The Offseason

I know I haven’t written too much lately but, without baseball, our lives are just so boring. I have been a bit crafty as of late—making ornaments and a wreath out of branches we had to cut off Walter so he would fit in the tree stand.

Walter Scrap Wreath

Sidenote: Our Christmas tree has a name because he’s dead. I felt sad urging him to come back to life without him having a proper name. We’ve been turning his lights on more so he’ll feel extra happy and pretty and want to drink his water again. No dice so far. The sorrows of the season I suppose.

Anyway, I have also been conquering domesticity or it has been conquering me as evidenced by the multiple cuts and burns I have all over my arms and hands. I actually sliced my pinkie (this is the first time I’ve ever thought about whether that ends in ie or y…hmmmm) on one of those pop-top cans of green beans. I thought those were designed for safer, easier opening. Clearly, they have not mastered that technology.

But here I am getting off topic. What I really wanted to tell you was what Nik does during the offseason—it’s not the same for every player but most have a similar experience so here goes.

Nik didn’t participate in any winter leagues or formal trainings of which there are many such as the Arizona Fall League, Instructs, the Dominican Winter League, and the Venezuelan League. His non-participation results in a full five months of off-season.

He spent the first few weeks marrying me—yay! And going on our honeymoon—also yay! When we got back he took the rest of October off- translation he watched reruns of 90s shows and played the new Call of Duty. Am I the only one experiencing this?

Getting married...I'm self-conscious about not posting enough pictures

He got back to work in November, going to the complex three times a week. He’s been lifting weights, sometimes running and gossiping like a school girl with the trainer. He started throwing about a month ago.

Another sidenote: For those of you who aren’t familiar with how pitchers work, their preparations for Spring Training/the season are much more gradual than position players. They start doing long toss around November or December usually –moving from 60 ft. to however far back their throwing program takes them. Some end at 120 ft., some go all the way to 200 ft. Then they start pitching on the ground. This has a name that is escaping me right now but what I mean is they are not on a mound so there’s no angle. Then they move to the mound with someone catching, then with a batter just standing there doing nothing (to help them make sure they’re placing the ball correctly) and then they face batters who actually try to hit the ball. At least that’s what Nik’s been doing the past couple of years.

So he’s upped his time to four or five days a week (depending on if he ignores his alarm one day or not) now. He’s still lifting weights, long tossing three times a week and sometimes running. He goes to the field around 9 and then has lunch with me everyday of course. After that, he’s pretty much free the rest of the day to do what else? watch 90s show reruns and play Call of Duty. Oh, the life of a baseball player.

I'd Like to Thank the Academy...

So my friend Sam over at Scarlett, called Scout was sweet enough to give me a little blog award. The conditions of the award are that I dish seven things about myself and pass the award on to a few other bloggers/blogs I love. So here goes nothing:

1. Don’t get me wrong—I love shoes. But, if given a choice, I would always be barefoot. The first thing I do when I sit down anywhere that I’ll be for more than half an hour is take off my shoes. I think my feet appreciate the freedom.

2. I am obsessed with advice columns. Like I read Carolyn Hax and Ask Amy everyday. I think it’s the more self-respecting person’s version of watching Jersey Shore. I mean the people in these columns and their families/relationships are train wrecks. It creates a kind of drama that my life just can’t generate on its own.

3. When I eat fruit snacks, which is everyday, I always put them into patterns by color and shape before I consume them. Don’t judge me.

4. If I could have a famous BFF it would be a toss up between Princess Catherine and Taylor Swift. I’m kind of in love with them both.

5. One of the things I look forward to most each week is reading the Wedding Section of the Washington Post. Oh my goodness, I love love. The weddings are hardly talked about—it’s all the story of the people and I may or may not tear up every time I read one.

6. If you don’t watch Modern Family this will be less meaningful but after watching the episode “Punkin Chunkin” with my family, my sister said, “Rachel’s Claire and Nik’s Phil.” And nothing could be closer to the truth.

7. My husband intimidates me. Not in the scary kind of way, in the I feel slightly inferior kind of way. Specifically, his dance moves intimidate me. He could do any dance you could imagine—the jitterbug, the sprinkler, the dougy—it would look cool. It’s just how he is. And I look on amazed, thinking how could I possibly measure up to the glorious specimen before me. I mean really. How could I be worthy of this?

Or this?

Or especially this?


Now for the blogs that I just can’t get enough of:

1. Rog and Lyndzee over at EP Love

2. Sam at Bright Eyed & Bushy Tailed
(given it right back to her—that’s the trouble with having multiple blogs)

3. Carli at Kurt and Carli
(Can’t resist pictures of my niece!)

4. Natalie at Nat the Fat Rat
(Don’t know her personally but love her blog and her fat little baby!)

5. Nicole and company at Baseball Wife Blog

I like other people’s blogs too but they don’t write enough for me to alert you to their greatness. They should get on that.

Life Without Baseball

I haven’t written much lately because, well, I’m the baseball WAG and there’s just not too much baseball going on at the moment. And maybe you don’t want to hear about my everyday life without the complications of America’s favorite pastime?

But, I’m going to take a chance and tell you about it anyway. But in a sort of abbreviated, good for people (like me) with non-existent attention spans way so it might not be too painful. My friend calls this the rose, thorn, bud game or perhaps the blossom, thorn, bud game. I don’t know. I’m old and married and my memory fails me regularly these days.

Anyway, the premise is to share something good, something bad and something that you are hoping for that day. I have made a unilateral decision to share two good things and two bad things and no things I hope for. I apologize to anyone who was waiting with bated breath to find out my daily hopes.

The bad things aka thorns
1. Daylight Savings Time: Who could possibly like this time? Perhaps, you do. But that is neither here nor there. Besides the extra hour of sleep one night (which I so appreciate) Daylight Savings Time is probably the worst invention ever. Some people say they like going to work in the daylight. To them I say, do you really need another reminder via the sun that the world is bright and beautiful and you are driving to a prison for the next eight hours of your life? I much preferred going to work in the dark—at least I didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything.

2. Traffic: After spending a significant amount of time in Los Angeles this year, I know I have nothing to complain about and yet traffic infuriates me every day. There is always someone to blame for why it takes me 15 minutes to drive one mile. Yesterday I threatened to write a letter to the people who control the traffic lights. I don’t even know who controls the traffic lights but you know what Nik said? You should do it. And that is why I love him.

The good things aka roses aka blossoms
1. Tampa: I’m not bragging or trying to bring you down if you live somewhere less paradise-like but OH MY GOSH! This city has been gorgeous for the past month. Absolutely perfectly beautiful every day. Highs and lows spanning the mid-60s to the low-80s. A breeze that you feel everywhere. I roll my windows down every time I get in the car and just inhale all that climatic perfection. The sun, the clouds, the water—it’s like a dream. And, even though I’ve given Tampa a hard time, I’m starting to realize what saying goodbye will mean.

