The Gloss Magazine

When the Boys Are Away: The Secret Life of a Sports Widow

By Sarah Webb

 

Last October my partner, Ben, announced he’d be asked to do an Olympic campaign. Ben, who’s tall, built like a brick and English, has been in Ireland for seven years now, six of them living with me. Before relocating to Dublin he was a professional sailor, working on a succession of rather glam race yachts. It was quite something for him to take on a slightly batty Irish writer and her six year old son, and I’ve always felt I owed him. But not that much!

‘Oh really?’ I murmured, distracted by our three year old, Amy, who was trying to feed popcorn into the mouth of the video recorder. ‘It’s always nice to be asked, isn’t it?’ He was hopping from one foot to another, like a child who needs the loo. It was only then I noticed his open, hopeful face. He looked at me, sea longing in his eyes.

‘It’ll only be for eighteen months,’ he said. ‘And there wouldn’t be all that much travel; not really.’

My God, was he seriously considering it? Ben had been asked to do an Olympic campaign previously, and we’d both decided it would be impossible, what with the two children, the mortgage, and his job as IT director in an electronic trading house. Now we had three children, and an even bigger mortgage thanks to the interest rate increases; so what had changed?

‘I know, I know, it’s probably not practical,’ he said after a moment. ‘But as you say, nice to be asked.’ His face dropped. I took a deep breath. ‘Let’s talk about it.’ And so it began.

In a rather ironic life-imitating-art twist, I’d just completed a novel, ‘When the Boys are Away’, about a full time sports widow, Meg Miller whose partner, Simon is a professional sailor. It’s based somewhat on my experiences trailing Ben around the globe to all the big regattas: Race Week in Antigua, The America’s Cup in Auckland, Cowes Week. In the book Meg is questioning her mostly long distance relationship with its inherent difficulties, while trying to deal with her increasingly sullen teenager, Dan, fending off her ex, and dealing with eccentric Polish builders. Little did I know that in time I’d be in the same boat, minus the ex and the builders. Well, to be accurate, Ben’s in the boat, I’m stuck with the usual household mayhem.

Because three months on, Ben is in Miami for two weeks, sailing his Star boat in a pre Olympic regatta with his team mate, Prof O’Connell, and I’m at home, muddling through with a tetchy toddler, a moody pre-teen, and a baby with chicken pox in every nasty place you can think of. Dragging out the bins, rebooting the computer in an effort to fix it, breaking the wheels off the dishwasher . . . you get the picture.

But it’s not as if I’m the only one who’s been abandoned by her man. Recently I’ve met more and more women who are holding the fort alone while their husbands work or play abroad. One of my neighbours is a work widow, her husband’s job is London based and he commutes every week, driving to the airport in the small hours of every Tuesday morning and flying home every Thursday night. She’s pretty blasé about the whole arrangement, recognising that it enables her to take a career break while her baby and toddler are still little. Plus, she points out, she can slob around in a tracksuit and eat fish fingers for dinner if she feels like it, and the house only gets properly tidied on a Thursday, in time for daddy’s return.

But other women get tetchy and disheartened. I spent three weeks living with the British America’s Cup wives in a four star hotel in Auckland and it was a real opener. Many had put their own lives on hold to be there, supporting their men, only to be largely ignored. Their husbands and boyfriends left at dawn and were rarely home until nightfall. When they did get back, exhausted after a full day on the water or in the boat yard, all they wanted to do was eat and flop in front of the terrible Kiwi television before falling into bed. When I arrived many of the women had already returned home to friends, family and a more normal routine. The ones that did stick it out were trying to make the most of the swimming pool, the maid service, and the incredible landscape. They organised trips to the beach, mums and tots mornings, and shopping trips. But it wasn’t easy. It’s amazing how feeling second best to either work or sport can undermine a woman’s confidence.

It’s even harder for sports widows because for our men it’s not about work, it’s about having fun, usually with other men. They’ve chosen to be away from us and their children. And that’s what makes it difficult. Knowing we’re second best to a golf course, a rugby pitch, the ocean. I mean really, how can I compete with the ocean?

So when Ben first mentioned the Olympic campaign, why didn’t I just say no? Well, the way I see it, life’s short. Ben’s thirty four and his competitive sailing years are ticking away. For sailors there are two holy grails – The America’s Cup and the Olympics. He’s already been involved in an America’s Cup campaign, if only for a brief spell, but it was enough to satisfy that craving.

Who am I to tread on his dreams? He’s a good man, devoted to the kids, patient and understand of all my, ahem, artistic tendencies. Oh and the fact that I like my way all of the time. As a full time writer I’m already living my own dream. Ben drives me all around the country to readers’ events and bookshop signings, and puts up with my late night scribbling in bed, my long phone calls to fellow writers, my moaning about covers and deadlines. So for the next eighteen months I’m supporting him for a change.

There are some benefits to my current life style of course. I often have my sisters, Kate and Emma, and my two best friends around for Sunday lunch and we eat, chat and laugh while our various children clink heads on the trampoline, watch Grease (strangely popular with both toddlers and pre-teens), and crawl on the floor at our feet. Lunch stretches on and often ends in a joint kids’ tea in the early evening. It’s all very laid back and easy, and the day flows along with no real plan. And it just wouldn’t happen if there were men on the scene.

And there’s the Friday nights curled up on the sofa, eating Twirls and Taytos and not worrying about cheese and onion breath. And having complete control of the remote, never to be underestimated. Weekend mornings spent watching American Idol instead of gardening or traipsing around Woodies. (And have I mentioned the fact that he now looks rather tanned and buffed?)

Would I have my old life back with Ben by my side every night? In a heartbeat. But if it means a man who is always wondering what if? Then no. Certainly not. Because being with someone means letting them fly. Or in my case, sail.

This article first appeared in The Gloss Magazine, 2007