The wife's tale

‘What are you doing there?’ asks wife as she finds me sitting at her home office desk, furiously writing.

‘Just making a list of the players I’m keeping and those I’m cutting.’

‘But I thought your try-outs were this week?’ she asks, weirdly sounding like she cares.

‘They are but I already know the boys I’m going to cut. And I know the ones I’ve recruited from other teams.’

‘That’s hardly fair!’ Suddenly she’s turning into the conscience of the game.

‘Honey, it’s not fair. It’s travel team.’ Make mental note to turn this into bumper sticker.

‘But what if some kid blows you away at the try-out? What then?'

‘Then, I factor in whether his parents will annoy me or are likely to buy me gifts, whether the kid himself will obey my every instruction on and off the field, and I make my decision based on that.’

She’s standing over my shoulder now, bizarrely interested, running her finger along the lists of names.

‘Eh, why do you care?’

‘No particular reason,’ she says, very obviously lying.

‘No reason? Funny then that somebody who has never cared about my team is suddenly questioning the way I select my players.’

She starts to walk away, then turns, looking rather sheepish.

‘Uh, uh, the son of one of my bosses is trying out for your team. I didn’t want to say anything but obviously, it could really help me at work if, you know, he made the squad.’

‘Ah-ha,’ I say, sounding at once both triumphant and superior. I even swivel around in her office chair with delight. ‘How the worm has turned.’

‘I’m not asking you to select him over better kids but he’s apparently very good and if he did end up on your team, well, his mom will be evaluating me for promotion later this year.’

I pause, allowing her to wallow in her own discomfort. It’s obvious from her face how she really didn’t want to mention this. Obvious from my face too how much I’m loving it. Somehow stifling the urge to laugh, I deliver my best faked sincere outrage.

‘Honey, I don’t know what I’m more insulted by. Your criticism of how I select my players or your very obvious attempt to corrupt the try-out process. I’m hurt that you would think I’d select a player for political reasons like this. As if I’d ever do anything to impugn the integrity of travel team soccer. How dare you ask me to pick a kid just because you know his mom? As if. Now, please leave this room while I come to terms with what you’ve just done. I don’t even know who you are anymore.’

I’m so thrilled with the last line (borrowed from some rom-com she made me watch last week) that I punch the desk for emphasis. A bravura performance.