2. My new shoes: For the first time since I didn’t know better, I wore tennis shoes with jeans last night. Why, you ask? Because my tennis shoes are so freaking cute that I can wear them with jeans! But really. I’m obsessed. I comment on how awesome they are at least once a day and they are my main motivation for running. It gives me a chance to wear them and show them to other people—those people being strangers who are walking their dogs/children through the apartment complex. No matter! They are the best. I will take a picture because apparently (according to Google Images) they only exist in my closet.

Maybe I’ll come up with a baseball post soon but, hey, don’t I deserve an offseason too?!

Down in the Unemployment Line

Yep, that’s where (figuratively, of course) Mr. Turley currently resides. The minor leaguers don’t get paid in the offseason, which means you either drain your bonus, live at home or get another job.

In this economy, it’s hard for anyone to get a job but try getting one when you’re a baseball player. I’m sure Nik’s situation isn’t unique. Wouldn’t you want to hire a 6-4, strapping young man with no resume and no work experience besides pitching in the minor leagues? Oh, and did I mention he can really only work until February because, well, Spring Training and all that.

I try to tell Nik that it’s not so hard to make a resume sound good even with only one entry. We could talk about how he’s a team player (classic) or punctual (threaten to fine him), resilient (some days you get hit pretty hard), strong (he can lift a lot of weights) and…and…he can throw a ball fast. Not impressing you yet future employer? Well, we’re about out of ways to translate baseball skills to real-world jobs so I suppose we’re also about out of luck.

Nik’s looked around and talked to people and gone to at least 20 places. Even when he drops the Y bomb—nothing. Apparently, it’s more important to these people to hire skilled, experienced, long-term workers than employ someone who could one day be the face of the Yankees. Boy, do they have their priorities very mixed-up.

It’s looking like the second job is a no go. What’s a WAG to do but embrace her Sugar Mamma status (and I do not mean like the ladies on that web site—disturbing) and wait for the Spring?

Team Turley

Well, I've officially moved up in the world of WAGs taking the coveted top spot of WIFE! You will be happy to know there were not any baseball-infused anythings in our wedding (or maybe you will be disappointed--i can't make that judgment). However, we did do a traditional receiving line and boy, i heard more about baseball than I have in a long time. Everyone asking Nik what happened to the Yankees and how do the Cardinals look and they heard this and saw that and blah, blah, blah. That baseball talk...you can never escape. Anyway, this is a little teaser picture our photographer gave us. Annie Randall. SO AMAZING!




Also, I haven't written anything in a long time. I'm not good at this whole blogging regularly thing. Sorry.

September 11

A little heavy for the fare normally contained on this blog, I know. But bear with me. I thought the least I could do this year was remember.

For me, these days, September 11 is both a personal holiday and a national tragedy. My sweet fiancé was born on September 11 almost 22 years ago. If that’s not one heck of a loaded birthday, I just don’t know what is. As we’ve celebrated these past couple of years, it’s seemed like any other birthday, any other day. I’ve been running away from 9/11 since it happened. I’ve never talked to anyone about it. I’ve tried not to think about it. Not that anything tragic or unique happened to me on or because of that day; but there were too many emotions-too much anger, too much grief, too much pain. I didn’t have the heart to sit down and think about what that day was like for the people who died and their families and friends. I was scared that the emotional toll would be more than I could bear. And unlike the people who were actually and directly and horribly affected on that day, I have the option and the luxury to look away. I had the choice and I took the easy way out for almost ten years. But this time is different. Ten years later. So when I saw a special on the National Geographic channel, I thought you need to do this. You owe them that much. So here’s my story:

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001, (I would have never remembered the day of the week except for all the specials) and I was an 8th grader at Wilson Middle School in Tampa, Florida. School started at 9 a.m. We went to homeroom first where we had the normal beginning of the day routine and took attendance. The teacher would put cards with the names of the students who were present in an envelope and someone would be selected to take the envelope to the media center. That day, I was chosen. I headed off to the media center, envelope in hand, not knowing what had already happened. As I walked up to the desk to hand in our envelope, the librarian and another person were watching a small television in horror. I saw the images we’ve all seen a hundred times by now. Smoke pouring out of the towers. I put the envelope down, watched for a few seconds and returned to my homeroom. I was probably the first kid in school to know what was going on in the world outside our walls. I went back to class and told Mr. Thorton what I saw on TV. It was a long time ago but I recognize now that I had no idea of the impact of the attacks. I didn’t realize what it meant. I didn’t see the bigger picture. I wasn’t overcome by the fear and uncertainty that shown on the faces of the adults around me. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, I probably told him in an attitude of the first person in on the secret. I know I was young but it still makes me sick to know how little I understood. He didn’t believe me. But he turned on the television in our classroom. After that, things get kind of hazy. I’m sure the principal made an announcement at some point. And I know we switched classes like usual. And our math teacher got made because someone made an offhand comment that was probably insensitive. I don’t remember what it was but I remember the look on her face and the tone of her voice as she scolded. She was from Long Island. It was during her class that I was called to the office. My parents were there to pick me up. We went home and watched the television for hours. It was the same all day. After the towers fell, nothing new happened but we kept watching. I remember my parents crying. I don’t know if I did or not. I remember being proud of them for going to donate blood at the Sam’s down the street. They waited in line for over two hours there were so many people who wanted to give. I was the president or vice-president of the National Junior Honor Society and in the weeks following the attack, it was my idea to sell American flag ribbons and donate the proceeds to help with 9/11. I remember at our end of the year assembly, our vice principal told us that when the planes hit the towers, we were saying the pledge of allegiance. I don’t know if that’s true but it made me feel good. On a day when so many people showed a truly American spirit and personified the noblest ideals of this country, at a time when others were trying to tear down everything this nation stands for, I was saying the pledge of allegiance.

Today, at my job, they are broadcasting a 9/11 tribute ceremony that will take place in New York. The company headquarters operated out of floors 93-100 in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The impact zone of the first plane spanned floors 93 to 99. Nobody in the office survived. They lost 295 employees and 63 consultants.

Maybe your story’s like mine, unremarkable, but many people’s are not. Tens of thousands of people, maybe more, lost someone they loved that day and for the victims and their families and for ourselves and our families and especially for those who were too young to have memories of their own, the least we can do is remember.

This is the Staten Island 9/11 Memorial. I used to read all the names while I waited for Nik to finish games when I was up in New York. The memorial honors the 274 Staten Islanders killed on 9/11.

It’s Officially Official

As of Sunday, September 4, the season is over. Nik’s team, the Tampa Yankees, did well but not quite good enough to make the playoffs (they finished in second place, 2.5 games back). The last game was at 11 a.m. Sunday and when Nik and I got back to the apartment around 5, two of his three roommates were already gone. Impressive.

Nik can’t move into our apartment until the 14th so his new roommate, much to her delight, is my grandmother. She adores Nik and just happens to have a spare bedroom with his name all over it. He’ll stay there until Friday when we go to California for a few days. Then next week, it’s yet another move!

