store who shouts "Coach!" and leaves his basket unattended for 20 minutes after he runs across the store for a reunion.

The guys at the local minor league and college ballparks who come shake his hand.

The 30-plus former players who showed up at the first Saturday home game of the season to honor him and stand with him for the National Anthem one more time.

The hundreds of texts, Facebook messages, tweets and emails he has received since announcing his decision, and the flood since losing his final game on Saturday.

The many compliments from the opposing teams on the way his team plays and acts and conducts itself at all times.

And this ...

As our family hugged and cried and did our best to console one another in that final moment, as the parents waited outside the fence, a young man dressed in the opposing team's yellow waited at third base. And he waited.

He waited a long time. 

Finally, the Luquets broke free from one another and The Coach. Still fighting tears, he spotted the boy and made his way over.

"Coach," he said. "I didn't know this was your last game. My coach just told us you were an icon in baseball. I just wanted to shake your hand."

And he did. And made The Coach cry some more.

Oh, who are we kidding? There will be more baseball games, both as a spectator and as a coach. He's not done with the third base box just yet. He's already signed up to coach an American Legion team that will combine his now-former team with his former arch-rival Hahnville. There's talk of an All-American League team to coach too. And he can't wait. 

I guess that Honey-Do list will have to, though.

Click here to read an outstanding tribute to The Coach

Bases loaded

                                                    

My husband, The Coach, and I have had a couple of sleepless nights here under the flare.

Most of it was caused by this wonky old window unit we had in our upstairs bedroom that started sounding like a pair of maracas on Saturday. Annoyed by the sound, The Snarky Teen, who was hanging out in my bedroom with her BFF, decided just to turn it off. By the time Coach and I turned in for the night at 11 o'clock or so (yeah, we're so exciting that way), it was 85 degrees in our room.

We turned the thing back on and forced ourselves to tough out the noise in favor of the cool air. But neither of us got much sleep.

On Sunday we headed off to Walmart to get a nice, shiny, QUIET new one. But we still haven't figured out all the modes and stuff, so last night I think it was on fan most of the time. Yeah, I need to find and read that manual soon.

Then there is the impending surgery The Snarky Teen will have to undergo in a few weeks to straighten out her oh-so-crooked spine. If that doesn't keep you awake nothing will.

But tonight we're awake for different reasons.

The Louisiana High School baseball playoffs began this week. Tomorrow, my husband's team, the Destrehan Fighting Wildcats will take on the Byrd Yellow Jackets in a bi-district round game. So, right now, I'm upstairs ready for bed. He is still downstairs.

And I can picture him right now. He's sitting at the computer with the Class 5A bracket on the screen. He's chewing on his thumbnail, spinning back in forth in the desk chair, half watching the MLB channel as he imagines every possible scenario that can play out over the next two weeks. He's figuring out who will pitch tomorrow, then the next day, then the next. In his mind, he's playing it all out, right up to the moment when he gets to hoist that golden trophy.

We have this running joke between us about our mental bases being loaded. There was this one time when I was stewing with the weight of the world on my shoulders and he wanted my attention. "Listen, Bud," I said. "What would you do if, in the middle of a game, when you're down by 2 and have the bases loaded with two outs, I marched right up to you in the third base coach's box and demanded your attention? What would you do?"

He got the message. So, if I say, "My bases are loaded," he knows to back off.

Well, tonight, his bases are definitely loaded.

It's not that we haven't been here before. This is his 14th season at Destrehan. His teams have made the playoffs every year. Twice his teams have played for a state title. In 2004, his team won 30 games in a row.

But this year is different.

While, right now, there is a tomorrow (and a 60 percent chance of rain), tomorrow there may not be one.

This is his last season as The Coach. He wants to do other things, he says. He wants to live a life without baseball, he says. He wants to travel and have fun, he says.

Right.

I'm thinking he's going to take one look at my Honey-Do list and go volunteer to coach somewhere.

But what this means is, if he loses tomorrow (knock wood), he's done. There will be no next game. There is no Next Year. It's all over.

Now, if he wins tomorrow, he gets to play a best-two-out-of-three series next weekend, likely on the road. If he wins that, he gets to play another three-game series closer to home. And if he wins that, he gets a golden ticket to the big State Tournament.

Yep. More sleepless nights.

Lots of people are hoping he does. The state championship is the one thing that has eluded my husband in his storied 25-year career.  Well, that and a winning lottery ticket.

