Field of Dreams

Shampoo

Conditioner

Hair Dryer

Flat Iron

Hair Straightening Gel

Deodorant

Contact Solution

Glasses

Toothpaste

Toothbrush

Underwear

Bras

Pajamas

Jeans

Shorts

Flip-Flops

Sneakers

Skirt

Going-out shirts

Sweatshirt

Red Sox Cap

Red Sox Visor

Red Sox Jersey

Red Sox T-shirt

Red Sox Jacket

Red Sox Tickets

On Thursday, I will embark on a road trip to the most hallowed of ballparks. My friend Izzie and I have waited seven long months for this weekend to come, and I can’t believe it’s finally here.

I’ve been to Fenway twice in my life, once in 1994 and once in 1997, the latter being my dream match-up, Red Sox versus Marlins. Both times were thrilling, but with age comes appreciation, and I have a hunch this will be an experience to remember.

For Izzie, this will be a dream come true. She’s never stepped foot in Fenway before, so I can only imagine how spectacular it will be for her when she first lays eyes on the Monster.

I really can't believe this weekend has finally arrived.

After I'm done packing and I drift off to sleep, maybe I’ll have that dream where I’m sitting along the first base line about halfway back eating a hot dog...

On Saturday, that will be my reality.

***

I’ll be offline for the next several days, taking notes on the wicked hijinx that could only ensue in Beantown, but you’ll hear all about it when I return.

So let the Ladies' Road Trip to Boston begin. Fenway or bust!

Exposure

In the nearly three months that HerSportsPOV has been live, no column has drawn more comments or sparked more debate than “A Model of Decency.” I have wanted to respond, but unfortunately I haven’t had the opportunity to give these issues the attention they deserve until now.

First and foremost, I stand by my remark that athletes should view themselves as role models, not because they are athletes, but because that is the responsibility of all adults. Whether we have our own children or not, it is our duty to set an example for those who will run the world when we’re old and gray.

The question, however, that has been posed by the loyal readers of HerSportsPOV is whether nude modeling itself sets a poor example. It’s true that Americans still clutch a certain level of Puritanism when it comes to nudity, and if we relinquished this, then perhaps much about our society would change for the better. People want what they can’t have and crave what is taboo just to be different, just to be rebels, just to be the rugged individualists they’ve been taught to be. If it weren’t so taboo, then the shock factor would be destroyed, and people wouldn’t want what they can readily get.

However, I still don’t believe that an athlete posing nude is setting the proper example for young people because American society has not embraced a post-Puritan perspective on the human form. And until an athlete explicitly states that she’s posing for the sake of art to honor the beauty of the human figure or as a statement against patriarchal oppression, then these images will be continued to be objectified in a sexual, non-empowering way.

Women should be proud of their bodies, but our bodies are what everyone pays attention to first anyway. The true struggle is teaching girls to flaunt their intelligence before they flaunt their physique. With that said, the argument that Amanda Beard’s posing is a form of resistance against the perception that athletic women are less feminine because of their musculature is intriguing. Young girls receive the message that they should be skinny and petite. They shouldn’t have strong arms, shoulders, and calves because that would be too manly. If a female athlete can change the perception that to play sports is less than feminine, then I fully support it, but I believe this could still be accomplished without appearing nude in the pages of Playboy.

I found the article on Matthew Abboud very interesting, and like other readers, did not think about the discrimination a male athlete might face for making the decision to pose. However, what I found most revealing is that the sorority girls who posed weren’t reprimanded at all, and why? Because people don’t think twice about women posing nude. It’s deemed to be an acceptable practice for women to act like sirens, using their physicality and sexuality as tools to get ahead. Maybe some would see this as empowering, using our bodies for gain before someone else has the chance to objectify them, but if only a few people see it this way, what progress is being made? If a tree falls in the woods, but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

I agree with the readers who believe that posing nude can be an artistic form of expression or a method of resistance, but I don’t believe that is the overarching goal when athletes make that decision. It is a career move, designed to get the maximum amount of exposure and the maximum amount of money. Sadly, most female athletes’ salaries don’t approach that of their male counterparts, so perhaps posing is a savvy business decision. I just think that decision overshadows the true gifts and talents all women should be pushing to the forefront. When Amanda Beard competes in the Olympics next year, count how many times commentators mention her Playboy pictures versus how many times they mention her athletic accomplishments.