I’ve lived in the same house since 1997. Moving is not a thing I have too much experience with, but since Nik and I started dating I feel like I’ve become a pro. I’ve helped him move at least five times and things are always the same. Nik sort of stands around doing something my mother would probably classify as dillydallying while I shove miscellaneous items in his face and ask, “Can this be thrown away?” You’d be surprised how much trash accumulates around these apartments. Surprised because hello! there is a trash can ten feet from you so the fact that you have a burrito wrapper from two months ago makes no sense.

Then we get serious. There’s the clothes packing and, more recently, the air mattress deflating and the ensuing debacle of trying to fold it just so in order to fit it back in the bag. Luckily, Nik doesn’t have a lot of stuff and things move pretty quickly once the air mattress is wrestled back into the packaging. Then we load up the truck giving special consideration to the gloves, of course, and the electronics (what on earth would baseball players do without a gaming system?). And off we go, to a new place, for now, until the next big adventure.

You (Probably Shouldn’t) Be the Judge

[disclaimer: this is directed at the guilty parties in general. I promise I’m not mad at YOU!]

When Nik and I started hanging out, I’ll admit I was expecting what’s normally considered a “typical jock.” You know the type. Arrogant, womanizing, not so bright. How could I have guessed he would know all the words to Mister Roboto or have a strange affinity for Kenny Loggins or regularly use the word “otay” like Buckwheat in Little Rascals (totally true. last use: yesterday)?

The thing is, as we’ve dated, I’ve noticed the stereotyping isn’t just reserved for me. The typical things come to mind but there’s a more subtle form of judgment I’ve seen over the past couple of years that’s really starting to get under my skin- it’s like an oversimplified pigeonholing (so eloquent i know).

When you play baseball professionally, you are a baseball player—at the expense of absolutely everything else. Normally when you meet someone new, you usually classify them in order to keep your categorical mind happy. You meet Shirley at a party and she’s really nice and her brother is in the military. You meet Tom at the grocery store (for the record, I’ve never met anyone at the grocery store but let’s just go with it) and you guys like the same music and he loves Odwalla juice. You meet Nik anywhere and he’s a baseball player. No more, no less.

When Nik talks to people, it’s always the same. Meeting for the first time-they ask a million questions about baseball and the minors and how everything works. Catching up-they ask a million questions about baseball and his last outing and how the team looks this year. It’s like the 24-hour baseball network for this guy. And I feel bad. Because guess what? He’s more than a baseball player. He’s a person. He’s funny and musical and artistic and all these other things that people don’t notice because HOW COOL IS IT THAT HE'S A BASEBALL PLAYER?!?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I understand the compulsion. It’s not everyday you meet a professional baseball player. And that’s the draw. It’s unique. People always notice what’s different. I get it but there has to be a balance because when enough people tell you the same thing enough times, you usually start to believe it.

All the self-help gurus tell the workaholics your job is what you do, it’s not who you are. But when everyone defines you by what you do, the message starts to get hazy. Because what happens when baseball’s over? What happens when you’re hurt or retired or past your prime? I never want Nik to think that baseball is all he has to offer because that’s absolutely not true. So do us a favor and treat athletes like real people with real lives and real challenges who have something more to contribute than what you see on the field. They already have enough people in their lives that think they’re only as good as their last outing.

Not a Fan

About eight months before Nik and I started dating, I made a list of my “weird” qualities (don’t ask why—I have no answer). I thought, someday I’ll show this to a guy and he’ll love me because of or in spite of all these little quirks and I’ll know he’s a keeper. And do you know what #18 was? ‘I hate baseball and I don’t think that will ever change.’ And isn’t life just so funny? Because Nik, the baseball player, was the first guy I ever showed that list to. He stopped at #18 and gave me a little smile. I half shrugged and said it’s still true.

Now, almost two and a half years have gone by and I’ve been to more baseball games than I ever thought possible. I love supporting Nik. I love watching him play. I do not love baseball. When he leaves the game, all of a sudden things become a lot less exciting.

I know. I know. This nation was founded on baseball and apple pie, blah, blah, blah. How can you be so un-American? Well, in my defense, I didn’t come from a baseball family or a baseball town—both excellent contributors to and predictors of an avid baseball fan. So, you see, it’s not my fault. It’s a mixture of nature and nurture. I was doomed from the start.

When Nik was with the Tampa Yankees, I routinely showed up during the eighth or ninth inning at homestands. Sometimes I missed the game entirely (whoops!) and rolled into the stadium as the crowds (read: all 200 people) were exiting and the players were already taking their showers. Divine providence is what I called those days.

Before that, I spent much of the games fidgeting restlessly, people watching and wandering around the stadium after the third or fourth inning. I’ve lobbied to reduce all games to six innings but the feedback has been mostly negative so far.

But the truth is, even if you’re a baseball fanatic, over 100 games a season is a bit much. It all starts to get a hazy, Groundhog Day feeling about it. And, in fact, did I ever tell you Bill Murray was one of the part owners of the Riverdogs and I saw him at a game? Semi-irrelevant but exciting all the same, don’t you think?

Anyway, I just hope I can make some good friends among the baseball WAG set soon or these next few (5, 10, 15?) years will be akin to a daily turn in a medieval torture chamber. That was a bit over the top. More accurately, the years will be like a compulsory yet pointless office teleconference. So, for my sanity and the safety of those around me, wish me luck in my quest to widen my circle of WAGs.

If I'm not careful, this will be me soon. Stealing groundhogs and going insane.

Four guys, a girl and an air mattress

I will tell you now, every baseball wag will nod at that title in resigned understanding. If you’ve dated anyone ever, you’ve probably encountered some issues with roommates. But oh do they raise the stakes in baseball. Contrary to what you might think, Nik and his teammates do not throw cash in the face of passer-bys or roll around at their cribs in dolla, dolla bills ya’ll. I don’t have exact statistics for you, but they might get paid less than migrant farm workers.

So, how do these boys save money, you wonder. Well, on housing of course. Nik, for example, has slept on an air mattress in the living room this entire season. That sacrifice was rewarded by a reduction in rent compared to his roommates. Worth it? I’m not convinced but he sure thinks so. Do you know how fun it is when you want to watch a movie after dinner and you arrive to find 20 drunk people, at least five of whom you’ve never seen before, hanging out in (for all intents and purposes) your bedroom? Super fun is the correct answer of course.

Currently, Nik gets to share the living room with a fellow pitcher, also sleeping in style on an air mattress. They have no dishes. I take that back, they have plastic utensils. I try to avoid going to the bathroom if it’s anything less than an emergency because I have to wash my hands with Dawn and I’m scared that whatever decorates the toilet bowl is going to give me a disease. There is no furniture unless you count the air mattresses and two cheap red papasan chairs (Google it). There is no internet (thank heavens for an iPhone) but they do have cable (!).

In the old apartment, there were also no lights in the living room, which created a nice ambience of romance and horror movie. There was a lamp at one point but it was commandeered to light the bedroom of someone whose lamp met an untimely end. I’ll give you a hint, it was Mr. B. in the bedroom with the golf club.

