Just A Little Bit Of Chivalry

When I started playing coed softball a few years back, it took me a while to earn the respect of my male teammates. After flat out refusing to catch because my dental work is the most expensive thing I wear every day, I was stationed in the other “girl” position at 2nd. I had played all four infield positions during my career, so 2nd was fine by me and afforded me the opportunity to go after that rush of the double play… if, that is, my teammates trusted me enough to A) catch, and B) throw. It didn’t come right away, but little by little, they realized that I could hold my own right next to them.

And other teams figured it out too. I’d knock a grounder down here and there, make a clean cut-off catch from the outfield, and they knew that I might be a factor.

But there is a downside to being “one of the guys.” I’m a scrappy athlete who enjoys testing my mettle with the boys, but even I’m intimidated when I see a 210-lb. brute barreling towards me, cocking one leg behind the other and dropping low with spikes high. I mean, really... what jerk slides into a girl?

Therein lies the double-standard that I’m woman enough to admit. I want to be treated as an equal by my male counterparts when I’m playing sports, but deep down inside, I still expect just a little bit of chivalry. I don’t want them to go easy because I’m a girl, but I don't want them to ignore the fact that I’m not a linebacker who can bench press a Buick.

Don’t get me wrong... I know plenty of guys who are equal parts respect and chivalry on the diamond, the court, the field, you name it. But when I run into an opponent like the one my dodgeball team faced last night, I’m reminded that at times the relationship between a female athlete’s abilities and the level of chivalry is inversely proportional. The more skills she has, the less likely they are to treat her like a woman.

I was just minding my own business outside the dodgeball court when I heard the nails-on-a-chalkboard voice of one of our opponents and couldn’t help but take note of this charmer who closely resembled Screech from Saved By The Bell. When my teammates arrived, one of them said that she knew Screech from another team and that he was a bit intense about his rec sports. One of those… excellent.

The games flew merrily by, one after the other, the score see-sawing back and forth. When the fifth game rolled around, the score was 2-2, but it wasn’t like the air of sudden death was hanging over us. There was still much dodgeball to be played, so the mood was light.

But then the tide turned.

The game hadn’t been underway more than two minutes when I was startled by a throw that hit me squarely in the mouth. Knowing the rule that if you’re hit in the head, no one is out because it’s supposedly accidental, I just shrugged it off. But then I saw Screech across the court. He wagged his scrawny finger at me and yelled the yell of a 13-year-old boy on the verge of puberty, “You’re out! You’re out!” I shouted back incredulously that I had been hit in the face. Now there are times when a hit to the head is subject to interpretation based on how close it lands to your shoulder, but there was no question that this hit me above the neck. But no sooner had the words left my mouth when I was pelted in the gut with another ball while a third whizzed past me. I was incensed, not because I was out, but because this team didn’t even have the courtesy to wait a split second to allow me to regroup. I was a sitting duck after an illegal hit, and they took the shot.

In that instant, I was both proud that my opponents saw me as an equal who was capable of giving as good as I got and bitter that Screech and his teammates had unleashed such fury on me as a woman. Once they saw that I had a decent throwing arm, all bets were off and there was no going easy on me.

It’s not fair for me to want it both ways. When I play against a guy, I want him to forget that I’m a woman; if he hurts me while playing, he better remember that I’m a woman. It’s a double-standard that is a part of coed sports, but I still don’t think it’s wrong to want a little bit of chivalry, especially since Dictionary.com defines “chivalry” as the following: the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor.

Tradition has taught us that chivalry is displayed by men towards women, but no where in the definition does it say that displaying the qualities of a knight is decidedly male. Courtesy, generosity, and valor can be displayed by any athlete, male or female, towards any other athlete, male or female. It’s called sportsmanship.

I didn’t care that Screech pegged me in the kisser; I was more upset that he got downright ugly after doing so. There was no apology, no remorse, just pure competitiveness, and his teammates were no better for taking advantage of the situation.

I don’t live in a glass house; I haven’t always been chivalrous on the field or the court, but that doesn’t mean I don’t expect more out of myself just as I expect a lot out of those I’m playing with and against.

After the match ended, our team grumbled about having to shake hands with our opponents. All niceties had disintegrated, and we didn’t much feeling like telling the other team, “Good game.” But we knew the code of conduct and lined up to slap hands with them just as they had started to do for us. Funny enough, I think both sides felt better afterwards because we had all put the battle and the words behind us.