So, from our nice, cool, quiet bedroom where I'm about to go to sleep, I'm sending my husband a message:

Win, baby.

The Coach's Wife

I don't often write about my husband.

Oh, if you're a regular follower of this little blog you know that he's a high school teacher/baseball coach and once was a short-lived volleyball coach, that he has a really bad memory, doesn't do birthdays very well, or DIY projects around the house. That he can remember virtually every pitch of that big win against E.D. White 14 years ago, but can't remember to put his cell phone in his pocket before he leaves the house. That he used to get thrown out of baseball games -- a lot.  That he loves baseball, his convertible, me, his children, his new grand baby, his sofa, his pool, his dogs (probably in that order) and that he always took my side when his mother and I would fight.

In large part because of that last phrase is why he and I have been married 20 years come December, and together two more than that. Yes, we did meet at a bar. We DO live in (the suburbs of) New Orleans, you know.

But I don't often get to write about The Coach. For one thing, I am a sports writer, he is a coach. In journalism circles,  it is extremely frowned upon for a journalist spouse to write about a public persona spouse, whether he/she is an athlete, a coach, a politician or a crime victim. It's just not done. So it made some folks nervous when he went from being the local assistant recreation director to my boyfriend, to my fiance, to my husband, to a coach (again) in the area I was assigned to cover for the then-daily newspaper.

In an effort to thwart that -- and my new stepson's senior season as quarterback at one of the schools in my area --  the Men In Ties moved me from my beat in the River Parishes Bureau to downtown New Orleans. Yeah. That was fun. Not.

Eventually, they saw the error of their ways and moved me back to where I belonged, with the mandate that I could not cover my husband's baseball team. That was fine by me. And we all got along splendidly until 2010 when I was moved from sports to crime (prep writer to perp writer), then 2012 when I was let go in the then-daily's move to "Digital First."

But now I'm a free lancer and the journalism landscape in New Orleans has changed dramatically. Now, the New Orleans paper I used to work for and the Baton Rouge-based paper I now write a lot for are in an all-out newspaper war over territory. I just happen to live in the suburbs between the two (a.k.a., "No Man's Land"). And, suddenly, some folks think it's OK for reporters to write about their husband's team. And sometimes, it just can't be helped.

Take last year, for instance. Mother Nature, who apparently dislikes the high school baseball playoff season immensely, decided to drop buckets of rain on the New Orleans area last spring. But my husband's team's playoff game had to be played. So it was moved -- from one day to the next, from one time to a later one, then to three different potential sites before it finally began at nearly 9 p.m. on a Thursday at a field no one ever heard of, and finished at nearly midnight. There was no way the Baton Rouge-ish paper would get a reporter there. They knew I was there as The Wife, so they asked me to write it up as The Reporter. And while, normally, I would never interview my husband after the game, the circumstances surrounding it were so unique that I was pretty much obligated to get a comment from The Coach about how his team handled all the adversity.

It was weird. We both hated it. And people took pictures.

So, we both decided it's just best to separate. No, not like that. But we do try to keep The Coach's Wife separate from the The Reporter. That's how we like it. That's how the world likes it.

Then his happened.

My darling husband, The Coach, decided he was going to give up being The Coach. He says he's ready, he's old, he's tired, he needs a new knee (that's true), he's ready to do other things. That all may be true, but I'm sure that does not include building me a gazebo in the backyard. He does want to take me to California and Chicago (why not Hawaii???) and spend some time with our fast-growing daughter and his new grand baby.

Whatever his reasons, the news created a stir in local sports circles. His announcement -- which initially came on his own little blog Coach Speak, became Front Page and 5, 6 and 10 o'clock news. (And the local newspaper is put in the unusual predicament of writing about one of it's former sports writers, married to the headliner. So many blurred lines...)

Then this happened.

On Thursday, my husband's team traveled across the Mississippi River to face its biggest rival, the Hahnville Tigers. They're pretty good, now, and just came off a glorious weekend in which they went 4-0 against some of the top teams in the area. They started it with a HUGE win against the then No. 2 team in the state, Brother Martin, which was then-undefeated. Hahnville scored in extra innings to win. I know, because I was there. I covered it. I wrote about it Here and Here.

And while I was there, The Other Coach, whom I've known for a long time and like very much, told me he had a plan. He decided he was going to give my husband, The (Retiring) Coach, a rocking chair to send him off into the sunset.