Anyway, the living situation of your average minor leaguer is not ideal, to say the least. But our quality of life will improve significantly once we get married (at least we will probably have dishes and lights). I once heard a story of a WAG who lived with her baseball husband and three other players even after they were married. I can only say that I might rather chew off my own arm than take part in that arrangement. I’m sure we’ll look back on these frat house roommate days with affection some day. Some day in the very, very distant future.

That's kinda what Nik's bed looks like.

Oh and adding to the humor (is this funny?) of all this, Nik’s air mattress groans every time he moves. Adding to the disgustingness, I once found a dead bug on said air mattress. Classy Nikolas.

So You Want to Marry a Baseball Player

Or maybe (probably) you don’t. You see, marrying a baseball player is much trickier than you would think. At the beginning of this season, Nik was assigned to play in Charleston. We hoped/wished/prayed that he would get moved up to Tampa during the season but nothing’s certain in baseball so we prepared for the worst (that he would be in Charleston the whole year) and planned wedding activities accordingly.

We took our engagement pictures during Spring Training (because the other option –taking pictures by myself and photoshopping him in—seemed unappealing for some reason). We also registered in March (my favorite plates from Crate and Barrel are now gone-sad) when our minds were so far away from this wedding and having a household that we mostly wandered around with Nik insisting that we needed at least one more trivet and two ice cream scoops. Thank goodness this process can also be completed online. And, if you’re thinking, why didn’t you just do the whole thing online or without Nik…well, let’s just say someone was very excited to be in possession of a scanner gun and I’m not one to deny people the privilege of simple joys.

The timing, as are most things in our life, was also dictated by baseball. I had always dreamed of being a May bride. That’s when my parents got married and isn’t May just the best month you can imagine? Well, that dream died. Because, you know, trying to squeeze in a cross-country wedding on an off-day seemed to require a degree of effort we were not willing to put forth. Not to mention, a very-delayed honeymoon. So we had exactly four and a half months to choose from. But the closer you get to Spring Training—the dicier things get what with having to be on the throwing and work out program and all that. So it was decided. October it was and, you know, that’s not such a bad month. In fact, it’s my second favorite after May so it all works out but then…

Nik got hurt. He pitched 80-something innings when he was supposed to pitch 125. They can make up for that in baseball-it’s called Instructional League (Instructs is what the cool kids say). They bring new draftees who didn’t play a whole season or injured players or other such types back to Tampa for something akin to a fall spring training. And do you know when it starts? Well, neither do I. These baseball people tell you nothing…never mind that you have a LIFE to plan here. I do know when it ends though. October 7. As in one day before our wedding (we have to be there at 8AM Saturday, October 8). We’re hoping the coordinators will be nice enough to let Nik leave in time for us to take care of, I don’t know, the little details like our marriage license.

In conclusion, it appears to be easier to marry not a baseball player than the alternative. But, hey, no one ever said moving up in the world of WAGdom was easy.

Almost Famous

Sorry for the lack of content lately. I was going to make up an excuse about why I haven't written anything but, upon a thorough self-evaluation, I accepted that it is because I am lazy. BUT I did want to tell you that today, for the first time, I have been published as a guest blogger. The proof is here!

If you read my blog, the post on there is the same as one I've written here so it's nothing new but still...pretty exciting eh? And about that Web site. It's run by Elliot Johnson's (Rays) wife Nicole and has all sorts of stories from baseball WAGs. If you want to learn more about the lifestyle and I'm just not giving you what you need, you can browse there. I kind of promise that I'll write something exciting soon.

The End...and Yet the Beginning

Well, friends, it’s time. I’ve been waiting three weeks to get some distance and perspective to be able to write this post (for Nik’s sake, not my own). Sometimes in life, and baseball, unfortunate things happen. Like a season-ending injury, like perhaps a broken finger on your pitching hand. And that’s exactly where we currently find ourselves. On the DL. As in disabled list. As in, Nik’s season is pretty officially over.

This all happened three weeks ago-in St. Lucie. Luckily or maybe unluckily I was there. I saw the whole thing happen. I shot to the edge of my seat when that ball came back and hit him. Nik’s no whimp and when I saw that grimace I knew something was very wrong. In an instant, I felt everything I knew he was feeling. It was automatic empathy. The disappointment, the frustration, the discouragement. I like to think everything hit us in waves at the same time even though I was in the stands and he was in the clubhouse. I texted him immediately, are you okay? He responded that he thought so. It was swollen but they would look at it again in the morning.

Well, the morning brought no improvement. And let me interject here with the fact that he had an outline of the baseball stitches on his hand—that’s how hard it him. The trainer, Scotty, asked if I would take him to urgent care. After some poking and prodding from the doctor, he went in to get some x-rays. The doctor, clearly SO not understanding what this would mean to Nik, came back in and said well, you have a fracture! While Nik tried to talk his way out of having a splint or taking any official action to heal his hand, my heart sank. His face, oh it makes me almost tear up just thinking about it.

So here we are, three weeks later, with Nik still sporting a cute little splint. He said he felt ridiculous and grown people shouldn’t have casts. That may be true but he just looks so dang cute and helpless in it. It should come off either next week or the week after but he’ll still need to be taped and won’t be able to throw. So no more outings (which doesn’t mean no more training and lifting and running by the way). He finished the season (combined stats for both teams) with a 4-6 record, a 2.81 ERA in 89.2 innings with 28 earned runs, 22 walks and 87 strike outs. I couldn’t be prouder of him!

I’ve learned a lot in the last few weeks about the difficulties of the DL. First, you have to figure out how to be supportive and encouraging while not minimizing the fact that this is a huge disappointment and a major setback. Second (I’m horrible I know), you have to figure out how to maintain feeling bad that this happened when every bone in your body is rejoicing to have him back in your life. We get to go to dinner and the movies and people’s wedding receptions and date night. We get to see each other at times other than 10 PM. It’s amazing. But if you’re too excited, it feels awfully insensitive. Sometimes I wonder if the secret (or maybe not-so-secret) wish of my heart to spend more time with Nik caused this whole mess. Well, I’d just feel really guilty then, wouldn’t I?

And one can’t go around feeling guilty about such things as the secret wishes of one’s heart. So I determined to believe that nothing’s as black and white as it seems. There’s a whole lot of gray in the world of baseball. This injury is actually factually simultaneously the best and worst thing that’s happened this season. And how does that work? I certainly don’t know-it’s one of those mysteries of the universe like string theory and why people like Justin Bieber. But I do know it’s possible to find good in everything (don’t’ believe me? Take it up with ABBA) that happens in our lives. And I couldn’t be more grateful for this hidden blessing.

