i don't know why, but my competitive alter-ego (who i secretly refer to as rhonda) rears her manly head every time anything even resembling a sporting event is undertaken. before we had even left provo, i had talked so much smack that you would think i was babe ruth's long-lost love child. i clearly am not. and this became glaringly obvious when i actually stepped up to the plate.
|i wore this shirt because i like to think i'm number 1.|
when michael got into the batting cages, i saw a look come over his face that was something akin to what came over liam neeson's face every time he came across a bad guy in taken. needless to say, he kicked my smack-talking butt.
|my baseball-playing superstar husband|