Foul ball!

I'm not really that crazy about baseball, but I figured way back when I was young and in love, that I needed to share some of my husband's interests. I picked baseball. It was a fateful pick. In the spring and summer months, I am a baseball widow, which is much worse than being a football widow since there are so many more baseball than football games.

Marc has season tickets to his favorite team, thanks to me. I once worked with the girl who was married to the man who's head of ticket sales for the team. Long after the girl retired and became a SAHM, Marc would call the ticket office and throw her name around as he tried to improve his seats. This worked for a very long time, much longer than you might think, and I hope she never found out about it. Thanks to this shameless tactic we now have great seats. Lots of foul balls come our way, but we've never caught one, though a ball bounced off a chair once and hit my daughter in the face. She thought it was great, and came home and proudly showed me the bruise that caused her to make a visit to the stadium's medical office where she was tended to by the stadium nurse, who, in one of those "isn't this a small world," moments, turned out to be her elementary school nurse.

Next time I was in my daughter's school, the nurse suggested I might want to invest in a catcher's mask for my daughter, "just in case," she tried to catch another foul ball with her face.