Old News

I’ve noticed a funny pattern in my life lately. Nik and I have been dating for over two years and, you know, sometimes I like to try to fool myself into thinking he’s old news. Those blue eyes and easy smile have no power over me I say. He’s tall and handsome and dreamy (a co-worker used that term, I am not biased). So what? Big deal. But you know, every night when I walk into the stadium lamenting to myself, another day, another baseball game, I stop short. Because as soon as I see that guy leaning on the dugout rail my heart just absolutely melts. I light up inside—I can actually feel it, like the beast’s transformation back to his princely self, I know streams of luminosity (great word) will start shooting out of my appendages at any moment. I smile and watch him WAY more than the game. I get happy when he smiles, interested when he’s deep in conversation, a little weirded out when he slaps people’s butts. And the game never ends soon enough.

I like to think I still play everything so cool. This is contradicted by the almost frantic way I grab my phone every time it dings with the expectation that he’s sent me a text. And the way I sometimes wait at the edge of my driveway when he’s on his way over. And, for good measure, the way I latch onto him like one of those creepy sloths when he tries to leave (actually, that only happened last night but I thought it might be a fun image for everyone). So much for old news, huh?

Not that I’m mad. I’m over the moon that Nik still makes me swoon. I expect it to continue forever. But I think a little credit is due to baseball. People often say you don’t know what you got til it’s gone (at least the Counting Crows say that and maybe John Mayer and also Joni Mitchell?). Anyway, Nik and I are very aware of what it’s like when we’re gone. Baseball gives us a lot of grief but it also constantly gives us a chance to miss each other. Every stolen second is treasured because they’re so sporadic and unplanned—at least for seven months out of the year. And even in the offseason, I feel like I have to soak in every minute and record every feeling and memory so I can play them back when he’s gone. It’s hard to be apart but it makes being together so much sweeter. So thanks, baseball, for not letting my man become old news.

Struggles with Sportsmanship

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a long time, but I couldn’t figure out where to start or what to focus on or how to not sound slightly deranged. As you may imagine, no clarity has come through this thinking and so this will all be a jumbled, piecemeal mess. Good luck.

In Port St. Lucie this weekend, there was an exceedingly drunk and exceedingly loud man (correlated? Perhaps). He yelled things (at a very unnecessary decibel) every single time someone went up to bat. This was the extra innings game (if you recall) so most of the stadium had left and he was incredibly audible. One of our guys came up to bat and he shouted “easy out!” at the top of his lungs (which doesn’t even make sense because that guy had like three hits already but, you know, I’m not here to split hairs). And a boy behind me who was probably about 10 yelled back “that isn’t very nice. Why would you say such a thing?” It was awesome and no, it did not stop the man from continuing to bellow through the remaining innings.

As I laughed, I thought how many times a game some people need to hear that. Did you hear about that Phillies fan a couple of years ago that purposely vomited on an 11 year old girl? Or the Giants fan that is STILL in a coma after getting beaten outside of Dodgers Stadium on OPENING DAY!? I read an article by Mike Celizic on the NBC Sports Web site that summed up my feelings exactly. “And too many fans think that because they paid for a ticket, they can say and do anything they please. I’ve never understood that. You pay for the right to attend an event, and you abide by the rules of the people who own and run the facility. You pay a lot of money to go to the philharmonic, too, but that doesn’t mean you can leap to your feet during the third movement of Beethoven’s Third and inform the oboist that his mother is a woman of loose morals and his daughter hangs around at the gates of the army base.

At team events, you accept a lot of conditions that go with the ticket. You can’t sit anywhere you want. You can’t bring in your own six-pack. You can’t bring in a backpack.

But you can act like an uncivilized jerk? You can behave in a manner that you wouldn’t want to see in your children? You can be foul-mouthed and abusive in front of families and small children? You can call people things you would punch somebody for calling you?

And then you can act surprised and offended on the incredibly rare occasions when someone strikes back?”

Bravo Mike (whoever you are)! What I really want to talk about is that last part. It’s extremely difficult not to get upset when someone insults a person you love. The knee-jerk reaction is to strike back, to deal a blow that evens the score. Luckily, I’ve been largely spared from actually hearing people talk meanly about Nik. It’s only happened once and, so help me, if his dad hadn’t of been there, I might have punched an old man in the head.

In his first outing of Spring Training this year, Nik threw seven balls in a row. Not good. But, hey, it’s Spring Training and I’m his fiancé so I wasn’t too bugged. But an elderly gentleman (I’m taking the high road here) who was there cheering for Nik’s team started yelling, “Next!” after the fifth ball. Seriously old man? He hasn’t played a game in six months and this doesn’t even count—why don’t you lighten up? He then continued to yell for the subsequent balls. Listen, I love my fiancé and nobody, not nobody, is going to sit and repeatedly insult him in my presence. I was seriously contemplating throwing down with this guy. But I held my tongue and glared (an if looks could kill kind of stare down) at the back of his head for the rest of the inning.

The thing is, I know I shouldn’t bother with these people. I know I should ignore these things but, ooh, it just makes my blood boil. And I know the taunting and the insults are just going to get worse. Wait until I have to endure the Phillies fans (ugh!). How can I remain gracious and dignified when every fiber of my being wants to superman punch someone in the throat? I don’t have the answers but I desperately hope it’s something that gets easier with time. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and have a “clear the mechanism’ feature ala Kevin Costner and be able to tune everyone out when Nik pitches. Wouldn’t that be a glorious end to my struggles with sportsmanship?

Extra Innings

Extra innings-the bane of baseball WAGs everywhere, particularly for those who don’t exactly enjoy the game such as yours truly. Before this weekend, my mind knew that extra innings existed. I had heard about those marathon games and realized that if that scoreboard was tied at the bottom of the ninth, someone has to win, which means more baseball. But this weekend was my first actual experience with extra innings—twice, in a row. Saturday was a double header, which means only seven innings (yay!) or so I thought. I showed up about thirty minutes before the second game because, really, who needs to watch both? I personally feel that all games should be seven innings so I was pretty happy with the arrangement. That is until the fourth—that’s when Nik’s team decided to score five runs in one inning all willy nilly like and tie things up. And the score didn’t change. FOR SEVEN MORE INNINGS. Thankfully, at the bottom of the 12th, the Mets put us all (and by us all, I mean the 30 people left at the stadium) out of our misery. Well, technically our pitcher put us out of our misery. You see, this ridiculous game ended in, what I would imagine, is the silliest fashion ever. The Mets got one hit- a single. Then we intentionally walked two guys in a row (to the very persistent and very audible boos of the Mets fans) to load the bases. Next batter gets hit right in the shoulder with the very first pitch—game over. Thank goodness. Sunday, another score tied at 5-5 (unbelievable, no?), another game going to extra innings. Luckily, it was just one. We lost it in the bottom of the 10th but not before this WAG decided she would be perfectly happy never having to sit through extra innings again. A girl can dream...

Famous Fiancés

Nik pitched in his first Florida State League game this past weekend and had a solid (13 people!) fan section for his opening day. As we separated from his parents (who were visiting) after the game, his mom said “Good job Nik,” or something like unto it. There was a family walking by and when she said his name this man’s eyes just got so big! He completely lit up. He said, “Are you Nik Turley?” and proceeded to recruit his four children to take a picture with Nik, explaining to each as he called them that this was Nik Turley and that he pitched in the game tonight. I got handed the keys and the phone and the wallet. Typical. But do you know I never felt even a little bit slighted. I was so proud to see those strangers excited to take a picture with MY fiancé. It was amazing. My almost husband has fans. Fans! I just smiled and smiled. I’m sure there will come a point when I feel overlooked and underappreciated in comparison to a big time pro baseball player but right now I’m soaking it all in. Getting to watch him be recognized and admired is just another gift the baseball gods have given me to keep up morale during this long, difficult journey.

