Big Game Tonight

I couldn’t sleep last night. Haven’t slept well in a minute, to be honest.

At three in the morning, I opted to give up staring at the cracks in the ceiling to instead stare at my laptop screen and the mounds of opened and unopened white envelopes spread like dying angels’ wings across my kitchen table. I can hear my husband sleeping like a fat baby in the other room, the sounds of his snoring reverberating through the thin apartment walls. I imagine little waves in my black coffee rippling through every guttural breath that comes out of him, and I form the outline of what should have been a smirk on the corner of my lips.

For a moment, I’m jealous of him. Angry with him, even.

Things are tight right now. Real tight. Tight like I feel the leaning tower of bills on this table will one day fall and crush me to death. And every morning, he gets up. He throws on his gym shorts and coaching shirt. He throws on his whistle. He grabs his practice plans off the printer and his gym duffle. He’ll kiss me on the forehead and hum softly to himself on his way out the door. “Big game this week,” he’ll say, walking out.

They’re all big games. Big moments. All big. All important.

I always thought I was doing something nice, managing the finances, paying the bills, keeping that aspect of our lives out of his head. He was a teacher and a football coach, a successful one, at that. I had a degree in accounting and finance; I can more than handle the household bills. He doesn’t need the stress of balancing the books on his mind. Not with the big game coming this week. Today. Today, Friday. But every Friday, really.

It’s now six in the morning. He’s been up for about forty minutes now, showering, shaving. It’s game day, so no doubt he’ll be leaving for school soon. The football team meets in the cafeteria together every Friday morning to have breakfast, a local tradition.

“Good morning,” he said, full of smiles, “Big game tonight.”

I’m clearly not in the mood. I should’ve been more supportive, but my third cup of coffee still didn’t put a dent in my demeanor, “I’ve heard that before.”

He scoffs at my tone as he pours himself a half cup of coffee with the last few drops that remained in the pot. “C’mon, now,” he bemoaned, “this is a big one. Third round of the playoffs. We win tonight and we play for Lower State.”

“Great,” I double down on my smart mouth, “so we can miss another Thanksgiving for practice.”

He smiles and sips his tiny cup, “I thought you loved having the excuse to not have to go to your mother’s house for the holiday.”

I grunt and sip from my third mug of the morning. He comes to the table and gently rubs his hand over my forehead and down my messy hair, “You okay? Still not sleeping?” His tone was sweet and gentle, smelling of body soap and cologne. I nuzzle my face gently into his palm, and if he had stayed there just a moment longer, I might’ve wept. Instead, I lie.

“I’m okay. Just work stuff.”

“I thought things were good,” he massages my temple with his thumb, “Tax season isn’t for a while now, and you said you were all caught up with your client load.”

“MOSTLY caught up,” I correct him, “And I picked up a wedding photographer in Philly two days ago, so getting her books in order is gonna take some time.”

“You got this, babe,” he rubs his thumb across my cheek, “You started this company about this time last year, right? You’re doing a great job. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. So what’s got you down?”

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. It’s what’s best for him.

“Nothing,” I reach up and grab his hand in mine, “Just a lot of work and a little time, you know?”

“I know,” he says, smiling gently, “This weekend, I’ll help you any way I can.”

“No you won’t,” I smile, “ ‘cuz you’ll be prepping for the Lower State Championship game.”

“Damn right,” he beams, “That’s the spirit. You’ll be there tonight, right?”

“Front row,” I pat his back, “Red jacket. Red and black pom-poms. You’re gonna do great.”

He leans down and kisses my forehead, another ritual. He grabs his duffle bag and throws the whistle around his neck, heading to the door. “Honey,” I say, quizzically, “you forgetting something?”

He ponders the question sincerely, “Not that I know of. Am I?”

“It’s cold out there. Are you gonna grab a jacket?”

He laughs and shakes his head, “I don’t need no stinkin’ jacket.”

