Let me get this right out of the way.
This is in no way intended to be a treatise arguing against women in sports.
Nor should it be taken to imply that I don’t like to play soccer with women. I play in a co-ed league, so it’s actually a requirement.
I play soccer with women every week. Lots of them score on me, and that’s totally cool.
I’m even marrying one of them next year.
This entry in my recurring series is intended only to lampoon the female footballer who thinks that her particular genitalia renders her completely and utterly untouchable on the field of play.
Women playing sports is great. The Damsel in Distress sets them back fifty years.
Look, I would never target or intentionally foul a woman on a soccer field.
There are those that would say I am already being sexist by treating them in any way differently than I would another player. But I don’t buy that.
I will still challenge a female player, front her shots, try to win possession from her, force her into mistakes, the same way I would a male. But blast the ball at them or take one down for a professional foul? You won’t see me do it. Remember, it is still rec soccer after all.
But in the course of even these events a female player is going to get bumped. She could get kicked. Might even be knocked down.
And most of them get right back up and get on with it.
But not the Damsel in Distress.
This player, who often is accompanied by her meathead significant other, whines in a high-pitched frequency to the referee each and every time you come within a 5 foot radius.
She’s also one of the quickest to lash out in illegal ways. Kicking or slapping at opponents that have supposedly wronged her.
And, it should be noted, it would be highly unlikely that this woman has ever played at a reasonably competitive level. Otherwise she’d be far tougher, and far more useful.
Recently in a rec match I simply held my ground on a corner kick by gently boxing out and keeping my arms firmly out to the side, only for the shrill harpy behind my to double-handed karate chop my left arm while screaming bloody murder directly into my ear.
At halftime she could be seen on the sidelines being tenderly consoled by her boyfriend (who was not actually suited up at all, injured or just watching I guess) who presumably assured her that she was totally right and that I was just a big, mean man.
At full-time, she was the only one who didn’t shake hands. With anyone.
The most frustrating thing of all is that there is really nothing that I (or other gentlemen) can do about the Damsel in Distress.
She has the same right to be in the league, and beyond avoiding her on the pitch all I can do is keep playing the right way.
But if my fiancée wants to take some kind of action, well, that’s another story entirely…