P.S. Sorry these last two posts have been so mushy! I guess I’m getting more tender-hearted in my old age. But I’m fairly confident the snark’s not going down without a fight so no worries.

100 Days

Flashback: When I was in first grade, we had a celebration to mark the 100th day of school. All of the first graders were to come to class dressed as if they were 100 years old. I was so excited. I loved dressing up (still do!) and being an old person was going to be the best. I planned on turning my hair gray with baby powder and having an awesome costume. Well, when the big day came around I completely forgot. I came to school to find all of my friends looking like miniature geriatrics. I was crushed but, being an optimistic child, I decided to put on my big coat and hunch over and try to get in the spirit of the thing. When what should happen but one of my teachers walked by and said I hope you realize that that jacket doesn’t make you look old; everyone can tell you forgot to dress up. Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you. As I stood in line, on the brink of tears, I thought worst 100 days celebration ever.

Flash forward (great show—you remember it? Tuck and Becca anyone?): Today, very unlike that day over 15 years ago, is the greatest 100 days celebration ever. Because guess who gets married in 100 days? It’s me. I get married in 100 days. Now I don’t want to gush because I kind of find it irritating but will you let me have this moment of sheer girly exhilaration and excitement? Me+Nik=married forever in 100 days. If that just doesn’t put the biggest smile on your face and bring the greatest joy to your soul, you are the Grinch and your heart is three (two?) sizes too small. But no matter. You could not rain on my Getting Married in 100 Days Parade even if you tried. And do you know why? Because I’m getting married in 100 days to, first of all, the best looking guy in baseball (you can argue but there’s no point-‘tis a fact) who also happens to be funny and strange (in a good way) and caring and kind and creative and loyal and, above all, my very best friend. So here’s to 100 days! Now, the real countdown begins.

Movin’ On Up

Did you guess what this post title means? Or did you just assume I really like “The Jeffersons” (which I do by the way, that Florence is hysterical)? Nik got moved up! Isn’t promoted just the sweetest word you can think of? And do you know what that means? I have also been promoted-- to the home team wag because the next stop is Tampa! Hallelujah! And I mean Hallelujah! Praise God because I was just telling Him yesterday that I wasn’t sure I could live one more day like this.

I will admit that I had actually thought about how Nik would break the news to me when he got moved up. That’s not weird, right? It was perfect. I was recapping the game broadcast when Nik interrupted to say, “You actually listened today? You got over your fear of being bad luck?” I said that I had. And he said that I didn’t need to listen to any more games. The eyes welled up before he finished his thought. And, as a testament to the overwhelming happiness I felt, I actually cried while kneeling on my bathroom floor. I probably should not admit this but, in the spirit of honesty being the best policy and all, that floor is disgusting. In fact, there was a small dead spider somewhere near the vicinity of my face but I didn’t even care. My boy’s coming home!

Letting Myself Go

Yesterday I volunteered to take my sister to church and she asked if we could bring our dog Becca. I said no because I was going to the store after I dropped her off. We made it all the way to the car before she remembered that her current role in the play of life is bratty teenage girl and said, “You’re wearing that to the store?” At which point, I (luckily) remembered that my current role is sassy, quick-witted older sister and replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Target instituted a dress code. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt (a little more snottily than was necessary natch).” She said (in a way only a 13-year old girl that’s too saucy for her own good can) “Yeah. But your shorts are hot pink and your shirt is navy blue.” Touché sis. You win this round.

As I reflected on my current stance of pretty much having no dignity when I leave the house, I thought back on a conversation Nik and I had a few months ago. After about a week and a half of me not wearing makeup he casually observed, “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?” What is that supposed to mean mister? He cited the infrequent makeup application and the even more infrequent leg shavings. Was I, Rachel Johnson, being accused of the old bait and switch?! Embarrassing. Almost embarrassing enough to make me give up sleep to put on makeup or squeeze into my skinny jeans instead of soffes and sweatpants. But, hey, I’m not that easy. So I will enjoy my lazy, laid-back style and continue to look more homeless than the Olsen twins until Nik and I are reunited (because you know something? It’s kind of nice to look hot for your fiancé).

Lessons about Life and Baseball

“Life is not fair.”
Conan O’ Brien (among others possibly but don’t you just love Coco?)

You know what else is not fair? Baseball. That is the lesson I have learned this week. Now, I’m under no illusions or false pretenses that this life is some kind of perfect meritocracy. There will always be people who get opportunities whether they deserve them or not because they have the right last name or wear the right clothes or know the right people or get signed in the first round. But sometimes it’s hard to just accept that as truth. Some sense of justice cries within us that things MUST be fair. If we work hard, we SHOULD be rewarded (and amply). No one seems to be listening.

Nik called me last night to tell me that one of his good friends on the team (and one of my favorites) was being sent down to a lower team and he would be leaving in less than 24 hours. Brutal! And the thing is, he was doing just fine. Not getting too many innings but doing pretty well with what he was given. AND he got knocked out of his spot by-- okay, I considered being mean just then, but I’m trying to give that up so-- someone who is not doing as well. BIG bummer.

Other events have taken place recently that factor into my declaration that baseball is unfair. But in the interest of propriety and not making very unneeded enemies of the Yankee higher-ups, I will hold my tongue (not easy friends). As I mulled over the unfairness of it all, I started to think about how fortunate Nik and I are. I mean the guy plays a game…for his job! It’s not easy and it’s definitely not glamorous but he’s doing what he loves (as his dear fiancé toils away like a slave laborer, mind you). He’s living the life of so many little league dreams. Few people ever get the chance to be under the bright lights, to strike out seven batters in five innings and walk none (braggart? me? Never… shame on you) while thousands of people watch and cheer. So, I guess life (and baseball) are unfair. But I’ve also realized that that unfairness often works for our good and manifests itself in the amazing opportunities we take for granted.


This is Conan saying life is not fair (at Dartmouth Commencement if you must know).

One is the Loneliest Number

It is a truth that we probably didn’t need a song or a Tom Clancy novel (?!-thank you Wikipedia) to tell us.

I spent Memorial Day weekend visiting Nik in Savannah, Georgia. We were together for almost two and a half whole days! (which, if you’re keeping track at home, is the longest we’ve been together in two months). Oh, the life of a baseball WAG. But this post isn’t to whine because isn’t that just such an unbecoming activity? It is to enlighten your mind about the scheduling conflicts every ball player and his lady must endure.

