Yellow carded in my own kitchen

I perused the bottles in the liquor cabinet looking for a familiar brand but couldn’t find it. Finally, I hollered to my lovely wife, Grace. “Honey, do you know where the Makers is at?” 

Grace, stirring a pot on the stove, replied, “First, I’m in the next room, so you don’t need to holler. Second, don’t end a sentence with a preposition. And third, I moved the bourbon bottle out of play for the rest of today. Remember?” 

Then I did recall why my favorite cocktail friend was missing. I paused and mused about when and how things began to go wrong. 

In early June, the FIFA World Cup tournament kicked off. Not being a die-hard futbol fan myself, I figured Grace would prefer the Hallmark channel over soccer. Boy, was I mistaken. 

Grace was all in from the start of the Group Stage. She watched all of the U.S. matches against Paraguay, Australia, and Turkey. Cape Verde captivated her attention. We had to move meal times to accommodate viewing contests in the rounds of 32 and 16. 

Over dinner, Grace would regale me with the performances of Haaland, Mbappe, Bellingham, and Messi. She loved the Norwegian fans rowing and was thrilled by the Argentine comebacks against Egypt and England. 

During one of the early matches, the game stopped and the announcer reported a player had received a yellow card. Grace asked what that was. Not wanting to bore Grace with the rules like unsporting behavior or intentionally slowing the game, I just replied they received a penalty for doing something wrong. 

“Really?” Grace asked. “Did they know it was wrong when they did it?” 

“Oh, yeah,” I answered. “Some of them do it over and over.” 

“Really?” Grace replied again, nodding her head and looking deep in thought.  

After a long pause, she asked, “Is the yellow to remind them to stop doing it?” 

“Yep, you could put it that way,” I said. 

And put it that way, she did. 

The next morning, I poured a glass of orange juice and headed toward the kitchen counter where Grace was seated sipping a cup of coffee. She reached into the pocket of her robe, pulled out a slip of paper, and announced, “Yellow card!” 

“What?” I muttered, trying to figure out what just happened. 

Grace was prepared. In her hand was a nicely cut piece of yellow construction paper. She held it aloft and pointed toward the refrigerator.  

“Yellow card for leaving the fridge door open,” she explained. 

“I… I was going to close the door,” I mumbled. 

“Actually,” Grace shot back, “you walked away from the fridge after you poured your juice. It’s both an intentional delay in closing as well as a failure to close. Definitely a yellow card.” 

Her command of the moment was evident, although I did catch a glimpse of a sly smile. 

That was just the first yellow card. Ensuing days resulted in a collection of more cards. She had a healthy supply of yellow construction paper cards. Leaving the cabinet door open. Failure to water plants on the front porch. Leaving coupons in the car at CVS. I’d plead for distractions and mitigating circumstances. The penalties stood. I asked for replays. None were granted. Yellow card for failure to disengage my turn signal after changing lanes. Yellow card for putting the mayonnaise lid sloppy-side down on the counter. Yellow card for the TV remote that “wandered off” by itself. And don’t get me started on yellow cards in the bathroom.  

Similar to FIFA rules, two yellow cards on the same day resulted in a red card – a suspension from play. In my case, I was not sent packing, but an activity or thing I liked was declared “out of play” by Grace. No trip today to the halfway house for a soft serve. No bluegrass music until tomorrow. And my bottle of bourbon MIA for a day. 

As the world knows, Spain won the 2026 World Cup, in what may have been Lionel Messi’s swan song in this international event. Grace watched and enjoyed the whole game. After it ended, I inquired, gently, if the yellow and red cards would continue here at home. Grace chuckled and cooed, “That was just a little whimsy on my part, dear. We can stop now.” 

I smiled back as Grace gave me a hug, adding, “But I do hope it added a little more precision to your game around here.” 

That made me feel as if I had won the World Cup. Great marriages deserve referees who know the difference between a foul worth laughing about and a heart worth keeping forever.