Maybe this all sounds very Puritan of me, but it’s all about what brand of exposure you want.

Daddy's Little Girl

Since the days of yore, the birth of a son has always been looked at as a blessing. Women’s lib be damned, we’re supposed to believe that all fathers harbor secret hope for a boy to carry on the family name and the family tradition. It doesn’t matter that we no longer need to populate the world with strong farmhands to work the land; there’s still something about having a gaggle of boys that makes men feel manlier.

My father grew up in a culture that thrived on machismo and still does. If he had a dime for every time one of his cousins or aunts told him he needed a son or asked if he felt bad about not having one, I wouldn’t have so much college debt.

My Dad was different though. From the moment my Mom found out she was pregnant, he wanted a girl. He didn’t care about what his friends or relatives said to him. He didn’t worry about carrying on the family line. He wanted a healthy baby and a little girl.

But in the same way that my Dad never cowed to the criticism about not having a boy, he never succumbed to the stereotypes of what a girl should be like either. When I wanted a baseball glove, he took me to Benny’s in Norwich, CT, to buy my very first, but when I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid, he stood in a line out the door for that too. When I got my first pink bicycle, my Dad dutifully added the baseball card to the spokes per my request instead of streamers to the handlebars.

My Dad let me be me and some of my fondest memories come from sharing sports together. Whether it was Saturday morning trips to the baseball card store or circling Shea Stadium with a Marlins sign while being pelted with cups... whether it was playing catch in the backyard or being wrapped in his arms after a tough loss to a rival team… my Dad was always there, never once wishing for a son, never once thinking less of me as a daughter.

I may not have preferred the bows and frills when I was growing up and I may still sport bruises on my knees from playing sports, but no matter what, I’ll always be my Daddy’s little girl.

Happy Belated Father’s Day, Dad… and Happy Father’s Day to all the dads who just let their kids be themselves.

Model of Decency

When I read that Olympic swimmer Amanda Beard was going to pose in Playboy, I rolled my eyes. Every feminist alarm in my body went off, and I immediately started asking questions like, “Did Peyton Manning pose nude in Playgirl after he won the Super Bowl?” Of course not. There’s a double standard that exists when it comes to how male and female athletes are expected to promote themselves, but I’m going to save that soap box for another day.

Instead Beard’s posing made me think of something else, an issue many athletes have either embraced heartily or railed against mightily, and that’s the issue of role models.

Whenever an athlete gets called on the carpet for an infraction, inevitably a reporter will ask him or her about being a role model. The answer usually touches upon how it’s up to the parents to set examples for children, not to some unknown athletic star who gets paid mega-millions for playing a kids’ game. There’s some truth in that statement, but I don’t agree with it.

Here’s a message to the athletes out there: you’re not a role model because you’re an athlete; you’re a role model because you’re an adult.

Just the other day, I was playing in a rec softball game when I swore. Then I realized that my teammate’s little girl was within earshot and immediately felt terrible for having uttered a profanity. Am I her role model? No. But as an adult, should I set a good example? Definitely.

The United States was molded on the principle of rugged individualism, and we live by that motto today. Do whatever you can to get ahead and live your American dream. It’s an amazing concept, an ideology that we take for granted because there are so many other people in other parts of the world who don’t have that luxury. But I fall back on the same adage I’ve quoted before, “To whom much is given, much is expected.”

Most of us only have to worry about setting an example for our children or the children of those closest to us, but for those athletes who are paid handsomely to play and compete, then it is their responsibility to give back, to set the example, to try to be as upstanding as possible because kids are watching, and as visible adults, that is the healthy burden they are paid to bear.

Amanda Beard is being a rugged individualist by choosing to pose in Playboy. It will get her exposure which will probably lead to endorsements before and after the Olympics next year. She’s living her life and doing what she can to get ahead. She should be applauded for pursuing the American Dream.