There are pretty much three options a WAG can choose at the beginning of every season. One, she can stay wherever she is, working or going to school or doing just whatever she wants to do. That is the option I chose this season. By that I mean that is the option the cruel, hard world forced me to accept because we no longer barter. It was a sad day when that system ended friends. So I have basically become an indentured servant of the man. Only time will tell how long my period of service will last.

I digress. Another alternative is adopting the home team and city as your own. You try to find a part-time job if that’s the kind of thing that tickles your fancy. Or you can do nothing, but on a minor leaguer’s (is that a word? It looks awfully strange) salary, you will most likely also be forced to –gasp!-work. So you hang out by yourself during the (sometimes nine day!) road trips and get your honey during home stands. The last and most glorious option is to make like your SO (read: significant other) and adopt the life of a traveler. He goes on the road, you go on the road. He’s playing at home, you’re staying at home. Oh that the day might come when that dream becomes a reality.

But here’s the rub to those of you who aren’t initiated in the ways of baseball waggery. During the season, no matter what you choose, your player is not your own. For all intents and purposes, (until three years ago I thought that phrase was “for all intensive purposes”—what does that even mean?) he is owned by his team. You have but little claim on his time and so you take what you can get and are satisfied or annoyed with the result depending on your general disposition and hormones and things of that nature.

For the life of a baseball player is just so much more involved than one would think. This is like a spoiler alert if you’re waiting with breathless anticipation for Nik’s day in the life of post (but, let’s be honest, by the time he writes that you will not remember this so it’s all good). Most days, Nik sleeps in until 10 or 11, wakes up and then goes to lift. He eats lunch and then has to be at the field for practice around 1. The game starts at seven. You see where I’m going with this? The game finishes at 9:30 or ten then it’s off to eat again and back to his apartment. And it starts all over again the next day. There are reprieves aka no lift days when he doesn’t have to be anywhere until just five hours before the game or, my favorite!, days when he pitches. On pitch days, he doesn’t have to be there until 2 ½ hours before the game if he’s at home and four hours if he’s away. Brilliant. So even when you’re together as much as possible, you’re still alone an awful lot. And isn’t one just the loneliest number?

Hahaha.

Happy Birthday Erin!

I know I’m late and a terrible friend but I must take this opportunity to wish a blog happy birthday to Erin Kelly Moore (a blog happy birthday is the only kind that matters really). She turned 23 on Monday. I didn’t write this on the day of her actual birth because she and I were out to sushi to celebrate and then I unsuccessfully attempted to scan a picture of us to accompany this post. What a disappointment am I to my fellow Gen-Yers? We’re supposed to be addicted to technology and I can’t even scan a picture. Pathetic.

Erin and I after birthday sushi Monday.

Anyway, the good Lord saw fit to spare our families and associates from our shenanigans for five long years but once we hit kindergarten, no one could stop us! Erin still has a report card in which our teacher wrote that “Erin and her friend Rachel are extremely loquacious.” And that’s how we knew some impressive vocabulary at age six.

This is actually my birthday...my seventh to be exact (I finally got the picture to work).

We were in all the same classes through elementary school except for fourth grade when Erin decided to abandon me for North Carolina. But that didn’t last long. The Moores wisely realized they couldn’t live without me. In middle school, we spent the hour before school eating breakfast together and watching “Saved by the Bell” or MTV videos. My, that Zack Morris was handsome!

Erin’s home became my second home in high school. I knew the passcode to get in and spent almost every weekend there. In fact, Erin’s family once left for vacation while I was still asleep. I woke up, enjoyed a delicious bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and watched TV. We went on vacation together a couple times and just generally had incredibly wild times that I will not discuss right now because I’m saving them up for a future book deal – “Moore Johnson: The outrageous adventures of a very sober girl and her very drunk friend.” That’s just a working title mind you.

Since we were five years old, Erin has always been there for me. Brightening my day with text messages that say things like “I think a lesbian colony is in order,” helping me find my pimp name, forcing me to exercise, aiding me in my obsession with “Boy Meets World.” She’s been there for the get-togethers, the hook-ups, the break-ups, the mistakes and the triumphs. She was one of my first friends to meet Nik, she was there for the proposal and she’ll be standing by my side at the wedding in October (she’s much more deserving of the maid of honor title than my deadbeat sister).

Erin, I love you! Happy birthday. I know we’ll be celebrating it together for years to come.

Erin's 21st birthday. Good times.

The Letters we Never Send

I think most people have heard or gotten the advice to write letters to people that will never be sent. It is a cathartic process for us to say what we want and need to say but can or should not. It’s usually reserved for cases that call for venting or extreme honesty. Well, today friends, I am writing one such letter. Although, I guess by putting it up on the Internet it could indeed find its way to the person it’s meant for…whoops!

I do not know this person’s name but I think a description will be sufficient for this address.

Dear Skankyface,
Thank you for shamelessly hitting on and trying to flirt with my fiancé. It validates my choice in men and let’s me know that he’s still got it! And I totally agree that he looks REALLY intimidating doing his pick-off move: ) And you know what else? Thank you for having the self-respect not to outright offer to show him your ta-tas or anything of the sort. That’s more than I can say for some other minor league groupies. Bravo to you. Also, it was super nice of you to ask specifically for him by name and wait outside for 20 minutes while he showered. You must be a really dedicated fan. And we can always use more of those!

Love,
Rachel aka the future Mrs. Nik Turley

Black Cats, Broken Mirrors and Your Fiancé

What do these all have in common one might wonder. Survey says... they are all bad luck if you happen to be Nik Turley. Despite his protestations, I am pretty well convinced that I am his bad luck charm. But let’s start at the beginning.

I have never been superstitious. In fact, when I was seven a black cat crossed my path on Halloween. I looked at it curiously and thought this could be a good omen. I mean how many black cats cross people’s paths on Halloween night?!? I considered myself lucky to be the recipient of such chance spookiness.

Fast forward 14 years and my how things have changed. Baseball players are notorious for being superstitious. Just ask Wikipedia. And it rubs off on you no matter how ridiculous it may seem. Nik is a perpetual wood knocker. As in he says something he “shouldn’t” and in order not to jinx it must frantically search for wood or an acceptable substitute to knock on. I have seen that boy knock on tables, an easel, a door, the floor and even the faux wood paneling of a car. As we dated, I learned what things I could and couldn’t talk about with regards to baseball. You have to walk a very fine line, my friend. So being exposed to all this superstition has 1.) made me think baseball players are strange and 2.) somehow made me superstitious. How does that happen?

And now I find myself in the position of believing that I am bad luck to my fiancé. Think I’m crazy? Well, let’s just look at the facts. Nik has pitched eight games. All of his games are available to listen to online. Guess who was listening to/watching his four worst games (in terms of ERA)? That’s right, yours truly. The other four games when he did his best, I was unfortunately (or actually fortunately for Nik) otherwise occupied and could not listen or else only caught the end of the action thereby allowing him to succeed.

What is a girl to do? I’m torn. He’s pitching again Friday so I have two days to think about how to proceed. Nik insisted that I’m not bad luck yet gently suggested I should just watch the computer update the stats instead of actually listening to the game. Very encouraging. Well, this has officially gotten out of hand because I was going to deliver an ultimatum to end this post but I can’t because I’m too scared it would jinx him.