“No, babe, seriously, it’s supposed to be below freezing at kick-off. You need a jacket.”

“I’ve said this many times,” he smiles his big, toothy grin, “you sweat and burn in August so you can freeze and win in November. The goal is to make it to the cold weather. So I’m enjoying every second of this. Winning will keep me warm.”

“I know, I know. Well, I’ll be bundled up tonight.”

He starts heading to the door, “Well, pack some hot chocolate with those pom-poms. Tonight’s gonna be a wild ride.” He stops, comes back to the table and kisses me softly. “I love you, babe.”

“I love you, too,” and off he went.

My smile disappears the second the door closes shut, and my eyes settle again on the stacks of bills littering the table. He played football in high school, and it became his religion. He played it in college, and it ruled his life (until he met me, of course). When we left college, football was still the focal point of his life, and he’s worked so very hard with it. These last six years have been very good to him and his career. More importantly, it’s helped me in my newest venture. His steady paycheck, his teaching and his coaching and all his little side-projects, have kept us afloat this past year. I could not be more thankful to him for that.

But I repay him for this by making sure he has no clue how tight we’re tightening the belt. Gun to his head, he couldn’t tell us what we have in the bank right now. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he even knows what bank we use. I get his paycheck. I pay our bills with it. And I’m fine with that. We just work that way. I’m an accountant and a bookkeeper; isn’t it just logical that I be the one to manage our finances? And with the hundred or so kids he teaches and the hundred or so kids he coaches, and the fact that it’s dark when he goes to work and it’s dark when he gets home… he just doesn’t need our finances on his mind. Especially when it’s football season, and the tantrum he’ll throw over the weekend if he loses…

Last year, we started talking about starting our family. It was important to me that I be able to stay home with the kids when we had them; I grew up a latch-key kid, and I wanted a better life for my kids when we had them. Unfortunately, it’s hard to keep a family going with a single income, and it would be a waste of my accounting degree to stop working completely. And I wanted to be the one to be home with my kids, not him. So I left the accounting firm I joined out of college and started to work for myself.

It’s been awesome. I get up when I want. I work in my jammies. I go to the gym all the time now. And when I want a change of scenery, I’ll take my laptop to a fast food place and use their wi-fi for hours (yes, I’ve been asked to leave from a few places).

But things add up. The cost for the start-up, advertising costs. The overhead for the software. Travel and shipping expenses. I went from earning a steady paycheck to, for the first few weeks early on, sometimes no paycheck at all. Then last summer he had a big health scare; he was in the hospital for a few days. My car breaks down and we couldn’t duct tape it back together like we usually do. A year in, and business is coming in regularly, clients are calling me daily, and I run the books for three major real estate investment groups. The business side of things are catching up big-time, but I have never fully recovered from the money side of things.

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. It’s what’s best for him.

But I know. I know that one envelope is the credit card that I maxed out four months ago. Been about three months since I made a payment on that. One is the car payment that I’m about a month behind on. One is the rent, which I’m not late on, but still one more hand reaching for money. One is the internet, which ironically, I need for my work. One is a threat saying they may shut my water off at some point. And the rest are letters, requests from clients asking for this, that, and the other.

He does the dishes. He cleans the kitchen and the bathroom. The things he does for us are tangible, observable. He’s satisfied when he sweeps the house and brings home his paycheck. But me?

When I’m at my best, I still feel overwhelmed, and there’s no tangible product I can look at and say “look what I did!” and be satisfied. And I so rarely feel like I’m at my best.

I spend the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon attempting to be my best. I know that one day the paychecks will catch up with the work and I’ll be good and satisfied with all my accomplishments. But in the meantime, I can’t help but feel like I’m rolling a boulder up a hill, knowing that it’ll just fall back over the other side.