"Will he get mad?" he asked me.

"Hell no," I replied.

Now, ever being the journalist, I knew this was news worthy. So, I set about letting my friends in the news media know about this event. It also was coming on the heels of a day organized by my stepson (with my assistance), in which we invited all of The Coach's former players over the past 25 years to come to the game and line up with him for the National Anthem as a surprise. Nearly 30 of them showed up. That also made the news.

So after  I let friends and family and a few news media types know what was going down on Thursday, I set off to take care of me, cashing in the FREE King Cake body scrub I won from the local salon. Yay me!

Just as I was about to strip down to my skivvies, I get a text from The Other Coach:

Him: Can't find rocking chair anywhere.

Me: Want me to help?

Him: Yes. You can get to more places. Just bring me the receipt.

Me: I'm on it. Right after my massage

I then spent the next two hours smelling like a cinnamon bun, getting scrubbed and rubbed, and trying to think of a place in our neck in the woods that has a rocking chair for sale.

Then it hit me.

The local thrift shop! It's just a few doors down from my house, it's rarely if ever open, and it now contains a whole bunch of my belongings which we have put curbside for trash. The owner just picks it up and puts it in his shop to sell when he feels like it. I used to own a Bentwood rocker. I hoped I wasn't about to buy it back from him.

Nope. But I found this beat up old one, loaded it in my car and went back to relaxing.

Then, just before game time, I drove into the parking lot, texted The Other Coach, who sent two of his players to my car to get the rocking chair for his team to give to my husband as a gag.

Really.

And it went off without a hitch. With cameras and reporters from both newspapers there to document it, The Coach was surprised, humbled and honored. And I got a lovely bouquet of red roses -- from The Coach. No, The Other Coach.

I then spent the next two hours munching sunflower seeds and trying not to watch the action on the field in what turned out to be a very tight, nail-biter of a game. I try very hard to maintain my reporter face while watching these games. I don't want to be hollering and cheering against a team one day, then have to interview them the next. So I watch. I don't root. I don't cheer or clap or yell. I watch the crowd, the game, my husband, wonder when he's going to bunt and hope he doesn't try to steal home again.

He didn't. And his team won, 1-0, with the lone run scoring on a bases-loaded balk in the third inning.

After the game, I made a big production of running up to The Other Coach to hug him and thank him for my flowers. After I kissed The Coach, The Other Coach and I filled him in on the rather unusual events of the day. He laughed hysterically.

Then I put my husband's new rocking chair in my car and took it back home.

Later, we laughed about the whole thing. I made sure he wasn't mad, not that The Other Coach had given him a rocking chair, but also my part in in. He wasn't. He took it in the spirit in which it was intended and thought it was great fun.

"I thought it was great," he said. "But my team wanted to know why they got me such an ugly old chair."

Really?

Click Here to see a terrific video about The Coach and The Game.

This just in ...

The Coach actually broke his own story, you know.

 In his little blog post that I shared a few days ago, he wrote that next year will be his last.

Then this happened.

Marty Luquet decides 2014 to be final season as Destrehan baseball coach

And this... Destrehan's Marty Luquet to retire after 2014 season

And he made the 6 o'clock news.

"I didn't know this was going to be such big news," he said.

Right.

Meanwhile, I'm working on his honeydo list.

Opening Day

We interrupt this marriage for this important message:

Dear Coach,

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,

Lo

There he goes -- again

I don't often repeat myself.

But I can't do this any better a second time.

I officially become a baseball widow tomorrow. Again. It's game day eve. Again. This is his 22nd season. His 11th at his current school. His 12th since we've been married.

I know the drill.

Reposted from February 24, 2011, "There He Goes."

My husband went to bed hours ago.

It was only about 9:30 when he surprised me by suddenly announcing, "I'm going to bed," and asked me to do the few dishes in the kitchen, which are normally his responsibility.

But if I know him at all -- and I do -- he's upstairs right now, wide awake. He has tossed and turned a million times, studied every flaw in our bedroom ceiling, listened to every tick of the clock on the wall and seen every red number on the one beside the bed. His head is probably under the pillow and the blankets are all tangled.

And when I make my way up there in just a few minutes, I won't be waking him at all.

Tomorrow is Game Day, the first game of the 2011 high school baseball season in Louisiana. And, right now, he's so excited he can't stand it.

