Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Women's ball makes me feel uncomfortable
Written April 5, 2008
I like to think of myself as more respectful of women than the likes of Keith Hernandez. That dyed-mustache wearing jackass once saw a female trainer tending to a mildly injured ballplayer in the New York Mets’ dugout and declared that women shouldn’t be allowed in Major League Baseball dugouts. He later sort of apologized: “I’m just kidding — you know I love you gals.”
But the pain I feel while watching women’s college basketball is making me feel like a real misogynist. I’m watching a Sweet Sixteen game between No. 4-seed Louisville and No. 1-seed North Carolina with a slight headache a horrible taste in my mouth on a Saturday morning. Every time I look up at my muted TV I see female basketball players throwing the ball off the rim, tossing cross court passes out of bounds and generally falling all over the place.
Two friends of mine are sitting on a couch adjacent to my internetting chair, and they are both less interested in the contest and less appalled by the action. Here are my friend Adam’s thoughts: “You know what would suck worse than playing college basketball and not making it to the NBA? If you were a woman and you didn’t make it to the WNBA. Because they get all huge. If you’re a dude at least you got huge.”
Louisville is winning 37-21 with 5:48 remaining in the half, and the UL coach just called a timeout because half his players were lying in a pile on the court after one of the young women threw the ball to the wrong team. This awkward combination of obvious athletic ability and a much too difficult task is causing me much anxiety, until number 30 for UNC tosses in a layup while getting fouled.
AND ONE! AND ONE!
She makes the free throw, and I miss what happens on the other end, but based on my pal Joey’s sudden fit of laughter the game is back to its junior-varsity ways. “Did you just see that?” Joey laughs. “That was the worst. She went up for a little layup thing and never let go of the ball.”
North Carolina starts playing some intense defense, which is freaking me out but helping them get back in the game. The Tarheels are within 10 with a minute remaining in the half, and after a Louisville three-point attempt hits the backboard and not the rim UNC drives for a fast-break layup attempt. The shot hits the bottom of the backboard but number 32 was fouled and makes one-of-two free throws for a nine-point deficit. Halftime: Louisville 46, North Carolina 37.
I can’t hear what the halftime commentators are saying about the last 20 minutes of ball, but I can’t help but feel a little bit like Keith Hernandez when I reach for the remote control and change the channel to a recorded episode of Seinfeld.
I feel guilty for disliking women’s basketball. I respect those women as athletes, students, hard workers and for being taller, stronger and faster than me. Maybe if I wasn’t so dehydrated or I had taken my anxiety medication this morning things would be different. But at this moment I prefer watching Kramer trade Newman a broken radar detector for a motorcycle helmet that will eventually save his life when Crazy Joe Devola kicks him in the head.
I like to think of myself as more respectful of women than the likes of Keith Hernandez. That dyed-mustache wearing jackass once saw a female trainer tending to a mildly injured ballplayer in the New York Mets’ dugout and declared that women shouldn’t be allowed in Major League Baseball dugouts. He later sort of apologized: “I’m just kidding — you know I love you gals.”
But the pain I feel while watching women’s college basketball is making me feel like a real misogynist. I’m watching a Sweet Sixteen game between No. 4-seed Louisville and No. 1-seed North Carolina with a slight headache a horrible taste in my mouth on a Saturday morning. Every time I look up at my muted TV I see female basketball players throwing the ball off the rim, tossing cross court passes out of bounds and generally falling all over the place.
Two friends of mine are sitting on a couch adjacent to my internetting chair, and they are both less interested in the contest and less appalled by the action. Here are my friend Adam’s thoughts: “You know what would suck worse than playing college basketball and not making it to the NBA? If you were a woman and you didn’t make it to the WNBA. Because they get all huge. If you’re a dude at least you got huge.”
Louisville is winning 37-21 with 5:48 remaining in the half, and the UL coach just called a timeout because half his players were lying in a pile on the court after one of the young women threw the ball to the wrong team. This awkward combination of obvious athletic ability and a much too difficult task is causing me much anxiety, until number 30 for UNC tosses in a layup while getting fouled.
AND ONE! AND ONE!
She makes the free throw, and I miss what happens on the other end, but based on my pal Joey’s sudden fit of laughter the game is back to its junior-varsity ways. “Did you just see that?” Joey laughs. “That was the worst. She went up for a little layup thing and never let go of the ball.”
North Carolina starts playing some intense defense, which is freaking me out but helping them get back in the game. The Tarheels are within 10 with a minute remaining in the half, and after a Louisville three-point attempt hits the backboard and not the rim UNC drives for a fast-break layup attempt. The shot hits the bottom of the backboard but number 32 was fouled and makes one-of-two free throws for a nine-point deficit. Halftime: Louisville 46, North Carolina 37.
I can’t hear what the halftime commentators are saying about the last 20 minutes of ball, but I can’t help but feel a little bit like Keith Hernandez when I reach for the remote control and change the channel to a recorded episode of Seinfeld.
I feel guilty for disliking women’s basketball. I respect those women as athletes, students, hard workers and for being taller, stronger and faster than me. Maybe if I wasn’t so dehydrated or I had taken my anxiety medication this morning things would be different. But at this moment I prefer watching Kramer trade Newman a broken radar detector for a motorcycle helmet that will eventually save his life when Crazy Joe Devola kicks him in the head.
# posted by PASStheTEA_B @ 9:04 AM 