Right as evening started to approach, I feed myself for the first time that day. Shower. I start prepping myself to go to this game, put on my spirit colors, and go celebrate all the work my husband and his players have been putting in. I put on a base layer, then a t-shirt over it, then my red and black scarf, then my Warriors hoodie. Once I put my jacket on over this, no one would even think to accuse me of being unprepared for the cold. Plus, I thought I’d grab his jacket, too. I know he’s a tough guy and all, but I just know he’ll regret not bundling up. I open up the closet in the hall.

Nothing.

My jacket was still there. Even my nice church and business jacket was hanging up, pristine. But none of his were. He has a nice winter coat that gives me rugged, lumberjack vibes. Gone. His 90’s-esque windbreaker, gone. His really nice, name brand athletic jacket, nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was acting tough knowing that all his jackets were at school. Who knows? I give myself a mental note to call his bluff tonight after his epic victory.

The one good thing about marrying a football coach is that Friday nights are exciting. If you’re a winner, that is. We’ve been rolling as of late, so when I get to the game, nobody ignores me. I get high fives from students I don’t know, but they see my face in my husband’s classroom every day in the framed photos on his desk. Other coaches’ wives call my name, motion me to sit with them. It’s an awesome feeling. It’s the exact opposite when we lose a few tight ones; then you’re a pariah, exiled. But right now, in the playoffs at home, life is good.

He is not wearing his jacket and is, in fact, freezing (though he’d never admit it). He’s a big guy, former offensive lineman himself, and even his linemen refused to bow to the cold weather, no sleeves or tights, just embracing the cold. His skill players, on the other hand, have tights and sleeves and wristbands and as much drip as my husband would allow. I guess that’s just the difference between the small, fast kids and the big, tough kids. My man has always been a big, tough kid at heart.

First quarter is rough. Really well-coached opponent. We cough up the ball on a pitch on the first play from scrimmage and spot them six points. Next drive, another fumble, which leads them to their second score of the night. Very quickly, we’re down two scores by the end of the first. Second quarter goes much better as we sync into a rhythm offensively. We score twice on long passes, and they can only manage a single score, so we go into halftime down 21-14.

At halftime, I go with the defensive line coach’s wife to concessions thinking some hot cheese nachos might thaw my fingers. While standing in line, I see a young man talking with his friends. He’s a big kid, a JV football offensive lineman, and he’s flirting with a cheerleader who does not seem interested. He’s wearing a khaki-colored jacket fit for a lumberjack, which kind of clashes with the sporty aesthetic of the rest of his outfit. It looks very familiar.

“Hey. Hey kid! Big guy! You!” I pointed at him, “Where’d you get that jacket?”

He looked at me funny, as did the cheerleader he was chatting up. They both give me stank-eye and walk away briskly. I may have helped his chances, I thought.

I take my cheese nachos and hot chocolate back to the stands and settle down for the second half. I can only imagine what my husband’s blood pressure is, as whatever halftime speech he gave really got them going. We pound the football, very physical, controlling the clock after halftime. The defense is still kind of asleep, but by the end of the third, we’re up 28-27 rolling into the fourth. My husband’s secret shame was that he hated these types of situations; other coaches loved tight, tense battles in the fourth quarter. He would much rather be up 25 and putting his third string in for garbage time. This one, however, is tight. They score, we score. They score, go for two and get it. We march down the field and tie it up. It’s 42-42 late in the fourth when we get the ball back on an interception. I know my man was hating having to rely on the defense to make the stop, but they come through this time. We drive the field, one hand-off after the next, and eventually our giant running back trucks two linebackers and brakes free into the endzone (the safety had a shot at him, but he politely declined, pretending to “whiff” the tackle). The bad guys get the ball, but with so little time and the momentum on our side, they turn it over on downs very quickly. The good guys take a knee, and we secure our trip to the Lower State Championship.

Elated, my husband does his best running back impression, dodging and weaving two kids trying to dump the cooler over his head (they get the principal instead, and he is none too happy). I walk over to the fence opening where all the parents and players wait for the coaches to finish the post-game speeches. Standing there is a mom (the mom of the running back who scored the winning touchdown, in fact) and her three other kids. One such kid is another JV football player, gleefully cheering his big brother as he’s being interviewed by the local news station. His jacket, a really nice looking athletic jacket sporting the Warriors’ red and black, looks strikingly familiar to me. The mom sees me staring.

