28 March 2012

The Big 200

Let's do some math.

I know. You're in shock. Me? Math? I'm the girl who runs screaming from numbers and those evil operations that make them multiply or divide.

I'm the girl who to this day, cannot balance a checkbook.

But I promise. This math will be fun. 

Let's start by taking a barely-turned-33-year-old.

Add in 11 years of high school varsity baseball seasons.

Subtract the blood (literally), sweat and tears that have gone into all 11 of those seasons.

Add in a cross-country move to the deep south where baseball starts in February and lasts until someone forces you off the field by turning off the lights.

Combine that with this past Saturday's baseball game against Prentiss with North Forrest winning 16-3, and what do you have?

A 200th career win for MW.

He hates to make a big deal about things, hates taking credit, hates having the spotlight on him.

But 200 wins under your belt? It's something to be proud about.

So, in keeping with the fabulous tradition of wives embarrassing their husbands, I had a little award made that now sits proudly on our kitchen table.

Buried in junk mail. Dog treats. To-do lists. Newspapers. Three purses.

I obviously need to clean the kitchen table. And possibly get rid of some purses.

In any case, Saturday was a day for celebration. The team needed the boost of a win, and we needed an excuse to go out with friends.

Bops and laser tag were included in the celebration. Not kidding.

(Sugar hangover and sore calves from crouching behind walls so I could shoot my husband - this 30-something had a hard time getting up for church the next morning.)

Congrats, Coach Walters on your 200 milestone. It's been an adventuresome 11 years by your side, first as a Baseball Girlfriend, now as a Baseball Wife.

That being said, as a Baseball Wife, I've gleaned several tidbits of knowledge over the years:
  • There will always be cleat marks in the carpet.
  • Dirt clumps tracked through the kitchen.
  • Red dirt and green grass...whoever thought white baseball pants were a good idea needs to have their head examined. Good thing MW does all the laundry.
  • Nights where you don't get home from coaching a game until after midnight and still managed to get up at 6am to go teach young (hyper, hormonal) minds.
  • Baseball widowhood from February until May. Or June. Or July, depending on your summer baseball plans. 
  • Vacations revolve around Omaha and the College World Series.
  • Watching "The Sandlot" over and over and over. And over.
  • A line-drive to the thigh will leave baseball stitch impressions on your leg for weeks.
  • Doing my own thing so I don't turn into one of those whiny, dependent wives who always asks, "When are you going to be hoooommmmeeee??? Don't you miiiiissssss meeeeeee??" 
  • Weekend tournament sunburns are a given. So are flip-flop tan lines.
  • More baseball team t-shirts than I know what to do with.
  • Sunday afternoons are for mowing the baseball field. And dragging the baseball field. And stats. Lots and lots of stats.
  • Staying up doing team laundry in hotel rooms during away tournaments. Never underestimate the power of multiple bottles of Spray n' Wash.
  • Knowing that as of the first day of baseball season (and quite possibly the weeks leading up to it), any time I try to talk to you you will have a glazed look in your eyes...and I will know you are secretly running baseball stats and plays through your head as we carry on a conversation.
"The road to 300 starts now!" was heard as we pulled out of the laser tag parking lot Saturday night.

Glad to be along for the ride.

06 March 2012


So, this past weekend I woke up on Saturday, drove to New Orleans, ran a little half-marathon on Sunday and then turned around and came home.

At least that's what it felt like.

This race was very, very different than any of my other races...for several reasons.

Reason #1 - my signature photo of late.

This. Is. Me.

I feel like nursing school + moving + new job + being 31 + my last race being in 2008 has kind of made my athleticness disappear.

She IS on her way back though. Never fear.

Reason #2 - my longest training run was 8 miles. A month ago. And then I didn't really run again after that. Until Sunday.

And I didn't really care.

What's another five miles?

(A lot, I discovered, when at mile 9 I wanted to punch a guy in the face for screaming - from the sidewalk - "Keep running!! You can walk to your car after the race! Keep running!!" Seriously. Almost punched him.)

Reason #3 - I wasn't nervous. At all.

That's what was so weird about this whole thing - usually I'm working myself up into a nice little ball of anxiety and nerves as I stand at the start line. Sunday morning, lined up with all the other runners, I started to get worried because I didn't feel butterflies in my tummy. I just wanted to start running, keep running, and get my pretty little medal. I didn't even have a thought in my head about how fast or slow I wanted to run. I just wanted to get out there and do it.

I've turned into such a bling snob. If the medal's not pretty, I'm not signing up for the race.

I had such a great time seeing my roomie from SBU days - my dear friend Sarah. It was so great to see a familiar face from back home. I wanted to cry.

Race number confirmation and obligatory photo by the rockstar. Cause that's what we are. 

I have to wear purple when I run. Have to.

Start line. Lots of people. Some serious, some dressed as superheros. More tutus than I've ever seen in my entire life.


The out-and-back on St. Charles was flat, fast and full of gorgeous houses. I love the Garden District. 

And yes. I took pictures while I ran. And tweeted about it while I ran.

And stopped for pictures while I ran. 

 Cemetery photo.

You know. For dad.

Not sure what these little balloon dog statues are for, but I want them. All of them.

All in all, it was a good weekend, good friends, good run. I know I was slower than I usually am, but you know what? This was the most relaxed race I've ever done, and it was a refreshing change.

Next time I'll probably train a little more and take it a little more serious, but come on. It's New Orleans. If you took anything serious there they'd kick you out of the city.