In the Beginning...

I was always one of those girls who thought that big, empty fields were for chasing butterflies or looking for four-leaf clovers, playing princess and watching out for Prince Charming to come riding across the grass on his white horse, and creating rainbow-y bubbles with my bubble wand and bottle of soap. Fields were definitely NOT for chasing baseballs and getting your new shoes dirty. I would rather be playing dress-up with pretty skirts made of tulle, or finding the joy in sparkly lip gloss and lavender eye shadow.

I would rather babysit my sister than run after a dirty old baseball.

All of those thoughts were quickly smashed to bits when my mother signed me up for T-ball in the third grade. It was, in my opinion, a worthless attempt to get me interested in organized sports. My friends were getting base hits and catching fly balls while I was playing Airplane out in left field. The only way I got to first was if some girl even less coordinated with me overthrew the base. Needless to say, my sports days were numbered. I just know that behind my back, Coach begged my mom to reconsider my participation.

That was the start of my relationship with The Bench.

Just as I thought I was going to die of bordom, I convinced mother to let me take piano lessons instead of enduring the torture of T-ball practice every afternoon. I was giddy with the thought that my days of sitting The Bench were over.

Years later in college, I met The Boy. You know the one. Time stands still, orchestral music swirls in the background, and you are convinced that this is True Love. Nine years later, True Love looks a lot like muddy cleat marks across the kitchen floor and keeping dinner warm until baseball practice is over at 8pm.

Me, Miss I-Don't-Know-Anything-About-Sports-Nor-Do-I-Have-Any-Desire-To, married a baseball coach. It was probably because of the way he looked in his baseball pants.

So once again, I find myself on The Bench. Don't get me wrong. I love watching my husband coach. I gladly share in the joy of every heart-pounding win and want to cry with every heart-wrenching loss. But I don't know how to keep stats, I constantly get left and right field mixed up - do you look towards the outfield or towards home plate? - and, despite my dear husband patiently explaining it to me over and over, I still have no idea what constitutes for a balk.

So this is my life, me and The Bench. Supporting my husband no matter where his coaching career takes us...while dreaming of non-dusty feet and pedicures and dinner that doesn't come from the Booster Club stand.