I was just a girl, standing in a bar, hoping a guy would buy me a drink...

I got my wish.

Kind of. I got a drink... spilled on me... by a guy.
No, not just any guy. A man. A hot man. America's hottest baseball coach, apparently.

And he didn't even apologize.

That was the first time we met.
Or what I like to call strike one.

The second time we met? He was late to a parent teacher conference.
The one where I realized I was his daughter's new teacher, and where he told me I should quit my job.

Strike two.

You know what they say in baseball?

Third strike.

You're out.