This is the Angels rally monkey also known as a superstition albeit an adorable one.

Friday Night Fights

Well, it looks like the bad blood trickles all the way down from the bigs to A-level ball. This is Nik's team (Yankees affiliate) getting into a bench-clearing brawl with the Greenville Drive (Red Sox affiliate).

Now, as a person who worked with sports media, I feel there is a certain level of discretion and decorum that should govern the facts and details that are released about what goes on behind the scenes. Suffice it to say, the catcher that Nik's teammate Slade goes after in this video is a punk. Big time. In fact, Nik got in trouble the last time he pitched to the Drive for threatening to hit the kid in the head the next time he came up to bat if he kept running his mouth. I don't condone this behavior but...you tell him babe! Also, they play this team something like 15 more times this season--can't wait to see how that goes.

Pop Songs and Looking Back

This post is about Avril Lavigne. You know, tiny Canadian who used to go around splashing in mall fountains. That girl. She’s back if you haven’t heard. Back with a catchy little diddy called “What the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks?” (I’m a role model, you know. Can’t be caught swearing on the interweb). So anyway, surprising as it might be, this song has really got me thinking.

The chorus, (inspirational really) if you haven’t heard it, goes “all my life I’ve been good but now oooohhh what the he*l. all I want is to mess around”… there’s more but it’s immaterial at the moment. What praytell could this possibly make me think about you may wonder. If you don’t know Avril’s story, she recently got divorced and, to me, this song is to her ex-husband telling him what he already knows, which is that it turns out she wasn’t ready to settle down and she just needs some time to have fun and embrace youth and go buckwild and all that. Well, as a gal that’s about to get hitched, this song sort of put me into, let’s call it, feverish wondering.



Let’s be honest. Ever since Nik and I got serious and decided this relationship was going to lead to marriage, I’ve been on the train to Old Fogeytown. I thought I had come to terms with this but now as the actual arrival at the station draws ever nearer, I am a little terrified that I will become irredeemably dull. There’s a myth out there that says that as soon as you say I do or I wed or Yes Please you become an infinitely more boring person. Married people try to say this isn’t true but 1) let’s look at the facts and 2) what else would they say?

So as I listen to Avril I think, did I see and do everything I wanted? Did I spend enough time picturing my life married to someone British? These are the tough questions one has to answer as one embarks on the epic journey of married life.

I don’t want you to think that I’m having serious doubts or second thoughts, I’m not. I am looking forward to marrying Nik with all my heart, and I am more excited about it than I’ve ever been about anything. I know it will be amazing. But this questioning, this looking back and wondering, seems to be the natural product of every life-altering decision we make. And we’ll always be at least a little disappointed by what we didn’t accomplish or experience. How could we not? Life is full of so many opportunities that we have to miss some of them. And the human mind has an unlimited capacity to dwell. So I guess it’s all just a part of life. The trick is to learn to override the dwell function and let go of the missed opportunities in order to embrace the things that really matter, the chances that you do take and the opportunities you do seize—like marrying the love of your life.

Why Start this Blog?

It’s a fair question. Why does one randomly start a blog, oh, ten years after they get popular? It is not because I’m not an early adopter I’ll have you know. I humbly submit that, in fact, I belong to the early majority category. But that’s neither here nor there.

I never had a blog for the same reason I don’t have a twitter and I rarely update my facebook, I kind of feel like I don’t have anything to say. From this you may infer that something in my life has changed, and now I have loads of fun things to say. Sadly, this is not the case. What has really driven me to create this blog is (oh, I just got an idea…let’s do this in quiz form!):

A. my belief that my impending marriage will make me far more interesting, and I’m trying to plan ahead
B. boredom
C. the incessant request of my friends and family to know more about what’s going on in my life
D. my quest for internet celebrity

The correct answer is b. Boredom. You know, your calendar’s just not that full when you’re an engaged 23-year old without a fiancé who lives with your parents. Shocking, I know. But, you may begin to argue, you have a full-time job. So you’re busy at least 40 hours a week. WRONG AGAIN reader. I spend an average of one hour a day actually working at my job. That may be something I shouldn’t splash all over the internet, what with companies spying on current and prospective employees and all. But, you know, I think that maybe the daily crosswords and in-depth reading of the Washington Post already kind of give the lack of activity and abundance of free time away so no worries.

And now you know.

Welcome to the Farm

As in the farm system, as in minor league baseball. Now's a good a time as any to explain the crazy ride that is the minors. In fact, I actually googled (I'm absolutely dependent on google-admitting is the first step right?) "things that are complicated, obscure and unpredictable" to find a good metaphor. Google returned to me antidepressants and the human soul among other things. I wasn't sure that either captured the essence of what I was going for so there will be no metaphor.

It turns out that almost no one knows anything about minor league baseball. This is what you learn when you date a baseball player and explain, repeatedly, the system. So you have heard of triple A. If you're good, you may even know about double A. If you know about single A, gold star for you. And if you are, in fact, familiar with the minors in their entirety, two for you Glen Coco, you go Glen Coco (that was indeed a self-serving reference to Mean Girls).

Now onto the facts. Most major league teams have six affiliates (excluding the international leagues) which are rookie league, short season A, A, high A, double A and triple A. And then you're to "the Show" (I personally find this one of the most ridiculous nicknames for anything ever but what do I know?). Along the way, you can get cut, promoted, demoted and traded at the whim of your parent club.

Since I know the real reason you're here is because you're obsessed with Nik (who isn't?!?) I will tell you that he is currently in A, the regular kind, in Charleston, SC. So two teams behind him and three more to go before they start putting him on the cover of video games and whatnot. Three more teams before the world can see his plump rump fill out those pinstripes (too much? I'm sorry. The line between appropriate and not is so blurry sometimes).

Well, i hope that wasn't information overload. And if this has just whetted your appetite for more minor league knowledge, you can look forward to the day when I force Nik to post some sort of day in the life of. Get excited.


This is Bark (because the mascot is a dog-clever huh?). Anyway, this is the type of silliness that accompanies minor league baseball. Bark frequently stands on top of the dugout and lifts up his (her, its?) "roots" and violently shakes its exposed blue and white polka dot boxers at the opposing team. Note sure why there wasn't a picture of that available online. I will try to capture the moment next time I'm there.

So You Don't Know What a WAG is....

The term WAG originated with the British tabloids who used it as an acronym to describe the Wives And Girlfriends of English football (soccer) players during the 2006 World Cup. It has since become a generic description of the Wives And Girlfriends of any athlete. If you're absolutely wild to know more, take a look here.

So, yes, I am a self-described WAG. Also, if you read that Wikipedia page you see that the term WAG is NOT a term of endearment. Sort of the equivalent of what one might call a jersey chaser
here in the states or a "real housewife" if you're into that sort of thing.

But, you know, I'm embracing the waggery because, really, what else can a girl do?