Women's World Cup Soccer and being a female athlete

In case you weren't paying attention, yesterday Japan beat the U.S. in an amazing match for the Women's World Cup Soccer title, complete with a shoot-out at the end.

This morning, I read an amazing piece on Tumblr by Holly Manthei, a woman who was on the 1995 U.S. team (they were third that year). Read it all - it's inspiring - but here is a highlight:

"...The stinging consolation for today’s loss is that we’ve arguably never fielded a more fit, more disciplined, more talented squad of women. The parity of the women’s game signifies more than just an isolated 4-year cyclical interest in hot chicks with pony tails and toned legs competing in this game invented by men.  Today’s loss continues to symbolize Our Arrival. Our collective ascension to the podium where little girls can look at these women and announce with conviction, “I want to be like Hope Solo when I grow up...”

Back in 1999 when the women's team won the World Cup final in another stunning game, I was a mother of a soccer playing 13-year-old girl, and I ruminated about that win and what it meant to me, a competitive pre-Title IX athlete in the 70s, in my own commentary. 

That commentary was published by the Star Tribune, and I am inspired to share it once again. Since that was pre-Internet links, here it is below, in JPEG format (which you probably can't read) and the original text I submitted to the paper. The march towards parity and equity continues:

I was a pre-Title IX female athlete.  Twenty-seven years later, my 13-year-old daughter is one of the thousands of soccer-playing girls riding high after the women’s U.S. World Cup soccer victory.  I can say from personal experience that the recent Republican-sponsored House resolution to pay tribute to the U.S. women’ soccer team without acknowledgement of Title IX and its impact on the evolution of women’s sports was grievously wrong.

In 1972-1973, I was a junior at a suburban Minneapolis high school. The coach of the boy’s varsity ski team asked me to tryout for the team.  While I skied competitively for a local ski club, there was no girls varsity ski team at my high school, and thus, no opportunity for me to compete in varsity sports, at least in my sport of choice.

So I tried out for the boys’ team and made the third-pace slot.  However, the Minnesota State High School League, the governing body for Minnesota high school sports, had a rule that girls could not compete on boys’ teams, even if they legitimately earned a place on the team. The League informed my school that the entire team would be disqualified if I competed in a varsity ski meet.

My parents decided to challenge the rule and took the issue to court.  The courts ruled in our favor and I was allowed to compete for my high school.  Suddenly, much to my embarrassment, I was in the news as a barrier breaker.  In 1972, girl athletes such as myself who trained hard, developed muscles, and thrilled to aggressive competition, were typically viewed, especially among our peers, as weird.  The last thing my fragile self-esteem needed was more attention for being a jock. I just wanted to ski. 

However, I am absolutely grateful that I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and thanks to Title IX, did get to ski for my high school and earn two varsity letters, something for which I am very proud.  

Since then, I have thrilled at the change in both opportunity and attitude for women’s sports and athletics.  In 1999, from the Sunday afternoon jogger to the serious athlete, girls and women now have a full array of competitive sports and fitness activities in which to participate.

My athletic daughter is coming of age at a time when sports, sweat and muscles are just a normal part of being female. She started playing soccer when she was nine at the neighborhood park because all of her friends were signing up to play.  She now plays in a competitive girls’ soccer league full of other girls who love to play hard.  They yell, “Be aggressive!” at the beginning of games. They are praised for being tough on the field, for teamwork, for pushing to the max.

I think the best thing about the post-Title IX world of female sports is that these young girls don’t think twice about being competitive athletes. They have no idea that 27 years ago there were far fewer athletic opportunities for girls.  They have no idea that the general attitude toward female athletes was indifference at best and contempt at worst.

My daughter didn’t even watch the U.S. Word Cup victory live. She had me tape it for later, when she got back from the mall.  For her, it was not, as it was for me, a rearrange all your plans, historic, not to be missed event. It was a cool and important thing, but just one part of the fabric of her adolescent life. Yet, thanks to Title IX, she and millions of other girls don’t have to want to be like Mike when they imagine themselves champions.  They can want to be like Brianna, Mia or Christine, and think its no big deal. Now that’s a revolution.

Say Hey and I love you!

Nearly two years ago my granddaughter had a terrible fall from a window and fought for her life for a month in intensive care, with a long time of healing that followed. Today she is a healthy, happy six year old, fully recovered. The story of her fall is recounted in this post. 

"Say Hey" by Michael Franti and Spearhead (both the song and the video) helped me get through that terrible time. I played it over and over in my car, singing, crying, hoping. I watched the video on the rare times I was home from the hospital. Eventually it made its way on to a playlist called "Warrior Girl" I made for my grandchild and the circle of family and friends helping her through. 

"Say Hey" became our song together - grandma and grandchild. 

Since then, when the song comes into rotation, usually while we are driving, I remind her that it's our song and we sing along together. It is a happy song for us, about our deep connection, our love, and about her survival.

