Dear 1950s Wife:
Not having kids, I always thought those stories of overbearing parents berating coaches at little kids' sports competitions were exaggerations. Boy oh boy, how wrong I was!
My husband's colleague at work coaches a baseball team for eight-year-old boys. He was sick Saturday, so he asked my husband to fill in. Being a community-minded person, my husband agreed.
Sadly, the adage "no good deed goes unpunished" turns out to be true.
Because eight-year-olds have a hard time throwing strikes, the rules require the coach to pitch when his team is up at bat. The opposing team's coach lobbed the ball over the plate resulting in several hits and runs when that team batted.
But when my husband's team hit, the competitive instincts of a former high school star pitcher naturally took hold. He baffled batters with fork balls, screw balls and "slurves," with the occasional inside high heater thrown in to "buzz the tower" of batters leaning too far over the plate.
My husband racked up "K" after "K." I would have thought parents of kids on his team would appreciate the chance to watch a top-flight pitcher at work. Or, at the least, realize he gave the little boys an opportunity to display good sportsmanship by walking gracefully back to the dugout after they struck out.
But no! Such hoots and hollers and rude names they shouted at my husband including "Bully," "Clown" and "Bull Durham-wannabe."
Being a feisty fellow, my husband screamed back at the parents throughout the game. And, as he got closer and closer to a magical "perfect game," he couldn't help but celebrate each strikeout with shouts of "whiff," "see ya" and "grab some bench, jack ass!"
The good news is that my husband threw a perfect game, striking out each eight-year-old every time they came to bat.
The bad news is that, not having pitched competitively in 20 years, his arm wasn't properly prepared and he severely damaged his shoulder and elbow. Not only will he never be able to throw a decent forkball again, the doctor says, but his "spanking arm" will be out of commission for several months.
Moreover, my husband's throat got so hoarse from screaming back at the parents and celebrating the strikeouts he pitched that he can barely speak above a whisper. So not only can't he spank me, he can't even properly scold me for the things I do wrong such as failing to properly polish the dozens of trophies from his childhood athletic heroics on prominent display in his "man cave."
Whatever am I to do?
With your husband unable to spank or scold, you certainly need a stiff dose of medicine to keep you properly submissive. The good news is that I have the perfect prescription: "Cara Bristol: Erotic Stories to Light Your Fire."
Reading these well-told tales of dominant men determined to spank and submissive ladies learning to obey will certainly reinforce your wifely wish to stay subserviant to your spouse.
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The bad news is that your husband didn't pitch a "perfect game."
Being a girly-girl, I of course know absolutely nothing about baseball. But I checked with my husband and he assures me that such an accomplishment requires a pitcher retiring all the batters for the opposing team, not his own.
While I understand your zeal to cheer your husband in his sporting pursuits, perhaps a better venue may be found to show off his talents than a baseball game played by eight-year-olds. Hopefully his arm will heal to at least allow him to participate in slow-pitch softball at his company's annual picnic next spring.