Men, Sports, and the Women Who Love Them Both

I love sports. Not in the sense that the Super Bowl allows me five uninterrupted hours at the mall and not because sitting court-side at an NBA game gives me the chance to show off a good hair day. And no, I’m not mistaking my fondness of Rudy for an actual love of the game. What I’m saying is, I truly love sports.

To give you a frame of reference, it isn’t uncommon for my husband to find me standing on our couch, shouting at the TV screen, flipping back and forth between NFL games. Yes, we have the Sunday Ticket. No, he didn’t order it.

The truth is, I spend an inordinate amount of time watching my team strike fear in the hearts of their opponents, delighting in my husband’s team being mathematically eliminated from the playoffs and staying current on the off-field distractions of the 36 players who comprise my three fantasy football teams.

Now, I know the stereotype – women who love sports are either butch or faking it. I happen to be neither. I’m not a band-wagon jumper, I’m not a fair-weather fan and I don’t pick my players and teams based upon their asses or uniforms. This isn’t to say I’m an expert. Title IX had yet to establish its running game when I was growing up and thus, I’ve had to ask men for clarification on the tuck rule, illegal touching of the kick and why the hell Steven A. Smith KEEPS YELLING AT ME! Still, I can spot a bad call by an official long before the coach throws out the red flag, I understand the implications of 14 unanswered third quarter points and I know that the road to the Super Bowl is a wildly scenic route each year. In other words, I’m basically just one of the guys (though, admittedly, with the ability to wear a lacy bra without the stigma of cross-dressing).

And if you’re like most hot-blooded males, you might now be thinking to yourself, “where can I find me one of those?” In my experience, however, there exists a lineman-size discrepancy between what men want and what they say they want. My proof? You don’t include us in your conversations about sports, you make your afternoons at the sports bar “guys-only” affairs and when your boss gives you box seats to the game, you take your old college roommate. Now, perhaps, despite repeatedly leaving it on the back of the toilet, you really don’t want her reading your Sports Illustrated. Or, perhaps you actually derive pleasure out of fighting over the remote on a Sunday afternoon. Or, maybe you feel threatened at the thought of your better half seeing Cedric Benson’s upside on draft day, long before you (or even Cedric Benson) does.

Whatever your reasons, you might be partially to blame for the ball not bouncing your way because, unlike your heroes, female sports fans are not born – we’re made. Growing up, we were force fed fashion tips and tea parties while you (lucky bastards) were learning that ketchup is not an acceptable condiment on a ball park dog. While you were being schooled in the art of driving for show and putting for dough, the only dough-action we saw involved flour and yeast. And now, after years of playing with dolls, we need a guy who can take us to the next level.

So, make it a rebuilding year. Take her out to a ballgame, buy her some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and let her in on the intricacies of the infield fly rule (assuming you understand it yourself, big guy). Let her experience the rush that is two outs, full count, bases loaded. Let her breathe in the excitement of the home team orchestrating a last minute comeback. Let her taste the bitterness of defeat and the somber realization that the final score is the only statistic that matters. You’re in the driver’s seat. Blow the game wide open; it’s yours to lose – go for broke.

In the interest of full disclosure, there are some downsides to having the woman in your life in on the action. She won’t get you a beer when it’s third down and inches (though, while you’re up, if you want to grab her some chips…), she won’t give you pity sex when her team beats yours for that final playoff berth and there won’t be any room on your bedroom wall to hang your Steelers Fathead (in her defense, how could she possibly have known the Packers one she ordered would be so big?). But, if you can roll with those punches, you will find that when the woman in your life is in on the action, the bets get a lot more interesting, the payoffs a lot more rewarding and the post-victory celebrations feel eerily like home runs. Make it a team effort – in the end, it helps both ball clubs.