Welcome to my world, it's a heckuva life,
dreaming of verticals and fast forty times.
Sweating in the stands and chasing babies on the track
Waiting for the players, giving pats on the back.
Falling to sleep with Tony Franklin in my ear,
We're dropping the Wing T and using his gear.
Running the spread and it's changing our game,
If i start screaming "Trips", please, i'm not to blame.
It's the coaches' wife life, rah! rah!
It's the coaches' wife life. ree! ree!
Rolling into the fieldhouse at six thir tay,
Bringing supper to the coaches cause they work on Sun-Day.
Watching film and drawing plays, and watching film again,
Maybe they'll be home tonight by nine, maybe ten.
Feed the kids at 6 and reheat the stuff at eight
Doing phone interviews on our dinner date.
Kids keep calling us and No, they're not ours--
"Can you move me to receiver, Coach, I'm gonna be a star!"
It's the coaches' wife's life, 4th and 10,
It's the coaches' wife's life, let's do it again.
The kids get special prizes every time that Daddy's late
T'shirts, athletic tape, leftover food is great.
Riding the tractor, rolling dummies down the hill,
Coaches kids are used to the cheapest of thrills.
It's the coaches' wife's life, punt and pray
It's the coaches' wife's life, day to day.
Praying every Friday,and wishing for a win
the pressure's always there and i'm only a fan.
Reading the papers, hope the sports guy was cool.
Help us out, dude, we're an up-and-coming school.
My fridge is a shrine to the teens in red and black,
My cupboards are stacked in case the players attack.
The closets are stocked with every shirt you can imagine,
My favorite one reminds us to "Eat, Pray, Win!"
Heading to the banquet, it's the end of the year.
Walk in 15 minutes late, and what do I hear?
A bouquet of roses and a shout out to me,
10 weeks of heaven's worth it, cause they're so pretty!
the coaches' wife's life, playoff hopes,
the coaches' wife's life, there's always next year!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Senior Night
"No scores are known?
Then look down field,
There in the twilight sky the numbers run and blink
And total up the years;
Our Sons this day are grown."
Ray Bradbury
Senior Night. Hard to believe another season has come and now is almost gone. Certainly things aren't ending the way we hoped they would. If most of us (even the wives;)had our way, we'd be playing next Friday, and the next, and on into December, and Christmas shopping would take a back seat to playoffs; and Senior Night would be just a small step in closing things down. But things don't always play out the way we wish, and tonight ends what for some parents and players began 10 or 12 years ago: 40 pound linebackers swallowed by shoulder pads intended to protect them; awkward quarterbacks with tiny arms looking for open receivers who aren't quite sure what route to run; and little boys on the sidelines who have more interest in mud puddles than pile-ons. Things have certainly changed. Forty pounds linebackers are now vicious assassins with 5 o'clock shadows, and the little boys who played in the mud watch the game eagerly for their sign to run in.
I watch these boys, who were freshmen when we got here, taller, stronger, and so much different in just four years. The high school freshmen are now soon-to-be college freshmen and their priorities and goals will change and they will leave all of this behind and take with them what they need to know to be as successful after high school as they were in high school. When I see them, that's exactly what I see, success. Good grades, talented musicians, skilled athletes, responsible teenagers who are role-models to the kids who wear their jerseys on Friday nights.
No one promised them a 10-0 season, no one promised them a play-off appearance or a scholarship with their name in the paper. Unlike rec league, there's no trophy at the end of the season for every kid on the team. But they played the game anyway, practicing in the scorching heat, lining up in the coldest of rains, and limping through a play to get the first down. Sometimes they get what they deserve and sometimes they don't. When they don't it's easy to point fingers, assign blame, and dig up excuses. It's easier, though, to look at what they are promised and what they leave with once the scoreboard turns off and the stadium lights go dark.
They leave with friends, teammates who can only understand what it's like to win a game no one thought you would win. Teammates who know what it's like to stop a ranked team on 4th and 5 when everyone thought they'd score. Teammates who feel the pain of a loss no one was prepared for. Teammates who share the same locker room stories, road trip stories, and inside jokes that no one else would appreciate.
They leave with a work ethic that says you don't quit when things get tough or don't turn out the way you want. They leave with the discipline of pressing on when things aren't going your way and people aren't on your side. It's tough to play a game when the crowd isn't cheering for you. It's the same in life. That's what they leave with.
What's really important, though, is what they leave behind. Tonight is senior night, the time to celebrate what these players have accomplished and part of what they accomplish will be what they have taught the underclassmen. If next year's team can say that their determination, their pride for their team, their hard work came from watching their senior leaders, then that's a legacy.
"What was less is now, incredibly, more!
