March Madness

I never played sports growing up. I surfed and played beach volleyball, but just for fun.   I now live in a household filled with athletes.  Very, very competitve, driven, focused people.  Did I mention competitive?

Martha played basketball in High School. When I met her she coached a girls’ High School varsity team. She still coaches a 5th grade travel team, is the director of a travel club, and is on the board of directors for an AAU travel club. She loves basketball. That is actually too small a word. She lives basketball.

When our girls were born, she filled the house with Fisher Price hoops and balls of all sorts. Our girls started playing competitively in third grade and played right through to the varsity level. They were both three sport athletes, but basketball was their main sport, played year round.

Beanie was recruited to play at the college level but opted out and went for a better education at a Division I school (much to Martha’s consternation). She plays club ball there and has a job as a basketball referee. Her school’s womens’ team is nationally ranked in the top 25. Beanie never misses a game.

Peachie, who unfortunately stopped growing at about 5' 4", realized her basketball days were over but will be playing field hockey in college.

We have two outdoor basketball courts, one in the driveway one in the backyard. There is an additional hoop next to the pool. I don’t think there is a room in our house that doesn’t have a basketball, trophy, or some other bball related item.

Seriously. This is the rubber duck in our bathroom.

This week started March Madness. Two weeks of non-stop college basketball.  Men and women.

I came home yesterday afternoon to find every television tuned in to a game, and Martha, Beanie and Peachie sitting with three laptops open on the coffee table.

“Really?” I said when I saw it.

“What?” Martha said.. “You can watch games on-line that aren't being televised.”

So, for the next couple of weeks I will be a basketball widow. And I’m okay with that. After spending thousands of hours watching my own daughters play, I am just very grateful to be planting my butt in a recliner in my home and not on some hard bleachers in a smelly gym.

And as long as Martha is yelling at the refs, she is not nagging at me.