A retired educator, Lisa loves writing and chasing her husband's football coaching dreams (currently in the great state of Texas. Together they have raised 2 fabulous children, been a part of 6 state championship teams, and enjoy calling many former players, friends. When she is not watching high school athletics, you can find her and her favorite over-grown eighth-grader at a Yankee baseball game. #golighttheworld
When I want to irritate my coach, I ask him to emote verbally with questions like…”Why did you marry me?” Occasionally, when he has grown bored with a crass retort, he will reply with, “Why did you marry me?” Without a pause, I can answer, “the strength of your character…” And exactly twenty-three years and …
Retired. The word itself conjures up images of books being read, lazy afternoons, lunches with girl-friends, or peaceful walks on a beach. It speaks in deeply rested breathes and an overwhelming joy that “every day is now Saturday”. Or does it… Though I have stepped back from my career, I haven’t stepped away from my …
When I comment on posts about feeding my husband’s wide receivers at the house, I think some of us envision a 21st-century version of Mrs. Cleaver standing at the edge of her kitchen, with a fresh coif, pearls around her neck without a shine or shadow on her face, holding a platter of meat delicately …
I am tired, God. The middle of the season arrived before I could blink, and yet my bones weigh three times as much as they should – like I have been holding up the whole world. Sometimes, I just want it to stop spinning and let me get off the weekly merry-go-round of practice, junior …
If you are like me, you probably think your coach is brilliant! However, as smart as my favorite over-grown eighth-grader is at anticipating a worthy opponent, he usually fails miserably if I expect him to read my mind. And round-about week five or six, my “coach love meter” threatens to bounce on an empty tank, …
However, just as the Texas sun splashed against the horizon leaving all her glory on the field, I thought of Afghanistan, and Haiti, and the other places in our world where hurt permeates everywhere. In the middle of our scrimmage, the hurt for others pierced a sky only God could create and made me pause.
But nothing and I mean nothing, would get my goat like that handsome, brown-eyed man pointing his finger at me, raising his voice to that disappointed, irritated coach tone and speak condescendingly to me like I just ran the wrong route even after we drilled and drilled it in practice.
Yes, we step into that space and remind our men of the kids who do listen … of the kids who become adults and still reach out … of the kids who needed a surrogate father … of the kids who played out of their shoes … of the kids who just need one caring adult and our men stepped into the space, the space between winning and losing—and that made all the difference.
I have loved him through the perfect, undefeated, state championship seasons, the heartbreak of great competitive losses, and the fickleness of high school athletics. After years of learning how to accept that he’s perfectly alright with doing NOTHING for literally H O U R S at a time except watching game after game, he began more than one morning of this holiday break with something like, “Babe, which of your projects would you like me to help you with today?”
Being a coach’s wife is rarely ever fair ladies, in the trenches of any season, in the midst of early childhood years when every need relies on you, or even if it’s only you and your man—it is rarely fair. Nevertheless, every good football coach will tell you to never leave the game in the hand of the ref—don’t count on fair.
I looked up from my phone as the car made one last slow turn to find myself at Fredericksburg High School’s football stadium. It’s the third stadium we have seen on this trip having turned off the highway twice to “check out the facilities.” Romance, ladies, with a capital R.
Heading east on I-40, somewhere between Shawnee and Checotah, the man to whom I had given my heart and my word—“where you go, I will go”— reached across the front seat of our blue 1991 Pontiac Sunbird, placed his hand on my thigh, and uttered these words, “Thanks, Babe. People get divorced over stuff like this. I should have talked to you first. I love you.”
Then in another ten years from now, one or two of them will send us a wedding invite or a social media request, and we will know that the old adage is true—children really do spell love with the letters.....T I M E.