Man, then, is the thing
That teaches zeros how to cling together and add up!
The cup stood empty?
WEll, now, look!
A brimming cup."
Then look down field,
There in the twilight sky the numbers run and blink
And total up the years;
Our Sons this day are grown."
Ray Bradbury
I watch these boys, who were freshmen when we got here, taller, stronger, and so much different in just four years. The high school freshmen are now soon-to-be college freshmen and their priorities and goals will change and they will leave all of this behind and take with them what they need to know to be as successful after high school as they were in high school. When I see them, that's exactly what I see, success. Good grades, talented musicians, skilled athletes, responsible teenagers who are role-models to the kids who wear their jerseys on Friday nights.
No one promised them a 10-0 season, no one promised them a play-off appearance or a scholarship with their name in the paper. Unlike rec league, there's no trophy at the end of the season for every kid on the team. But they played the game anyway, practicing in the scorching heat, lining up in the coldest of rains, and limping through a play to get the first down. Sometimes they get what they deserve and sometimes they don't. When they don't it's easy to point fingers, assign blame, and dig up excuses. It's easier, though, to look at what they are promised and what they leave with once the scoreboard turns off and the stadium lights go dark.
They leave with friends, teammates who can only understand what it's like to win a game no one thought you would win. Teammates who know what it's like to stop a ranked team on 4th and 5 when everyone thought they'd score. Teammates who feel the pain of a loss no one was prepared for. Teammates who share the same locker room stories, road trip stories, and inside jokes that no one else would appreciate.
They leave with a work ethic that says you don't quit when things get tough or don't turn out the way you want. They leave with the discipline of pressing on when things aren't going your way and people aren't on your side. It's tough to play a game when the crowd isn't cheering for you. It's the same in life. That's what they leave with.
What's really important, though, is what they leave behind. Tonight is senior night, the time to celebrate what these players have accomplished and part of what they accomplish will be what they have taught the underclassmen. If next year's team can say that their determination, their pride for their team, their hard work came from watching their senior leaders, then that's a legacy.
"What was less is now, incredibly, more!
Man, then, is the thing
That teaches zeros how to cling together and add up!
The cup stood empty?
WEll, now, look!
A brimming cup."
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Coach Enters Chili Cook-Off, or that man is in my kitchen!!
Fall is one of my favorite times of the year, next to summer of course. Nothing, not even Christmas, beats sun, sand, beach, pool, etc. Fall brings football, Halloween, the half-marathon, and plenty of other fun things, so I get excited at the first sign of school buses and falling leaves. This year our church held a fall festival the day of Halloween and one of the events of the day was a Chili Cook-Off. Well, coach wouldn't be working that day, so he decided he would enter a chili of his own to be judged. Now, let me just preface the remainder of the blog with this: the man doesn't cook. Occasionally, he will throw steaks on the grill, or fry an egg sandwich out of desperation; but really that's the extent of it. It's no flaw in his character, he is simply a busy man with a stay-at-home wife to do such things.
So let's set the stage. The day before the festival, Coach presents to me a grocery list of all the things he will need to buy for his never-before-made chili. In all seriousness, he is prepared to buy approximately 20 items, 15 of which I tell him we already have in the pantry, you know, the things we women folk call "staples." I whittle his list down to a mere $10, and once he returns he is ready to cook. One would think that this being "his idea" and "his chili" would mean that i just sit back and watch the Ole Miss game while he stands over a hot stove, stirring and chopping. One would be wrong.
His first mistake is to open the cabinet doors looking for the necessary pots and pans. Did I mention that this is "my kitchen?" With a toddler in the house, there is a definite method to the madness that is my kitchen. One cabinet holds only things that are safe for Tate to pull out, rearrange, or sit in. Other cabinet doors, the ones with child safety locks on them, are a bit more tricky. His first choice of cabinet was one of the locked ones. Things get a little hectic sometimes, what with trying to unload a dishwasher with a baby sitting on the door, and then pulling out the things i have just put in a cabinet. So most unloading moments go something like this: Baby sitting on dishwasher door, steak knife in hand, me grabbing pots and pans and throwing them, thrusting them, stacking them, and shoving them into whatever opened door is available. Then securing baby latch lock just seconds before baby reaches cabinet doors to undo all that hard work. Occasionally there is an errant handle sticking out but somehow i've managed to afix the baby lock and all is well in the world for the moment. (Knife has been wrestled from toddler and placed in its official place).
