We’re having a good season. It’s fun and easy and light. We look forward to games and enjoy the process. You’re always in a good mood, because, well, we’re winning. Winning makes everything better.
But I’ve been around sports long enough to know that seasons like this are not always guaranteed, even with the best coaches (which, of course, you are).
I know there will be down years, when the athletes just aren’t there or the chemistry is off, when it feels like every practice is fighting an uphill battle and things aren’t “clicking,” when the staff isn’t seeing eye-to-eye and it’s draining just to step through the doors of the office. And then difficult parents make everything just a little bit harder.
These seasons always make their way into our home, too. The weight follows you around from room to room, even when I can tell you’re trying to hide it.
You put on a brave face, but I see the pressure simmering below the surface. The joy of the game is harder to grab, and we wonder, both of us, if we should start looking for other jobs.
I know it’s coming. Maybe next year, maybe ten years down the road. But not every season is going to be a winning season.
I’m prepared for that.
And I promise you, I’m in this thing, 100%—through all the wins, and all the losses. I’ll take the grumpiness and the racing mind. I’ll take the distractedness and the tired eyes. I’ll take the long conversations about the same frustrations over and over again.
I’m prepared to let you stay at the office a little longer, watch film a little more. I know that you might have a little less patience at home because you’ve used it all up at the field house.
Now, I’m not going to act like a saint. Hard seasons are hard for me, too. It’s draining trying to figure out what to say, how to comfort you, what you need. It’s hard to not get my feelings hurt by your distance, even though I know it has very little to do with me.
And the heartbreak of every loss is not only yours, I bear it too. I feel the stress too, and I’ll try so hard to not take it out on you or the kids, but I know I’m not perfect.
I’m so sorry if I don’t respond the way I should sometimes—if I pressure you to talk when you don’t want to talk, or if I give you space when you crave my company.
Tell me what you need. I want to be that, but I have to know what that is. Please, don’t push me away; I want to be your greatest ally.
These seasons are good for us, really. It’s good to go through darkness, as long as we’re walking hand-in-hand with our heads cocked toward the light.
We’ll be better on the other side. You’ll be a better coach. I’ll be a better coach’s wife. We’ll be stronger together, as a man and wife striving to be more like Christ.
The truth is, I did not marry you for the high of a championship season or the thrill of running out onto the field after a big win.
I’m not just in this for the good seasons, the easy seasons, the effortless seasons.
I’m in this thing for the crappy, haven’t-scored-in-3-games, can’t-stop-that-running-back, what-the-heck-is-happening-out-there, seasons too.
When it feels like everyone else in the world is against you, I will be here, everyday, waiting for you. What God has joined together, let no losing season separate.
Your loss is my loss. I feel it too. It hurts me too. But I promise you this: I will always be your biggest supporter. We are in this together. You are my teammate for life.
In sickness and in health, rain or shine, home or away, win or lose, good season or bad, I did, I do, and I always will.