A league of her own
Thursday, November 10, 2005
I’m sitting in the press box at Kaufman Stadium in Kansas City. It’s game two of a three-game series between the Royals and the Red Sox. “The K,” as the locals call it, is empty. The grounds crew is watering the infield, dragging it to immaculately smooth perfection. I’m sitting next to people who’ve proven themselves in this business. Next to beat writers and columnists – a room of people I aspire to be like.
But looking around it’s clear – I can never really be like them. As my glance grazes the press box contingent, it’s quite clear I’m different. I am one of only two women there.
My thoughts linger on this for a moment, but no longer.
To me, it’s never really been as issue. You see, growing up I wasn’t exposed to what society would consider a normal gender role. My mom worked with power tools but took breaks to do the laundry. My dad was a farmer but came home every night to cook dinner.
I’m the youngest of three girls. When my dad realized he would never have a son, he improvised. Thus my sisters and I lived by the creed, “Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you have to throw (or shoot or swing) like one.” My dad devoted equal attention to instilling his love for sports in all three of us. For some reason, though, it really only stuck with me.
While my sisters retreated to boyfriends and Future Homemakers of America, my dad and I spent hours in the vacant lot across the street from my house, playing catch or having batting practice. He pitched, I hit and my black lab, Duke, played outfield. Our neighbors got used to seeing us in the driveway at dusk, sneaking in a game of “21” before the sun ducked out of sight – my dad covered in sweaty dirt from a day in the fields and me in a swim suit and mesh shorts, fresh from a day at the city pool.
When the South Dakota winter set in, we retreated to the garage where I practiced ball handling and what my dad called “quick hands.” It was a lesson he taught quite effectively by employing one simple concept – when a basketball is flying at your head, you either catch it or get hurt. I learned to catch it. Quickly.
That quickness, I’ve learned, is a virtue. And while it’s true I can catch whatever my dad throws at me, being quick now has taken on a whole new meaning. In 20-some minutes, I’ll board the elevator and descend into the place where my gender becomes my most obvious feature – the clubhouse. Yep, a locker room, naked men and all, where quickness now lies in how fast my eyes can avert the nakedness surrounding me.
It’s an art really, working the clubhouse, and while etiquette is understood among baseball writers, I have two self-imposed guidelines. One – find a place in the clubhouse (usually the TV) and focus my attention there. Two – The Pants Rule. For me to talk to a player and ensure both of our comfort, pants are the one necessary clothing item (spandex underwear are sometimes acceptable and towels pass in group interview situations).
My mom is so disturbed that my job requires me to be near naked men, she repeatedly asks, almost pleads, “Don’t they have a different room or something you can go in?”
No, mom. They definitely do not. I’m certain if she had known my dad’s motto would turn into “just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you have to stay in the girl’s locker room,” she wouldn’t have encouraged him so much.
But as I take notebook and recorder in hand, I’m so thankful she did. Walking to the elevator, I think again about my tractor-driving, car-fixing, casserole-making dad. Out of all our competitions, I can count on one hand the number of times I beat him at anything. When I was in high school, one of our driveway lessons turned into an impromptu game of one on one. I remember my mom sitting on the deck laughing as her 56-year-old husband knocked her 16-year-old daughter to the asphalt with a blocked shot.
That’s the thing about my dad – he could have put me in a dress and left me inside with my dolls, resigned to the fact he would never get to pass on his patented jump hook to any of his kids. But instead he took me to the farm. He let me get my hands dirty. He didn’t let me win. He didn’t assume I would like Barbies more than baseball.
He didn’t assign me a gender role, so I never accepted one.
Now that I’m in my last year of college and planning for a career in sports journalism, I know there are countless locker room scenes in my future. My life will be one far removed from the comfort of my driveway in small-town middle-America.
But at Kauffman Stadium or Fenway Park, in locker rooms and press boxes, I always take my dad with me. Without him, I could never have been so fearless. His love gives me the confidence to know that just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean anything is out of my reach.
Of course, it also gave me a mean jump shot.
