Females, football, and farewell

Ahh, football. The raw power and the mental finesse. The intricate beauty of an offensive play where one poor block causes the greatest of touchdowns to be foiled, resulting in the embarrassment of a turnover. The adrenaline rush of watching 300 pounds fly through the air for a ballet-like hit. The intellectual satisfaction in knowing the exact dollar value of 30 sacks over a two-year period. One could not demand more from a sport—or from a sports fan.

EGUENE WONG/YH

I didn't always like football. When I first stepped into the pristine office at 252 Park St. as an editor and confronted the legacy that is the Herald sports section, I was underwhelmed by the idea that I would have to spend 13 weeks fixing ledes for interminable football team features, profiles, news briefs, and glowing odes to Pete Mazza, JE '01. I argued passionately against yet another "exposé" on why the Bulldogs moved their practice time from 4 to 3:30 p.m. I even dared suggest that we cover a "sport" like field hockey instead of running to the presses with an in-depth analysis of Rashad Bartholomew's, MC '01, stubbed toe. But I came around, mostly thanks to the patience and mentoring of my male co-editors, who instilled in me the appropriate American lust for the gridiron.

You see, before I was beaten over the head with a football and made to see the turf for what it really is—a mecca for all that is masculine, patriotic, elite, and pure—I was what is known as a "girl sports editor." That's right, dear readers, for the past two semesters, you have been subjected to tri-weekly editorials (the "ELI") under false pretenses. You thought you were getting well thought-out, balanced, informative personal perspectives, when in fact you were actually being fed—horror of horrors—a girl's opinion on athletics. Those of you who didn't recognize my female characteristics in the police sketch that is my ELI portrait might have even thought that I was who I should have been—a red-blooded American male, ready to defend his favorite baseball team to the death.

And it gets worse. For all of the spring semester, the Herald sports section has been without the guidance and wisdom of a Y chromosome. It's time for the truth to come out—three girls have been assigning and editing (dare I use that word?) the all-important, hard-hitting squash and women's golf articles you've been flipping to every Friday afternoon.

What has the Herald come to? True, we girls get weekly sermons from the men in the office regarding the gaps in our sports knowledge—"What do you mean you can't rattle off the Red Sox's middle-relief pitcher's minor league ERA?" And we obviously know our place enough to never argue about sports—"Sure, Princeton's gonna see the Final Four this year."

But is that really enough? We've seen the light—we talk football, we think football, we date football—but we're still just three girls, standing in front of the Holy Grail of athletics, asking it to let us idolize it. And it is staring us back in the eyes (or somewhere at chest level) and asking, "Why did the blonde swallow the golf club?"

After this week, the Charlie's Angels of Herald sports move on to bigger and better things. We've all learned something from the experience: the importance of fair play; to love the game as well as the playa; the sports clichés that work best in party settings. But most importantly, we gained a love for the game.

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