The Jersey

Every girl secretly longed to be them. Sitting there with your $15 half-price college bookstore shirt, you would see them carefully adjusting their boyfriend’s oversized football jersey. In the event that it was dirty, they would replace it with a handmade T-shirt, bedazzled to death with their significant other’s name and number. The football girls had it all. They would flood the field after the game for a picture extravaganza. Their petite bodies were dwarfed in the presence of their personal Jolly Green Giants. At the photographer’s count of 1-2-3 they simultaneously turned to the side, propped out their right leg and placed their right hand on their hip. That pose never had quite the same effect on me. See picture below as reference.



I write this to set the stage for last night: Justin’s church league softball game. As I walked up, they threw a jersey to me. I flipped it over and it said, “Ray #25” on the back. I stared at it for a moment.

“Aren’t you going to put it on?” he asked.

I slipped it on and donned my new persona as a sports figure’s wife. Ok, so it’s church softball. But I got a jersey. And I get to cheer on someone who is with me. It didn’t really match the pants I was wearing all too well, but it was still kind of exciting to finally fulfill this dream. My leg began to mysteriously make its way out from my body and my hips began to turn to the side. That was just made up for comedic effect. My apologies.

But I began to wonder: What do I do from here?

Do I create a nickname and scream at him when he is up to bat?

Do I confront the umpire and do the head, point-a-finger thing when he makes a call against my man?

Do I bring the team Gatorade and hand-woven sweat towels?

That’s the thing that’s great about being a wife. You get to be whatever kind of wife you want to be. I am a silent supporter. I show up, I clap, I cheer in my normal voice, I enter a full embrace when he’s soaked in sweat and dirt. I listen to why they lost, I rejoice when they win. And it works.

Other men light up when their wives shriek, “That’s my baby! Go Pookie!” That’s their style. Go with it.

Some wives juggle rambunctious children and miss the whole thing. But their presence means the world.

So in the end it doesn’t matter if you are blinged out in team gear, hollering nicknames, making monogrammed team bags, or sitting silently. Your love, your support and your being there makes you a #1 fan. And that’s something worth cheering about.

Any fool can have a trophy wife.
It takes a real man to have a trophy marriage.

Diane Sollee