But on the other hand, do I think Amanda Beard is setting a good example by posing in Playboy? No, I don’t. She’s fortunate enough to be competing at one of the highest levels, and whether it cramps her style or not, she should think about how this decision affects the state of women’s sports and the young people who look up to her. What message does this send to a little girl who’s just starting to swim laps or a teenager who just found out she’s getting a scholarship to swim in college? The message is that a woman needs to use her body to get ahead, which runs counter to every reason that girls should get involved in sports in the first place. Women have more to offer than the outside package, but when a prominent female athlete decides she’s going to use her body for gain, she detracts from the progress we’ve made since Title IX.

Of course, many others before Beard have done the same thing, so I don’t meant to place all of the blame on her, and we can point to myriad male athletes who have made headlines for much greater breaches, but all of these issues strike at the heart of the role model issue.

Athletes can still live their lives in the American tradition, but the next time they are asked how their actions can be reconciled with their status as role models, maybe they should just pause and think about it before trying to shirk responsibility.

Bold. Pretty. Pink.

Here we go again.

That’s what my friends said when I told them about writing this post.

Pink Vendetta, Volume 987.

I really don’t have a vendetta against pink. I do, however, have a problem when it is used, not as a symbol of empowerment, but rather as a tool of conformity.

I was merrily strolling through Target last week when I happened upon a rack of pink basketballs, volleyballs, and soccer balls. Just as I was about to take out my camera-phone to document this annoyance, my gaze drifted to the top of the rack and that’s when my blood started to boil.

It’s not that I don't like pink, and to be honest, if they had pink caps when I was small, my parents probably would have gotten one for me because it seems like the perfect marriage for a girl who likes baseball. And in a lot of ways it is, but not if it’s made to seem like the norm for a girl who likes sports.

Little girls are growing up now with a distorted perception of what they should look like and how they should act, being told that they have to fit within the confines of unattainable stereotypes. There are very few women in the world who would live up to modelesque expectations, and those of us who don’t are left feeling inadequate, constantly striving to be something we’re not. By the time we are old enough to accept our bodies the way they are, we’ve wasted half our lives worrying about fulfilling whatever fickle definition of perfection is in fashion at the time.

The message on that Target sign seems innocuous enough, but it’s actually propagating the distorted perceptions that women are taught to pursue. You can be bold and you can be athletic, but make sure you look pretty in pink while you’re doing it because that’s what girls are expected to be.

Athletes are not pretty when they’re playing. They’re sweaty. They’re smelly. They’re gritty. They’re beautiful for their drive and determination, but they’re not going to make the cover of Cosmo with drops of perspiration rolling down their faces and dirt on their legs. And that’s okay. They don’t have to be.

* * *

On Saturday, I ran through the streets of Downtown Washington in a sea of pink, sweating alongside over 60,000 participants in the Susan G. Komen National Race for the Cure. For those who have conquered the disease and for those who have been left behind, pink is a symbol of courage and determination, not of conformity.

That pink is truly bold and beautiful.

Drums Along The Anacostia

Forget the Jock Jams. Forget the Top 40. Forget “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

I think every sporting event needs a drum.

Picture it...

Bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, winning run on third... pum-pum-pum-pum...

Fourth and goal at the 1, three seconds left in the fourth quarter, home team is six points down...pum-pum-pum-pum…

Five seconds on the shot clock, point guard streaks down the court, 2 to tie, 3-pointer to win… pum-pum-pum-pum...

I never realized how lacking most sports soundtracks are until I went to the DC United-Houston Dynamo soccer match this past weekend at RFK. As I sat with 18,077 raucous fans and a drummer, I couldn’t help but feel my blood pressure rising with each passing minute. Whether the ball was being kicked from player to player or whether it was flying in the air towards the goal, that low level pum-pum-pum-pum never let up. It was the perfect way to truly feel every ounce of suspense the match could offer.