“Are you Coach Buffkin’s wife?” she asks, gently.

I smile wide. This happens a lot, “Yes ma’am. Go Warriors!”

She smiles gently and coos a soft hum of gratitude, “Yes ma’am, they were wonderful tonight! Listen, baby,” she grabs both my arms sternly with both her gloved hands, “God bless that husband of yours.”

“Thank you, ma’am, we appreciate that. I’m a fan of him, I know that.” The lady seems very sincere, so this is where I play the part of doting wife.

“We are too,” she releases me and points back to her son, “I know you recognize this jacket.”

“Yeah, I thought that looked familiar.”

“Yes ma’am. Devon grew out of his coat last winter, and we couldn’t afford to get him one until I get paid next month. So when he went to your husband’s class freezing this week, your man just up and took his jacket off and gave it to Devon. Didn’t think nothing of it. Now what kind of man would do that for a kid that wasn’t his?”

I smile softly at her and Devon, nodding my head, “My kind of man.”

“Well I doubt I’ll get a chance to see him, but when he gets a second, please tell him ‘thank you’ for us. I get paid middle of next week, and I’ll make sure his jacket gets cleaned and returned as soon as we get Devon a new one.” She hugs me, tight, and she makes that cooing noise again. And I can’t help but tear up a little.

I turn and walk out onto the field. He’s in the middle of his interview with the newspaper, and when he sees me, he smiles. He waves me over and hugs me, his arms frozen, while he finishes his last thoughts into the reporter’s tape recorder. He then smiles, pulling me in for a hug and a kiss. He spins me once, excitedly, and places me gently back to the turf. “Whudja think?” his body screams sheer joy.

“You must be freezing. Where’s your jacket?” I yell, fighting back the smile I’m feeling.

“Winning keeps me warm. I told you that this morning!”

“Seriously, babe, where’s your jacket?” I asked. He looks at me; he’s smart enough to know when I insist that he answers a question, I already probably know the answer. He chooses to say nothing that would incriminate himself. “Okay, better question,” I continue, “why do I see a bunch of JV football players walking around here wearing jackets that I KNOW I bought for you myself?”

Again, he says nothing. Smart man. I just hug him tight, and he’s noticeably confused. “Did you seriously just give your jackets away?”

“I had a few kids that needed coats.”

“And you gave them yours?”

A long pause, “They needed them more than I did.”

I hug him again, tighter. “You’re a good coach, Coach Buffkin. But you’re a better man.” I can feel him soften, release the tension. I can feel him hug me back.

“Why didn’t you say something about it?” I ask, still in his arms. He pulls back, away from me, and looks into my eyes, sincerely.

“Those kids needed jackets. They were cold, and they couldn’t do anything about it. And it isn’t their fault that they’re cold. Sometimes things get tight. So I have a jacket that I can live without. So it’s their jacket now. I didn’t say anything because I know things are tight for us now. You’ve got your business costs, we’re trying to save up to start a family, we’ve been living off a teacher’s salary for a good little minute now. And do you not think I can’t see the mountain of bills you got on the kitchen table?”

I smile coyly. He continues, “You’ve got enough on your plate. I didn’t want to bother you with something silly like me needing a jacket.”

“We can get you a jacket, babe.”

“I know, but that’s one more thing we have to buy, and that’s stress on your shoulders you don’t need. I know what you do for me. For us. I can’t do this, all of this, without you. I don’t want to add anything more to your shoulders. You do more than enough.”

There, on the empty field, with only a few remaining flood lights on and in the red streaming light of the victorious scoreboard, we held each other. Held each other up. Because I know what he does for me, and I see what he does for others.

And, finally, I feel seen, too.