There will be no crying over the start of the season
By Mrs. Singy
One would think in 18 years of facing the start of another long baseball season – a wife might become accustomed to the idea of a baseball hubby leaving home. Not so.
Every year I cry on the day Ken first leaves on a plane to Tampa to catch up with the Yankees already in progress. He attends production meetings, announces a few games, receives media credentials, grabs a pile of press guides, and may practice pitching a bucket of golf balls while warm weather is in his favor.
Here we go again … baseball season is here.
I cried over our daughter’s raisin toast that morning, waking up to a half-empty bed occupied several hours before by Ken’s warm 6-foot-4 body (can you hear the violin?).
I remember he had kissed my cheek at 5:30 a.m. before departing for the airport.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” asked our 12-year-old.
“Nothing,” I said. Sniff. She stared at me as I stirred my coffee. “Okay … I don’t like when Daddy leaves. I miss him already.”
I forced myself to stop crying lest I get her started – she had school on which to focus (and I don’t like my kids thinking I’m a big sissy, because I’m not). So we moved along with our day … quick coffee with a friend to whine that Ken left, visit to the health club, and back to my home office to write.
Then his first road trip happens – this year April 16 as the new stadium opened –
and we were fortunate to be able to join him in the festivities and a few days walking the city, but then the kids’ school schedule dictates we return to Baltimore while Ken stayed another week in New York.
Maybe the tears went deeper; they may have been also for the fact that when the kids were younger, we accompanied Ken to Spring Training – we lived in Florida for a month. That was the days of West Palm Beach with the Montreal Expos who paid most of the rental price for beautiful condos on the golf course or the beach. Nice, very nice, and particularly welcoming when northerly winds howled in Maryland and our friends and family were donning gloves, scarves, and boots.
No matter how glamorous people believe Ken’s job is, the reality of it is that his schedule is challenging for family life. His absence creates one less plate on the dinner table. We miss him. And he misses a lot of family life.
The death of the offseason takes a slight adjustment on all of our parts. Specifically mine. Ken is a fantastic and functional house husband in the offseason. Now who will grocery shop, make the beds, and cook spaghetti for dinner while I write?
No wonder I’m crying.