Of course, I suppose it isn’t realistic to have a drum at every event, and certainly soccer fans are a rare breed of aficionados because they have a passion that surpasses the levels of even the most rabid fans of homegrown American sports. But Barra Brava and El Norte, the two main fan clubs for the United, set a fine example by making that soccer match positively electric, both on and off the field. Their enthusiasm made it seem like they had just discovered the beauty of the game for the very first time, which is a feeling so many of us have forgotten when it comes to the sports close to our hearts.

So if there is no drum at your next baseball game or tennis match, then just pay close attention to the rhythmic pum-pum-pum-pum deep down inside. That's the sound of your heart beating like it did the very first time you fell in love with sports.

Wide Open

Yankees 6 Red Sox 2

Red Sox 7 Yankees 3

Yankees 8 Red Sox 3

When I walked into work yesterday, I entered the little Red Sox cocoon I inhabit for 9 hours a day and prepped myself for the onslaught of Yankee fans. The time ticked by slowly. It was surprisingly quiet, almost disappointingly so. I expected the Pinstripe Posse to stop at my desk to flaunt the previous night’s drubbing. But there was nothing. I could actually let myself be blissfully unaware of what had happened, and by the time I left early for my gynecologist appointment, I had nearly forgotten about the scores.

When I arrived at the office, I sat in the waiting room for well over an hour. There was nothing to read except for parenting magazines and one random Motorweek. I stared at the clock on the wall, trying hard to keep in mind that it would soon be over and I’d be walking to Starbucks for my celebratory “I am woman, hear me roar” mocha. But then I started to notice that the waiting room was clearing out. Big belly after big belly left the room, and I wondered if a girl had to be pregnant in order to get seen around this place! With my odds of being struck by lightning greater than my odds of being pregnant, I passed the time devising ways to look pregnant or act pregnant, but it was to no avail. I would just have to stew in my own estrogen for a while.

Seventy minutes after my arrival, I was ushered into a room by the doctor’s assistant who mispronounced my name. She told me to hop up on the table, and for a moment I paused, knowing that the very jeans that touched the subway seat were now on the very paper that would shield my naked rear from the table. I shrugged off just how unsanitary that seemed and focused on the matter at hand. When the assistant was done with her routine, she handed me the dusty rose paper gown and the flimsy white paper sheet with a cheery “Everything off! Opening in the front!” Then she was gone, and I was left to enjoy the draft.

The list of things going through my mind: the room is sterile, the pain chart is asinine, I can’t read the patient rights in Spanish, do they sell that plastic supply cart at Target, the woman on the phone outside the door left her insurance card at home, I’m hungry, my armpits are sweating, and my naked rear is now resting on subway germs. The fact that Schill got shelled didn’t even crack the top 100.

When my merry OBGYN entered the room, we made small talk as she went through the standard questions and admonished me for not taking calcium. She told me about her accidental encounter with self-tanner, and I told her I had a cold. Then we got to the crux of my visit. She called the assistant in, lowered the back of the table, and continued yammering. I knew the ploy, but I played right into her hands. Talk talk talk and maybe she won’t notice. Talk talk talk and she won’t feel a thing. Talk talk talk and the embarrassment is over. Then came the question that was supposed to keep me occupied for the next three minutes. The doctor asked, “Any fun plans for the summer?” Feeling my brain starting to disassociate from the lower half of my body and knowing that all thoughts were flying out of my head, I simply replied, “Well, I’ve got tickets to Fenway.” Suddenly, like a voice from beyond, the assistant piped up, a snarky smirk on her face, “They lost last night.” I froze. My brain was torn between the order to scoot ever further down the table so that my rear felt like it was hanging over an abyss and the anger I was feeling towards the woman who had just taken my blood pressure. She continued, “My family are huge Yankee fans.” Lying there in nothing but my birthday suit and a sheet of looseleaf, I was rendered speechless by the stirrups. The statistics, the schedule, A-Rod’s cheap slide… all of it was gone, and I was forced to listen to Yankee love in the most undignified of positions.

Wouldn’t you know, the Evil Empire lurks in the most unlikely of places, and not even the gynecologist’s office is safe.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a new doctor that meets my criteria: female, Metro accessible, Red Sox fan.