Sporting style

So this week I have a project: organize my recipes and my rosters.

I want to get together in one, easily accessible place the recipes I've made that my family has enjoyed lately, as well as the lists of players from teams I've recently covered.

Is that strange? Is it aberrant, in some way, to like being a girl, and to like sports? I don't think so.

I won a first-place award for column writing once, which is noteworthy because I never was a columnist and only rarely had editors who would let me pretend to be one. The winning entry was a treatise in which I railed against an Olympic ad campaign directed at women, encouraging them to support the soccer team because of the products we all shared - mascara, maxi pads, etc. I argued it was offensive to try to tailor sports to women, because that approach assumed sports in their current, raw form did not appeal to said women. It's the problem I have with all these "Football for Women" clinics and the like. Why is football, in and of itself, not for women?

Some of my fondest memories involve beer, big screens and beautiful girl friends. In cute dresses and sassy shoes, we'd watch the big sporting event of the night, cheering lustily for our teams and scowling at clueless boys who tried to talk to us without noticing that their big fat heads were blocking our view. Why would we be watching the game, anyway?

I've spent many an evening carefully cleaning the warning-track mud from my heels, and one memorable night rinsing champagne from a silk sweater. (The minor league baseball team I covered clinched the league championship, and I dressed up for the occasion.) Silly? Maybe. But what rule says I can't be cute and cover sports?

In my career, I have occasionally encountered an unwritten one. The more, er, typical-looking female sports writer who cut her eyes at me - and my patterned skirt - when we weren't allowed in the locker room by a I-love-the-70s guard (a situation the sports information director quickly remedied.) The men I once followed to what we thought was the less-crowded media exit, only to be confronted by a five-foot fence which they easily scaled - and which I managed, in my heather gray Express dress and matching Steve Madden pumps. The players whose first instinct is to take in my eyeshadow and start to flirt (which a part of me found flattering, when I was 25, and which I damn sure wouldn't raise hell about now.)

I know we're out there, reasonably attractive ladies who can debate the finer qualities of men and man-to-man coverage. I know we don't need the inherent drama and all-around awesomeness running through the veins of sports dumbed down or qualified for us to get. 

I'm just wondering - could you tell me how to keep my next pedicure from getting ruined by the trampled-down mud at midfield?

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