There are a lot of people in this world who love what they do. I used to be one of them. But my husband? He lives what he does.

He is about to embark on his 21st year as a high school baseball coach, his tenth at his current school, his 11th since we've been married. And he could not be happier.

The day he went from being a local recreation director to being a coach again after an eight year hiatus, one of the first things he said to me was, "I got my first name back."

"Coach."

And I became a coach's wife.

It wasn't easy because, at the time I was also a sports writer, covering high schools. And there's that whole conflict of interest thing that newspapers frown upon. So I couldn't write about him, couldn't cover his games, couldn't write about his successes and failures. Oftentimes, I couldn't even go to his games.

But I was there in spirit. And we certainly did rehash every detail when we got home.

And I learned to expect the unexpected.

Like the time he called me shortly after game time from his cell phone. I was at work at another game far away.

"Where are you?" I asked, wondering if the bus had broken down or the game had been rained out on that perfectly blue spring day.

"I'm in an oak tree," he replied, matter-of-factly.

"Why are you in an oak tree?" I asked, just as matter-of-factly.

"Because the umpire asked me to leave."

"Well, try not to fall out OK?"

I learned to sleep through those nights like these -- the ones before the first game, before the next game, and after the last game.

I learned to live with the silent partner hunched in his chair, chewing his nails as he relives every pitch, every call, every errant throw while he pretends to watch TV with me.

I learned to live with the crazy nights when my house is invaded by coaches and other wives, often bearing food and drink, as they celebrate the good days by reliving every pitch, every call and every errant throw.

I learned to live with the absences, the late nights, the early mornings, the forgotten birthdays, and going solo to family gatherings.

I learned to live with the parents and fans who don't care that his wife and child are within earshot when they call him names because he tried something that didn't work or benched a kid who didn't.

I learned to live with the baseballs. Everywhere.

And the smell.

Because I'd rather live with a man who loves what he does than love a man who doesn't.

Just a few days ago he came home smiling ear-to-ear after watching one of his former players flirt with a no-hitter as the took the mound for the first time for one of the top college programs in this country. A few days later he grinned just as broadly to watch another former player on the same team hit a home run and yet another take the mound for the opposing team.

Tonight he spent hours hunting and pecking on the computer as he compiled a list of every one of his former players who is now playing ball somewhere, either at the college or professional level.

"There are 13," he said, as proud as a parent could be. As proud as a coach could be.

And in a few hours, long before the alarm sounds, he will get out of our bed and come downstairs to sit in this very spot, where he will slave over his lineup and play the game in his head a dozen times. Maybe more.

He will pack his bag with the tools of his trade, careful not to overlook any detail. (But he will probably forget his cell phone.)

Then he will return to our room to kiss me gently goodbye.

And I will whisper, "Win."

The man I love

This is my husband. The man I love.

The guy in the middle.  With the red jersey on. Which matches his face at the moment.

So is this. 

 

 On a different day, at a different game, with a different umpire and a different result.

He was asked to leave this particular field by this particular man in blue on this particular day.  For which he received a standing from his team's fans, who felt that this particular umpire was not calling balls and strikes the same way for both teams. He happened to agree with them.

It wasn't the first time.  It won't be the last.

Oh, he doesn't always look like this.  Sometimes he looks like this:

 But, if his players don't listen to him or do what they're supposed to do, he can look like this:

And after the game, he usually looks like this:

 My husband is a high school baseball coach.  A pretty darned good one.  He is  377-216 overall in his career, 240-102 at his current school, which is located in the suburbs of New Orleans. His teams have made the playoffs every year of his tenure,  and have advanced to the state tournament six times. He has yet to win a state championship, however. But he will. Eventually.

I just know it.

The man I love has a love other than me. He has a mistress I will never overcome, never displace in his heart. And he brings her home with him every night. I can see her. I can smell her.

Her name is Baseball.

And I like her rather a lot myself.

The 2012 season is about to begin in earnest. Which means he will be leaving me for his mistress more and more. There will be too many late nights. Too many dinners alone.Too many days I'll be left fending for myself when the sink stops up or the toilet overflows. Too many sleepless nights waiting for him to come home. Too many long weekends. Lonely weekends.

And spending my upcoming 50th birthday without him.

 And when he does come home, I'll be there to pick him off and dust him off and send him back out to her again.


I am a baseball widow. Always waiting for him. Always rooting for him (sometimes from afar). Going without him. Doing without him. Missing him.

