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.)

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.

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.

A word from The Coach

I am The Writer. The Blogger.

He is The Coach.

But sometimes he writes (and I correct his punctuation).

And he can make me cry.

Not when he writes about me, although his words are so sweet. But when he writes that next year is his last.

What the hell am I going to do with him then?

Check him out:    Coach Speak 

50 + 1

"If you want something done right, do it yourself."

Right?

Women?

As some of you may know, I turned the ripe old age of 50 last year. A lot of you people do know this because I wrote this cute little poem to myself, which has gotten, like, A TON of hits.  OK, most of them are from women who were really trying to Google "50 Shades of Grey" and found me instead.  I wonder how disappointed they were.

Anyway.

As some of you also may know, I did not have a big 50th birthday celebration last year. I went to lunch with my dear friend Danielle. I bought myself an hour-long massage. And, after a good nap, I took myself to dinner with family and friends at my favorite Mexican restaurant in my hometown. Of course, I had to drive my 11-year-old home and it was a school night, so I couldn't even drink... More than one.

 It's not that I didn't want to have a big, fancy, blowout party to celebrate this milestone birthday you only see once in your lifetime.  It's that I trusted my husband, The Baseball Coach, to put it together.

"Stupid is as stupid does."

He didn't. He had a baseball game. He claims he tried. That he and the gang were working on a nice little surprise party for me, but that the Louisiana Department of Transportation and Development decided to close the big bridge which connects our community that weekend. So he canceled. And there was no other weekend in February or March that they could have had it. Or April. Or even May. Go figure.

So I was left disappointed. Again.

I told this story to a complete stranger the other day. First she tried to take up for my hapless hubby. "Well, he at least gave you a really good gift right? Like some jewelry or something?"

After I laughed hysterically I gave her some shade and said, "No."

She gave me some right back and said. "And you're still married to him?"


Yes. Yes indeed I am. You see, this isn't the first time he's let me down. There was the whole 40th birthday fiasco, in which he remembered it was my birthday but not which one. And he just doesn't get the whole birthday thing like I do. Never has. I do love my birthday. I love looking forward to it, I love celebrating it, I love the 256 "Happy Birthday" messages I will get on my Facebook wall. AND I love birthday cake!

I know. I should be used to my husband's lack of skills by now. But it still stung. OK, a lot. And the pain got worse as so many of my friends from high school hit the milestone and shared their fabulous celebrations on Facebook. Leslie got a surprise party. Donelle got 50 roses. Margot got a spa vacation. Me? I got tacos.

But this year, I'm not waiting around for my husband to make it happen. I'm giving myself my own damn party. I'm calling it "The First Anniversary of my 50th Birthday, Which My Husband Screwed Up Royally."  I invited my own damn friends.  Bought my own damn napkins and plates.  Ordered my own damn cake with my own damn name on it. Bought my own candles -- a 50 and a 1.

It's going to be epic.

And The Coach won't even be here. He has a game to play that day.

Maybe I should have hired my own damn stripper.

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.






.

Seasons change

The life of a Baseball Widow...

Winter

Spring

Still spring.

Yep. Still spring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Really?

Summer!

Game over.

Nights like these

Nights like these are the tough ones.

The nights filled with the interminable hours after one has gotten away, despite every valiant effort not to let that happen. When the number on their side of the scoreboard ends up being bigger than the number on our side. When he loses.

These are the nights he won't want to hug me or his daughters, won't want to take us to dinner. The wrong night to ask him about fixing the air conditioner in my car, or when he's going to move the bed in the guest room.

He might want to kick the dogs, but he won't.
 
And he might physically be sitting in the same room, but he'll really be a million miles away.  Or just back on the field he just left, replaying the game over and over and over again in his head, wondering what in the hell he could have done differently, and what did he do wrong.

It's my job, of course, to say, nothing.

No. "Nothing. You did the best you could."

And wish I could add, "You didn't miss the bunt sign. You didn't pop up to right field. You didn't overthrow the first baseman. It wasn't you who couldn't find the plate."

"They're just high school kids."

But I'm not supposed to say those things.

Because I'm just a coach's wife. The cheerleader. The hiney-patter.  And these are the nights coaches wives aren't supposed to talk about -- the nights we wished we had married a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant.  Anyone but a coach.

It's my job to pick him up -- along with the empty beer bottles on my dining room table -- dust him off and send him back out there tomorrow to do it all over again. 

And be here when he comes home.

Keeping the home fires burning

My husband just walked into the dining room with a filled plastic grocery bag. He plopped it on the chair with a smack.

"What is that," I asked.

"My snacks," he replied. "For the trip."

My husband, The Coach, is leaving me tomorrow. For real.

He and his team are heading up north -- north Louisiana, that is -- for their first business trip of the season. It's the first big baseball tournament of the season and an annual event. It's good competition, a well-run tournament and, he says, a nice bonding experience for the boys.

They have a nice 5-hour bus ride ahead of them, starting in the morning, then games Thursday night, Friday night and all day Saturday before another 5-hour bus ride home. If it doesn't rain. But it's supposed to. Then get cold on Sunday (if they have to postpone things a day).

So I'm sitting here watching out of the corner of my eye as he packs his bag. His uniforms. His socks. His underwear. His hats. His rain gear and his big jacket.

And his snacks.

His daughter and I are staying home. It is Mardi Gras weekend, after all.

So he will ride off tomorrow and I will stay here. And worry.

Is that bus road ready? Are all the tires properly inflated?

Is that driver drug tested? Is he getting enough sleep tonight? Or is he out on a Mardi Gras bender before he leaves town for the weekend?

And how is his driving record?

Now, I consider myself a modern woman of the 21st Century. I am very self-sufficient -- which you have to be in order to be a coach's wife. I can fix things, move things, take care of things. I have my own hobbies and interests. I don't need a man to get by.

And I have big plans for this weekend.

But I worry about me too. About us. About things going wrong while he's far away. What if the washing machine explodes or the toilet backs up? What if my car won't start or I get a flat tire?

What if I fall down the stairs and break my leg?

Not that he would know what to do if any of these situations arose. But it is rather comforting to know that your life partner is right there with you saying, "WTF?"

He certainly does what he can to make sure I'm taken care of before he goes. He rushed to the store this evening to make sure I had enough coffee and dog food for the weekend.

But he's taking all the snacks with him.

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.

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."