For the Love of the (Marriage) Game

by Rachel Nevergall

I walked into the bathroom—dripping with sweat from my morning run, desperate for a quick shower before tapping into parenting duty—when I froze. Smack in the middle of the mirror was a hot pink post-it note marked with my husband Mike’s scratchy handwriting.

You’re beautiful in the morning.

Insert dramatic eye roll.

I ripped the note off the mirror, stopping just short of crumpling it in my palm, and chose instead to add it to the pile accumulating on my desk. It was the fourth one I’d found that week. Mike had been leaving these notes all over the house–on my computer, on my pillow, on the steering wheel–and each one dripped with saccharin words like I love your smile and You are a great mom. Our ninth anniversary was at the end of the week, so I guessed I could expect five more by the end of the week. How sweet. How thoughtful. How...boring.

On the other side of the bedroom door I could hear Mike leading the morning routine with the kids—filling cereal bowls, pouring milk, listening to detailed explanations of last night's dreams. While I had been on my run, he had taken the morning shift. Soon he would head off to work, and I would step up to the plate. Tag you’re it.

As if on cue, Mike popped his head into the bedroom. “Hey, kids are settled. I’m taking off.”

Old Spice Body Wash wafted in after him, and I noticed he was wearing a suit and tie.

“What are you all dressed up for?” My words came out more accusatory than I meant. That smell, that look—I once melted at his pre-work swagger. Today I hardened with resentment that the look wasn’t meant for me.

“Just a work thing. But I promise I’ll be home in time for you to get to your meeting.” 

I appreciated his thoughtfulness but forgot to hide my sigh. It’s another night of tagging in and out.

On paper, you might say we were winning at marriage. Our communication strategy was strong, having worked through the early year kinks of misunderstandings and unspoken needs. Even parenting was in a comfortable rhythm after four years at the gig. We knew our positions on the field, and we covered them well. This was the goal, right? You practice hard, you win.

Except marriage didn’t feel like winning these days. It just felt like we were throwing the ball back and forth, high-fiving our way on and off the field but never really playing together. Even the love notes felt like slow pitches—predictable and mechanical.

I knew this was how the marriage game was played. It just seemed like we didn’t have anything to cheer for anymore.

***

In 2005, I learned the entire roster for the Chicago Cubs. I could tell you Carlos Zambrano was one of the greatest hitting pitchers of all time and that Greg Maddox had more than 300 career wins. I knew the “Go Cubs Go” victory song like a familiar hymn.

But unlike most baseball fans, it wasn’t for the love of the Cubs or the players or even the sport at all. It was for the love of a boy.

This was the first summer my then boyfriend Mike and I were both living in Chicago and he had decided to become a Cubs fan. I didn’t care a thing about baseball, but I knew I was a fan of Mike. So I would become a Cubs fan, too.

The next decade in Chicago brought many milestones—dating, marriage, first home, new baby—and as our love story grew, so did our love of the Cubs. Every April we played hooky from work to catch that first opener game. On warm summer evenings, we would bike to Wrigleyville for cheap standing room only tickets. In between work appointments, I would listen to Pat Hughes and Ron Santo on WGN radio broadcast the game, so we could talk about the play-by-play over dinner.

There were plenty of disappointments as a Cubs fan, what with that 100-year curse keeping us from a World Series trophy. But there were also plenty of wins, too—ones you never forgot. 

We still talk about the 2008 game against the Phillies. The Cubs were down 4-1 in the bottom of the eighth when Mike Fontenot hit a homerun, adding the first energy to the game in many innings. I threw my arms in the air to cheer and knocked Mike’s beer out of his hands, when it magically landed upright in the cup holder, unharmed. We looked at each other and simultaneously shouted, “It’s a sign!” A few hits later with bases loaded, Aramis Ramirez hit a grandslam. We danced and screamed and hugged and I probably cried. We hadn’t been that excited since our wedding.

This is how it went as a Cubs fan. Win or lose you stayed the course. Every year we went into the season with hope, and every year we would close with the same refrain: “There’s always next year.”

Because for Mike and I, there always was another year. It was never about a winning team as much as it was about celebrating all of it—the highs and the lows, together.

***

We stood side-by-side in the bathroom brushing our teeth. It had been a month since I ripped that post-it note off the mirror and still, it haunted me. I should have said something, tried to figure out what was off. But I was at a loss for words. We were fine. It was just a slow time for us.

There’s always next year.

“Did you see the Cubs made it into the playoffs?” Mike asked me through toothpaste foam.

Did I see? Of course not. What did he think I did, watch SportsCenter all day? Honestly, I hadn’t seen a Cubs game in years. It was 2016 and since moving away from Chicago three years prior, the Cubs had fallen off my radar. Kids, work, etc, it just wasn’t a part of our life anymore.

“We should watch the game tomorrow night. They say there’s a chance. This could be the year.”

This could be the year.

The next night we put the kids to bed and sat down on the couch with beers and frozen pizza. We were a thousand miles away in Austin, Texas, but as soon as the camera panned that familiar ivy wall, I felt like I could open up our window and hear the crowds cheering. Once again, an eighth inning win sent us dancing and cheering with the Cubs 1-0 win over the Giants. We went to bed whispering shared hope. Could this really be the year?

It went on like this for weeks. Game after game, we rode that October high. Each night, instead of tagging each other in or out, we watched the game together, staying up way too late and perfecting our hushed squeals. I got to know the players again—Zobrist and Rizzo became names we talked about over dinner. Our Cubs hats and shirts were kept in a constant rotation. Even the losses were bearable with someone to share the pain and help keep the hope alive.

“You’re going to be GONE?!” It was the morning of game seven of the World Series—the day every Cubs fan had anticipated for the last 108 years—and Mike had the audacity to be traveling for work. “I have to go to Houston for that meeting. I’ll watch it in the hotel room.”

I pouted all morning. I was so incredulous. How could he leave me like this?

That’s when I knew—this wasn’t about the Cubs for me anymore. It was about us.

For the past month we had endured every single win and loss together. We cheered and we consoled and then we cheered again. For the first time in months, there was a shared joy in our marriage again. I didn’t want to wait until next year. They said there was a chance, and I saw now they were right. This couldn’t be how it ends—me watching on the couch by myself, he in a hotel room three hours away.

Three hours away.

Without giving it another thought, I packed the kids in the car and drove south. Mike met me in the hotel lobby wearing his Cubs jersey and a huge grin. I melted at the sight of him. After tucking the kids into bed, we pulled up the game on our laptop, and popped in the headphones. With an ear bud in each ear, we sat side-by-side on the bed cheering through every agonizing inning, together.

Later that night, the Cubs would clinch the final win to become World Series champs. But even before the first pitch, as Mike and I whisper shouted the “Go Cubs Go” victory chant in a darkened hotel room, I saw the boy who taught me that song all those years ago. And I knew. We had already won.

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This essay won first place in our annual Love After Babies writing contest—exclusively open to Exhale members. Learn more here.

Written by Rachel Nevergall. Rachel shares her home in Minnesota with her husband and three children. Her writing can be found at various publications, as well as her monthly Raise & Shine Letter, on her blog, and Instagram.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.