It's what I do. For the man I love.






.

Gift ideas for teachers. And their wives.

As the clock ticks down on the remaining shopping days until Christmas -- 11 as of this second.
 
(Wait! Really? That's it? Holy crap! I haven't even started yet!)

My Internet feed is filling fast with articles from mainstream news makers and burgeoning bloggers alike, who are all offering shopping tips for every person on your list.

Even my mother.

Today I came across this one, offering fabulous ideas on what to buy that oh-so-hard-to-buy-for-teacher-you-love, or even the one you don't love so much. The article claims to have polled several actual, real life teachers, who were only too happy to offer their favorite Christmas gifts from students (and their parents).

As the wife of a teacher, the stepmother and step-mother-in-law of another, the aunt of another, the aunt-in-law of yet another, the wife of the ex-husband of another ... (go ahead... I'll wait)...
And the friend (on Facebook anyway) of countless more, I think I'm more than qualified to take a shot at this one.

I know what teachers like. Better yet, I know what teachers' spouses like:

1. Food. We aren't particularly picky either. Chocolate is best, of course (says Mama), but any kind of food is good. Candy, cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, delicious homemade concoctions cooked in your kitchen, or even Whitman's Samplers from CVS. It's all good. Even fresh fruit is nice. Satsumas you've grown in your backyard? We'll take 'em. We are the parents of a fast-growing tween/eating machine. She's hungry ALL THE TIME. And our schedules are pretty crazy, especially around the holidays. Neither one of us really has time to get to the grocery store. So anything to help stock the pantry is appreciated.

2. Restaurant gift cards. I'm not a bad cook. In fact, I'm pretty good. But when The Coach starts the coaching part of the year, there isn't very much time for family meals around the dining room table. And there's not much point in cooking for me and a tween who only likes macaroni and cheese.
Plus, our dining room table is usually covered with baseballs all spring and summer anyways.  And when The Coach and I do get to spend a little time together, we don't usually head for the kitchen. We do tend to eat out quite a lot. And we tend to be creatures of habit. We go to The Pub. A lot. So a nice little gift card to one of the major chains is always appreciated. By the wife, anyway.

3. Ornaments. Believe it or not, the teacher's wife who gets up on the ladder and decorates the tree every year (while the coach watches) really does appreciate the occasional hand-picked or even hand-made Christmas ornament. I'm one of those ladies who believes you can never have enough ornaments on a tree. And every year when I gently take each one out of the box (if it survives The Coach's packing of the box, that is), I will look upon it fondly as having coming from "that student."

4. Apples. Now I know that most of my teacher friends are going to cringe right now because most teachers I know already have more apple-shaped baubles than they know what to do with. And most teachers I know don't really appreciate them. But we happen to live on Apple Street. And, because of that, I have a fairly large collection of apple knick knacks and brick-a-brack. We eat on apple dishes. On apple place mats. In a dining room decorated with apples. So don't listen to him. There's always room for more, I say.

5. But the best gift you can give my husband is Thanks. You may not realize it, but the man I love burns the candle at both ends to be the best teacher, Coach, father, husband, son and son-in-law he can be.

He is up before dawn every day to get himself psyched and ready for his brutal schedule. And it is brutal.

Before my alarm clock even goes off, he's in his classroom helping special education students find their way, and troubled kids stay out of trouble, and other teachers teach them.

And just when I'm starting to watch the clock, counting the final hours till the end of my work day, he's heading off to the baseball field, where he'll spend several more hours trying to turn a bunch of hormonal teenagers into a winning team.

On practice days he'll spend hours teaching them to hit and catch and throw and pick runners off of first and third. And hit the cutoff man.

On game days, he'll get on a cramped, un-air conditioned school bus with no shocks and head off to some middle-of-nowhere town. He'll spend the next three hours taking what the umpire gives him. And if they lose, he'll take the blame.

And when that's over, there's field-prep and maintenance. Often he stays there, though, hitting that struggling kid a few extra ground balls, or a few extra swings, and sometimes explaining to his mom and a dad why the other boy is playing more than their son.

Meanwhile, his own child is at home without him, trying to do her math homework and wondering when he'll come home and what kind of mood he'll be in. Sometimes he'll even get home before she goes to bed. And maybe he'll even get to eat a little something before he crashes on the sofa or in his chair, utterly exhausted. And somewhere in there he has to call his mother.