Last weekend we went to Duluth with a friend and her child for a day-long family oriented music festival that culminated in a performance by Michael Franti and Spearhead.

It turned out to be a magical, emotional day for me, and a day of fun and adventure for her.

One of the free activities for kids was a climbing wall, which my grandchild tried for the first time yet scrambled up like an old pro - a spidergirl. Strong and unafraid. I was flooded with emotions, thinking "the girl who fell now climbs to the sky."

Later, when Franti and his band played, she danced and danced to every song, swirling and twirling as dusk turned to night, completely losing herself in the music and the moment. 

But no "Say Hey."

Then, like magic, when the band came out for its encore, Franti invited "all children and people over 60" to the stage and he played our song. My grandchild and her friend made it on to the stage. I watched her up there, dancing and singing, and my heart burst open all over again. With love. With gratitude. And with deep appreciation for a song that seals our love with a great big fat sloppy kiss.

Rocking in the dance hall moving with you/Dancing in the night in the middle of June/My momma told me don’t lose you/Cause the best luck I had was you.

Say Hey and I love you/I love you/I love you/I love you.

Greatest video ever made of the greatest love song ever written

"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin/ Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in/Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove/Dance me to the end of love..."


Yes. Please. 

Summer blogging break

I'll be back. Promise! Busy soaking up that fleeing Minnesota summer!

My Boys

This is an old piece I wrote in 1994 when my son and his friends were heading through middle school. They are now all in their late twenties to early thirties, with families, jobs, and everyday lives. I post this today as we mourn for one of those friends, Quincy Blue, who was lost too soon to senseless violence this week; for those who fell off but are standing back up; for those who are still wobbling; and for those who made it up and out. I love and pray for you all. 


~~~


My Boys

Weekends can be long and wearing during Minnesota winters, especially for mothers and children. Kids get to you when you are locked inside with them for days, with windows shut tight, rooms dim and gloomy from the endless string of cold, overcast days. When I start to feel trapped and penned in, and I’m yelling at every minor infraction, I know it's time to escape, even if it means packing up a pile of kids and bringing them with me. Anything, just get me out of the house. On this particular Saturday afternoon, I am at a suburban movie theatre complex with my eleven year old son, Anthony, and his two best friends, Jamal and Dean. We have trekked out here from our neighborhood on the edge of downtown because it is the only place playing the movie they want to see (Ace Ventura Pet Detective), and the movie I want to see (Six Degrees of Separation), at about the same time. 

After we buy our tickets, I watch the boys head to the video games to hang out until the last second before the movie begins. It's an afternoon matinee, so they know they don't need to hurry in for good seats. They are trying their best to be bad-assed little brothers from the 'hood. They are talking very loud, using street language, and hitting and shoving each other. They are dressed alike — jeans so big and sagging so low on their rears, I am afraid they might fall off; huge athletic t-shirts that feature basketball superstars and hang almost to their knees; and big clunky black gym shoes, the most expensive version of the cheaper end of Nike and Converse that they could cajole from their parents. Jamal's thick, shoulder length sandy-colored locs are gathered in a big ponytail and shake when he walks. Dean's hair is shaved on the bottom half, and big, loopy black curls spring from the top half. He is wearing rose colored granny glasses. Anthony has on his trademark ball cap, a blue one with Tar Heels written in big, cartoon letters across the front, and is walking like he's about to hit somebody. 

I love these honey-colored boys. My boys. When I watch them I see sweet, scruffy, rowdy puppies who make you crazy with their energy, but are so lovable and dear that you forgive them the ripped up cushions on the couch and the shredded magazines on the floor. I love Dean's shyness and politeness - he is well trained by his mother. Never once has he forgotten to clear his plate from the table after finishing one of the dozens of frozen pizzas I have served him and Anthony's other friends over the years. I love Jamal's ease with adults, that way oldest children know how to get you into conversation and charm you by being witty and smart about topics you think most kids don't care about or understand. And Anthony. I love him for his tender-heartedness and the fact that he'll still let me put my arm around him in public and even hugs me in front of his classmates when I pick him up early from school.

"Hey that's wack, you're wack," yells Dean, shy Dean.

I know what wack means (stupid, uncool), but I have no idea what the context is.

"I'm gonna beat your fuckin' face in," says sweet Anthony.

"You're a punk," says Dean, and shoves Anthony, hard.

"That's cold, " laughs Jamal.

Anthony jumps him, not laughing.

I spin fast forward and stop. I'm lost in a nightmare. I can't see anything but brown skinned teen-aged boys, guns, flashing lights, sobbing mothers and girlfriends on the ten o'clock news. I search hard for my boys, my honey colored boys, but I can't see them, I can't make out who's who. "Not them, not us, not me," I pray as the lights go dark.