Source: http://www.kansan.com/
I’m sitting in the press box at Kaufman Stadium in Kansas City. It’s game two of a three-game series between the Royals and the Red Sox. “The K,” as the locals call it, is empty. The grounds crew is watering the infield, dragging it to immaculately smooth perfection. I’m sitting next to people who’ve proven themselves in this business. Next to beat writers and columnists – a room of people I aspire to be like.
But looking around it’s clear – I can never really be like them. As my glance grazes the press box contingent, it’s quite clear I’m different. I am one of only two women there.
My thoughts linger on this for a moment, but no longer.
To me, it’s never really been as issue. You see, growing up I wasn’t exposed to what society would consider a normal gender role. My mom worked with power tools but took breaks to do the laundry. My dad was a farmer but came home every night to cook dinner.
I’m the youngest of three girls. When my dad realized he would never have a son, he improvised. Thus my sisters and I lived by the creed, “Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you have to throw (or shoot or swing) like one.” My dad devoted equal attention to instilling his love for sports in all three of us. For some reason, though, it really only stuck with me.
While my sisters retreated to boyfriends and Future Homemakers of America, my dad and I spent hours in the vacant lot across the street from my house, playing catch or having batting practice. He pitched, I hit and my black lab, Duke, played outfield. Our neighbors got used to seeing us in the driveway at dusk, sneaking in a game of “21” before the sun ducked out of sight – my dad covered in sweaty dirt from a day in the fields and me in a swim suit and mesh shorts, fresh from a day at the city pool.
When the South Dakota winter set in, we retreated to the garage where I practiced ball handling and what my dad called “quick hands.” It was a lesson he taught quite effectively by employing one simple concept – when a basketball is flying at your head, you either catch it or get hurt. I learned to catch it. Quickly.
That quickness, I’ve learned, is a virtue. And while it’s true I can catch whatever my dad throws at me, being quick now has taken on a whole new meaning. In 20-some minutes, I’ll board the elevator and descend into the place where my gender becomes my most obvious feature – the clubhouse. Yep, a locker room, naked men and all, where quickness now lies in how fast my eyes can avert the nakedness surrounding me.
It’s an art really, working the clubhouse, and while etiquette is understood among baseball writers, I have two self-imposed guidelines. One – find a place in the clubhouse (usually the TV) and focus my attention there. Two – The Pants Rule. For me to talk to a player and ensure both of our comfort, pants are the one necessary clothing item (spandex underwear are sometimes acceptable and towels pass in group interview situations).
My mom is so disturbed that my job requires me to be near naked men, she repeatedly asks, almost pleads, “Don’t they have a different room or something you can go in?”
No, mom. They definitely do not. I’m certain if she had known my dad’s motto would turn into “just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you have to stay in the girl’s locker room,” she wouldn’t have encouraged him so much.
But as I take notebook and recorder in hand, I’m so thankful she did. Walking to the elevator, I think again about my tractor-driving, car-fixing, casserole-making dad. Out of all our competitions, I can count on one hand the number of times I beat him at anything. When I was in high school, one of our driveway lessons turned into an impromptu game of one on one. I remember my mom sitting on the deck laughing as her 56-year-old husband knocked her 16-year-old daughter to the asphalt with a blocked shot.
That’s the thing about my dad – he could have put me in a dress and left me inside with my dolls, resigned to the fact he would never get to pass on his patented jump hook to any of his kids. But instead he took me to the farm. He let me get my hands dirty. He didn’t let me win. He didn’t assume I would like Barbies more than baseball.
He didn’t assign me a gender role, so I never accepted one.
Now that I’m in my last year of college and planning for a career in sports journalism, I know there are countless locker room scenes in my future. My life will be one far removed from the comfort of my driveway in small-town middle-America.
But at Kauffman Stadium or Fenway Park, in locker rooms and press boxes, I always take my dad with me. Without him, I could never have been so fearless. His love gives me the confidence to know that just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean anything is out of my reach.
Of course, it also gave me a mean jump shot.
Source: http://www.kansan.com/
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