Baseball Wife: 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.