I was a junior in college, calling home a few times a week to assure my mom I hadn’t been incarcerated. She used to be super excited to hear from me, but with each subsequent call, she seemed increasingly rushed, like she didn’t she didn’t have time to talk, which was impossible because I’m pretty sure she had a phone surgically affixed to the side of her head.

Finally, I called her out: “MOM! What’s the deal? You want me to call, so I call. Then you have zero time to talk?”

I could tell she put her hand over the phone to muffle her words: “Your brother’s baseball coach is here. He is soooo handsome! Giggle. Squeal.”

Barf.

“Mom, you’re a cougar. It’s gross.”
“Stephanie, he is! He has the best set of teeth I’ve ever seen!”

It would benefit you to know my mom is a dental hygienist, as well as a cougar.

Turns out this guy was a math teacher and coach, so he tutored my brother in Calculus and threw him batting practice. And the sick phone call cycle continued; I just learned not to call around dinner because The Coach was there eating/tutoring/giving my mom reason to giggle like a school girl.

A few months later, my girls and I were volunteering at a local church. Okay, that’s a lie. We were at a bar and I was feeling goooood. I literally bumped into this guy and the first thing I noticed? His teeth.

My thought process was as follows:

Mmmmm…
Look at those teeth–so white! Mom will be proud.
His skin is amazing. Olive complexion. Bet he’s Italian. Dad will be proud.
He’s wearing an Italian horn on his necklace. Definitely Italian. Our kids will be gorgeous.

You betcha.

It was The Coach. And my mom was not kidding.

We started talking. We started laughing.

His friend started interrupting.

His friend would not shut the f*ck up. The Coach walked away.

I hated the Interrupter. But he bought me another drink. So I said yes when he asked me to go to dinner with him the following weekend.

All that week, I kept thinking about The Coach. I called home when I knew he would be there because I’m subversive like that. Unfortunately, my date with the Interrupter was coming up, and despite my efforts to get out of it, the night was finally upon us. I pre-gamed with a few friends in preparation.

When I sat down across from him at dinner, I just burst out laughing. I think I told him about 423, 242 times how much he looked like his twin sister, with whom I had been friends in high school, and I also announced how weird it would be if we were to kiss because “it would be like kissing a girl.” He was visibly annoyed. Success. No second date.

Fast forward a few months and summer was in full-swing. I chose to stay at school to take classes, but I managed to get home to watch a few of my brother’s baseball games. The Coach was the summer coach. Subversive like that.

I flirted. I attended as many games as I could. I know a thing or two about the game, so I tried yelling intelligent things at opportune times:

Nice bat, 5!

Heeey! There’s a dinger! (I just liked to yell ‘dinger’)

I went out to dinner with the team and the parents after the games. I pretended to be interested in replaying the entire 9 innings, focusing on how the team could improve. I ate salads. Salads.

Screw it. It wasn’t working. The Coach didn’t even notice me! I was so upset that I complained to my dad who had been helping coach the team. He assured me, “Stephanie, when it’s baseball season, he knows nothing but baseball.”

So I devised a plan: The Coach was going to call my brother about meeting for an extra batting practice or something that no one cared about, and I was going to answer the phone. I was going to take the bull by the horns and ask this man to take me out, dammit! The whole family knew not to touch the phone when it rang–I was on this.

Unfortunately, I was also on the toilet because, in case you missed it, I’m there a lot.

RIIIING!!! I run, with pants around my ankles, to grab the phone. I return to my throne and clear my throat.

Hello?

Uh, hey. Is your brother there?

Yeah, but before I put him on, can I ask you something?

Silence. Then, Sure.

I’ve been trying, man. I’m not good at this stuff. I’ve been flirting and trying to show interest, but you’re either not understanding or you’re not interested. And that’s okay if you’re not. Just tell me because I thought we could, like, hang out?

Silence.

I prepared to jump out of the bathroom window.

Then, YES! I would like that. YES! Let me grab a pen and I’ll take your number and, YES! That’s good.

He was a little nervous and, more than likely, surprised that I was so forward.

And so it began. Our courtship, eventual engagement, marriage, two kids, two dogs, a house, and a blog. That last one is just for me.

The really weird part? The Coach, AKA: my husband, grew up 5 miles from me. We were two years apart, but attended the same high school. We were involved in the same sports, clubs, and activities. We went to the same college, both majored in education. He replaced me around my family’s dinner table while I was away at school. He befriended my parents, coached with my dad, inspired my brother in the classroom and on the field. We were always *thisclose* to one another, but never even knew it. My dad didn’t even have the option of hating The Coach when he asked for my hand in marriage. He was right under my nose the whole time, but circumstance wasn’t on our side until 2002. I had to come last; it was just meant to be.

Now I come first.

He still has great teeth, incredible skin, and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Turns out the Italian horn was a cross, and he’s Polish, but there are worse things in life.

Like baseball season.