The View from the Cheap Seats
I’ve been a coach’s wife for over 20 years. On the day I got married, my aunt, who was a veteran coach's wife gave me some advice that I have never forgotten. Advice that I do my best to pass on to new coach's wives whom I might come into contact with. Advice so invaluable that, when I have followed it, the Friday Night Lights have been all they are meant to be. But, on the rare - and I mean VERY rare - occasion that I have chosen to rebel against this sage advice from a woman who knew all to well of what she was speaking - I have found myself traveling down a wormhole from which it is impossible to return. What is the coveted and oh so esteemed advice, you may ask?
NEVER SIT WITH YOUR OWN FANS.
I will take a minute to pause here, so that the diehard-take-no-prisoners home team fans can finish gasping and close their mouths, and the collective "Preach" from the coaches' wives can simmer down a bit.
Ok. For those of you still reading, let me explain. Being the young, all in, coach's wife that I was in the fall of 1999, I found it hard to believe what my aunt was saying. After all, as a coach's girlfriend, I had had no problem sitting with the fans and cheering on my love. What could be so different? Well... my friends...I will tell you.
He put a ring on it.
That's right. I don't know when. I don't know how. But somewhere between football season 1998 and football season 1999... I became not just a girlfriend, but a wife, someone's pledged partner for life. Good or bad, win or lose, I was now the wingman; I had his back; I was the one keeping an eye on his blind side. As I sat in the stands for my first official home game as a real "Coach's Wife", I heard things that my "girlfriend" ears never heard. I was shocked! Were they really talking about our team our coaches... MY coach? That's right... they were talking about MY coach.
True confession time. I have a hard time controlling my temper. Like a really hard time. Like try not to let ice cream melt in August in Texas hard time. Ok. I can't. I can't control my temper. Not at all. Couldn't then, can't now, probably won't ever.
When someone is talking about someone I love... I can't be quiet. So, on that sultry August evening in 1999 in Ft. Worth, Texas, 25 year old me did something that 45 year old me still struggles not to do. I responded to all of the stadium quarterbacks and self appointed athletic directors. And did I ever respond! I won't get into all of the ugly, embarrassing details, but let's suffice it to say that I put my English degree to good use that night!
I let them have it... and I stormed out. And then I sat in my car for the entire rest of the game and cried. I cried because those people in the stands who were supposed to be supporting my husband and the boys he was there to coach had been anything but supportive. I cried because I knew how hard the coaches and the players had worked to get themselves out on that field. The sacrifices they all - young and old - had made to show up and give their fans a game to watch. But most of all, I cried because I did NOT like the person I had just turned into. I was no better than they were. I had let words come out of my mouth that were hurtful and demeaning and shameful.
I realized then, in my first ever game as a coach's wife, what my aunt had meant. It wasn't because of the fans that I shouldn't sit on that side of the field... it was because of me. I wasn't able to handle what they were saying. And... as the wife of one of the coaches, I was an extension of him - like it or not. My actions were seen as his actions.
There have been times since that game that I have tested this theory again, but not often, and never does it end well - not as badly as the first game, but I always find myself getting up and moving. I've found now, that after 20 years, I can't even sit on the visitor side, because, you see, I don't just see myself as needing to look out for my coach, but for all of the coaches - on both sides of the fields. I know just how hard they all work. I know just how many nights their children go to sleep without a goodnight kiss from daddy. I know just how many cold suppers are reheated way after the kitchen has been "closed" for the night. I know how many sleepless nights worried about long bus rides those wives on the other side have had. I know just how many stomped feet, slammed doors, tears cried and I'm sorrys have been said because of yet another meeting, another late dinner, another broken date... and because I know... they are in a way my sisters.
And so, now, 20 years in... if you are looking for me at the next football game. You can probably find me - sitting somewhere alone as close to the endzone as possible, proudly cheering for my man, and his team. Enjoying every minute of my view from the cheap seats.
