Sports Gives Me the Vapors!

Okay, we like hockey. A lot. It should be pretty apparent from the fact that we participate in this HLOG collaboration that we spend a pretty good chunk of our time every day watching hockey, thinking about hockey and writing about hockey. So how did we get saddled with such dedicated non-sports fans for friends? Why couldn't we have made friends with people who understand why we can't make plans between April and June, or who can tell a hockey stick from a baseball bat, or who, at the very least, have heard of Tom Brady. (That's not a joke. We had been erroneously operating under the assumption that Tom Brady was a household name; not in those households. [Shakes head sadly].) No, instead we had to make friends with that most puzzling creature: the girly girl. There's been plenty of discussion in this space about the uphill battle we face as female fans trying to be taken seriously by our male counterparts, but what about the flip side of the fangirl's experience? What about the disdain we get from the women we all know who seem to think it's a violation of set-in-stone cultural mores for a girl to like sports?

Here's the thing: we have a delightful group of very dear friends amongst whom everything is shared. We talk about the books we're reading, the movies we've seen, the ins-and-outs of our relationships, motherhood (on their parts), jobs... just about everything we deal with. No topic is too remote to be spared discussion, except one. Sports. The instant we bring up any anecdote that is even vaguely couched in sports terms -- any sports terms -- they shut us down with (and we're not making this up) exclamations of "I hate sports!" Discussion over. Next topic.

Our contention is that one does not lose a shread of femininity for watching sports. But the mere mention of sports -- even that most sympathetic, non-threatening darling that is Roger Federer -- causes our friends to recoil in horror, hands grasping for the make-up compacts to ward off the evil spirits of winning and losing. Years of being told they should focus their energies on traditional girl hobbies like reading, crafting and cooking (not that there is anything wrong with any of those hobbies; in fact, we frequently engage in all of them) seem to have rendered them incapable of understanding an enjoyment of sports. However, if you remove the various aspects of sports -- winning, losing, physical challenges, strategy, teamwork, individual achievement -- and couch them in terms of, oh say, a reality television program, they are immediately on board. It's like somehow the problem is, well, sweat. Take the sweat away, and they really don't mind. But why is it that we're expected to maintain a certain level of polite interest when they're telling us about the latest thing to happen on, say, "Veronica Mars", but it's considered socially acceptable for them to rudely dismiss us when we mention something that happened in our favorite TV show, "The Current New Jersey Devils Season"?

What is particularly troubling is that no amount of prodding can get them to admit what it is about sports they don't like. "Sports" is not a word that really describes one overriding concept that can be dismissed out of hand with one terse, "I don't like it." Don't like team sports? Watch tennis. Once had to sit through an endless baseball game and now you think sports are boring? Watch hockey or football. Is the sweat thing really a problem? Watch golf. Until they can convince us that they hate every aspect of every sport -- including the same competition they enjoy seeing on "The Amazing Race", the same drama they see in their award-winning movies (only more so since it's not scripted!), the same variety of loopy characters they love in the radio shows they listen to, the same intensity of plot they cherish in their classic books -- we are left with the conclusion that it is merely that sports aren't girly enough for them. And frankly, for the intelligent, funloving, modern women that they are, we find that narrow-mindedness unacceptable.

But, as we settle in for yet another night of the unpredictable, insanely intense NHL playoffs, we hope they enjoy their run-of-the-mill, scripted television shows in rerun -- and may their makeup look perfect while they do so. Let them spend the rest of their lives not knowing the joy of seeing their hockey team hoist the Cup, not knowing the artistry that is Roger Federer's backhand, not knowing that feeling of turning on a sporting event -- any sporting event -- just in time to see that amazing moment, that last-second upset, that hall-of-famer's signature play. It's their loss.