Let’s start with an uncomfortable truth: lacrosse is a selfish game. At least, the way we love it. It doesn’t just demand our attention—it consumes it, chews it up, and spits out the scraps. We fall into it headfirst, willingly, obsessively. And if we’re being honest, we often drag the people we love along for the ride.
So to the spouses of lacrosse coaches—the patient ones, the understanding ones, the ones who endure our thousand-yard stares into the existential abyss of whether we should run a 3-3 or a 1-4-1 on extra man—I raise a glass to you.
Because when the season begins, we’re gone.
Not physically, not entirely. Our bodies may still sit across the dinner table, but our minds? They’re somewhere else. Locked in a film session, rewinding and replaying a botched fast break that no one else but us will remember. Calculating how to stretch our budget just enough to buy new uniforms without sacrificing balls, cones, or the half-decent backup goalie who still doesn’t know how to track a shot.