All except for Screech though. He was the only person who didn’t go through the line, and just when he had the chance to redeem himself, he made his least chivalrous move of all.

The Culture Of Cheating

Happy New Year... plus a couple days! A lot has happened in the sports world since HerSportsPOV went on hiatus, but perhaps nothing has generated as much commentary as Roger Clemens’ buttocks. Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement, but the dark cloud of steroids has invaded household dialogues like never before. When we can rattle off the names of substances like HGH, Anadrol, and Winstrol as if we’re reciting our ABC’s, then we know we’re in uncharted territory.

But aside from the obvious issues associated with steroids, I think the biggest problem we have to face is the culture of cheating. There is a large segment of society that will do anything, and I do mean anything, to get ahead. The American Dream was built on the belief that you can do anything you set your mind to, but somewhere along the way, that idea morphed into doing anything legal and illegal to get a leg up. On some level, I can see why people do it, but I really can’t fathom living with the knowledge that I cheated to get ahead. There’s nothing sweeter than victory and nothing more bitter than that nagging voice in the back of your mind that says you didn’t play by the rules.

I recently joined a dodgeball league, a.k.a. organized adult exercise, and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I’m known for being competitive, but didn’t really see myself spewing venom at my opponents across the line in a grammar school gymnasium. My friend warned me though, saying, “You’re going to get worked up,” but I didn’t really think it would be true. I get fired up when it comes to my own sports… volleyball and softball… but kickball, bocce, dodgeball, and any other league I’ve joined to avoid working out in the gym, nah... I’m just there to have fun.

But then it happened. I felt my blood pressure spike. My face reddened. My arms started flailing, and my voice hit that decibel reserved for only the most world-shaking of events (like finding two dead mice in my kitchen or getting top-notch seats to a Kelly Clarkson concert). I yelled, “I got him! He's out!” I had beaned the Neanderthal across the line with the tiny yellow Nerfball. It hit him squarely in the shin. He knew it. I knew it. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked left, right, at me, left again, and kept his Reeboks planted exactly where they were. Unwilling to admit that he had been nailed by a girl and thinking that his services were too vital to leave his teammates dodging Nerfballs alone, he made the conscious decision to cheat.

I was pissed, and my friend knew it. This is what she was talking about. But my ire had nothing to do with being competitive and everything to do with the fact that this guy wasn’t playing fairly. What did he have to gain by cheating? Bragging rights in front of the watercooler the next morning about how his dodgeball team beat up on some other equally old and equally out of shape adults? Please sign me up for a date with that stud.

No matter what the situation is and no matter how high the stakes are, I’d rather play the worst game of my life than win it all knowing that I cheated, but I guess not everyone is like that. For some, the taste of glory is too addictive to be bothered by matters of conscience and decency.

I'll acknowledge that athletes who take steroids all have their reasons for doing so, and many of those reasons may fall into the gray area between right and wrong. Do I think Andy Pettitte was wrong to use HGH? Yes. Can I fault him for wanting to heal faster and get back to the game he loves? Not entirely. What about the kid in Latin America who unwittingly believes some pusher who tells him he'll be bigger, better, and find himself inking a contract for millions of dollars that he'll be able to send back home to provide for his family? Is it wrong? Yes and no. All that said, cheating cannot exist on a spectrum where the blame slides depending on the situation. It's unfortunate that these players will get lumped up with the likes of Barry Bonds who is a glory hog and a thief who stole the most sacred of records, but they all chose unnatural means to get ahead while the guy three lockers down was packing his bags for Pawtucket or Durham.

Our culture has accepted cheating because Americans are gluttonous consumers who want larger and faster, greater and richer, and though there are major efforts to eradicate this blight on baseball and other sports, the culture that condones the cheating will never be wiped out completely.

There will always be those who choose the greater of two evils to stay in the game, who will risk getting caught, who will chance the label of cheater for one shot at the glory. But we also know that glory soon fades and when that happens, those people will be left to lie alone at night with only that little voice in their heads reminding them that they didn’t really earn what they achieved and that they’ll never know what they really could have done if they hadn’t cheated themselves.

Sleep well, Barry... Roger... Rafael... Mo... Miguel... Eric... Brian... Lenny...