So when Coach opens, rather roughly, the baby-locked cabinet and pots, pans, and skillets come flying out to his feet, he is not a happy cook. This is my cue to return to the kitchen and aid in whatever way as to keep him from using language that would make Ozzy Osbourne proud. Need I remind everyone that frustration does not make for a happy cook, can I get a witness ladies? So once Coach has his things in place and I have been assigned my duties (it's a no-go on the Ole Miss game by this point) of cutting onions, bell peppers, garlic, and the other mystery ingredients that will make this a shoo-in to win, it's time to clean all of these things: knives, cutting boards, separate bowls for each ingredient until it's time to combine them. He did it just like Rachel Ray and all those other "professional" chefs who cook for a living, and have SOMEONE ELSE clean up for them. He was enjoying this a little too much.
Fast forward a couple of hours and I'm back in the kitchen, my kitchen remember, and I'm taste-testing, oohing and aahing over this chili he's created. Now I don't mean to sound bitter, because it was pretty good. But just for fun I'd like to see him create Chili (or anything for that matter) with a baby in a high chair, begging for something in baby talk, a 9 year old at the table doing 4th grade math, and another who wants to read to me while I'm cooking so he can get outside and play. NOW, make me some chili, Coach. And while you're at it, throw some cornbread in the oven to go with it.
Whew! All I can say is that the Chili was really good, but unfortunately, "our" chili as he agreed to call it, did not win the cook-off, and he took it a little hard; losing is never fun, no matter what the competition. But I think we both learned a lot from this weekend. For him, church cook-offs are not region games; they're meant to be fun. For me, come hell or highwater, do whatever it takes to keep that man out of my kitchen unless he is unloading take-out bags.
I Love You, Coach!
So let's set the stage. The day before the festival, Coach presents to me a grocery list of all the things he will need to buy for his never-before-made chili. In all seriousness, he is prepared to buy approximately 20 items, 15 of which I tell him we already have in the pantry, you know, the things we women folk call "staples." I whittle his list down to a mere $10, and once he returns he is ready to cook. One would think that this being "his idea" and "his chili" would mean that i just sit back and watch the Ole Miss game while he stands over a hot stove, stirring and chopping. One would be wrong.
His first mistake is to open the cabinet doors looking for the necessary pots and pans. Did I mention that this is "my kitchen?" With a toddler in the house, there is a definite method to the madness that is my kitchen. One cabinet holds only things that are safe for Tate to pull out, rearrange, or sit in. Other cabinet doors, the ones with child safety locks on them, are a bit more tricky. His first choice of cabinet was one of the locked ones. Things get a little hectic sometimes, what with trying to unload a dishwasher with a baby sitting on the door, and then pulling out the things i have just put in a cabinet. So most unloading moments go something like this: Baby sitting on dishwasher door, steak knife in hand, me grabbing pots and pans and throwing them, thrusting them, stacking them, and shoving them into whatever opened door is available. Then securing baby latch lock just seconds before baby reaches cabinet doors to undo all that hard work. Occasionally there is an errant handle sticking out but somehow i've managed to afix the baby lock and all is well in the world for the moment. (Knife has been wrestled from toddler and placed in its official place).
So when Coach opens, rather roughly, the baby-locked cabinet and pots, pans, and skillets come flying out to his feet, he is not a happy cook. This is my cue to return to the kitchen and aid in whatever way as to keep him from using language that would make Ozzy Osbourne proud. Need I remind everyone that frustration does not make for a happy cook, can I get a witness ladies? So once Coach has his things in place and I have been assigned my duties (it's a no-go on the Ole Miss game by this point) of cutting onions, bell peppers, garlic, and the other mystery ingredients that will make this a shoo-in to win, it's time to clean all of these things: knives, cutting boards, separate bowls for each ingredient until it's time to combine them. He did it just like Rachel Ray and all those other "professional" chefs who cook for a living, and have SOMEONE ELSE clean up for them. He was enjoying this a little too much.
Fast forward a couple of hours and I'm back in the kitchen, my kitchen remember, and I'm taste-testing, oohing and aahing over this chili he's created. Now I don't mean to sound bitter, because it was pretty good. But just for fun I'd like to see him create Chili (or anything for that matter) with a baby in a high chair, begging for something in baby talk, a 9 year old at the table doing 4th grade math, and another who wants to read to me while I'm cooking so he can get outside and play. NOW, make me some chili, Coach. And while you're at it, throw some cornbread in the oven to go with it.
Whew! All I can say is that the Chili was really good, but unfortunately, "our" chili as he agreed to call it, did not win the cook-off, and he took it a little hard; losing is never fun, no matter what the competition. But I think we both learned a lot from this weekend. For him, church cook-offs are not region games; they're meant to be fun. For me, come hell or highwater, do whatever it takes to keep that man out of my kitchen unless he is unloading take-out bags.
I Love You, Coach!
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