Then he'll  get up the next morning and do it all again.

"Thanks." That's the greatest gift you can give him. And one I'll let him have all to himself.

A message from The Coach

I'm not the only writer in the family, you know.

My daughter is, I think, a better writer than I am. Already. She can write fiction. I never could.

And my husband, the coach, likes to write as well. He has a little blog where he ruminates on baseball and life. He has a little trouble with punctuation and capitalization at times, but that's why he married a writer like me! So I can edit him. (Now, how many of you wives have that wish?)

And this is one story I pushed him to write. It's one I would have written, if I were still a hard-working sports writer and not a crime reporter.

For the last two years, my husband, the high school baseball coach, has had a young man on his squad from Norway. Since no one could pronounce his name -- much less spell it -- everyone called him Frito.

It quickly became evident that Frito couldn't play a lick of baseball. But he was a sweet young boy with a very European family. (They came to the U.S. with a young nanny and left with a young baby.)  And The Coach liked him and decided to keep him around the team, as a manager. It worked out well.

But it's really The Coach's story to tell. And he told it well:

Coach Speak: Goodbye Frito

Check it out.

Showing my hubby some love. Submitted to Lovelinks 17.
You can too! Link up

Seasons change

The life of a Baseball Widow...

Winter

Spring

Still spring.

Yep. Still spring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really?

Summer!

Game over.

Game Day. Again...

Think being a high school coach isn't stressful? Try this.

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.

A different man

A different man came home to me last night than the night before.

Oh, he looked the same as my husband -- same handsome face, same squinty eye, same graying goatee.

But this guy had a little pep in his step. And he was smiling. And he loved me. And he loved our dogs and our daughter and her friend who was spending the night and our house and the world, but not the skim milk in the fridge.

He even tried to watch a few minutes of this week's taped episode of Glee, but quickly lost interest.

What a win will do for a coach.

The Wildcats notched their first win of the season on Friday, beating the team that wears my name -- Live Oak (LO) -- 12-6. The young kittens had to rally after giving up six runs in the fourth inning.

I kept up with the action on my trusty computer. Well, I did until my husband's iPhone battery gave out in the sixth. I was stuck at 11-6 in the sixth.

So when he called me I had to ask if he had held on to win.

Three hours later he came home, starving and tired. But he went to bed happy.


And the coffee was ready this morning.

Now he's off again all day, playing a double-header in Baton Rouge.

I hope that new guy comes back.

The Coach came home grumpy

So The Coach came home grumpy.

After all that buildup, all the planning and strategizing and all those sleepless hours the night before, the Destrehan Wildcats opened the 2011 baseball season with a 6-5 loss to Walker in Baton Rouge.

I knew it before he called this time, thanks to this fancy new Internet thing he has called Game Changer. He keeps score on his iPhone in the dugout and I can follow along at home on the computer. It’s really cool for folks like me who can’t get to the game because of work or kids or weather or whatever.

And the butterflies you get as the last batter comes to the plate with two outs feel just the same.

It took a while for him to finally call me to verify the outcome.

“Tell me the computer is wrong,” I said.

“I wish,” he replied.

So I spent the rest of the night waiting for him, for the sound of his car (and the blaring country music) as I kept up with the latest crop of American Idol hopefuls and then the doctors at Seattle Grace.

I was ready to greet, ready to hug, ready to soothe, ready to protect the dogs (Just kidding. He would never kick our dogs).

I even tried to let my daughter stay up a little extra late so she could give him a hug, but he took his sweet time getting home. Can’t say I blame him.

Eight errors take a lot of second-guessing.

But the hour’s drive from Baton Rouge to home give him a lot of extra time for processing.

So he was fine by the time he got home. Disappointed, but fine. The dogs and I went out into the driveway to greet him, and had to wait as he scooped up a day’s worth of life from his car and carried it inside.

He made his way to the washing machine to prep his uniform for the next day’s game, then went right to the computer. He didn’t even ask if the local boy made it to the Idol finals (he did.)

He didn’t come to bed, either. This time it was my turn to head up early (and leave him the dishes). He stayed downstairs to look over the play-by-play, the stats, the trends, to relive the game in his head.

And get ready for today’s.

It was hours before he finally made his way upstairs, but only a few minutes before the thunderstorm hit. So I have no idea how much sleep he managed to get.

But I know he forgot to turn the coffee on this morning.