On gender and football

I came across an entertainingly biased article in the June 18, 2006 Sunday Times entitled "Spare us guys your shrieks." It was littered with blatantly sexist to outrageously ignorant observations on how women are clueless about football and that this "pretense" is spoiling men's enjoyment of the Beautiful Game.

"...We don't 'think that women don't understand the game.'
We know it..... In my book, the biggest sinners are
the 10 percent of women who pretend they know the game."

Sure, people like sports for many reasons and at different levels, but why condemn anyone for enjoying something without fully understanding it yet? People grow in their appreciation and interests over time - even the most ardent football fan had to begin somewhere, after all. Furthermore, I'd argue that it's commitment and curiousity - not how much one knows - that ultimately separates the pretenders from the believers.

"...When a woman says she's a football fan, it's like she just revealed that she's a porn star - you can't move on to another topic."
"If they're not whining about how we're ignoring them,
they're trying unsuccessfully to watch the game with us."

It's grossly unfair to judge women's interest in football as purely superficial (i.e. "Oh! Look at his abs") or social ("I've to appear cool to impress the guys") in nature. First, there's absolutely nothing wrong with a little "people watching" - we can all appreciate beautiful bods, touching stories ... as well as a compelling game! The article also fails to acknowledge that men too face significant social pressure to be sports fans. Would the tone be less scathing if the majority of guys who watch football are part of that sinful "10 percent"?

"The problem with women who think they know football is that most of them can't - and never will - be able to engage the men because, crucially, they don't play football."

This was the most absurd point. Women have been playing football for as long as the game has existed - from ancient China to the FIFA Women's World Cup held every four years since 1991. In fact, FIFA estimates that the current 40 million girls and women playing football around the world will equal the number of men by 2010.

Perhaps the author is guilty of the very superficiality and social "inferiority" that we ladies evidently have. To paraphrase:

"I don't 'think that he doesn't understand women
[or even football, for that matter].' I know it."

The World Cup Craze

I wrote this poem when I was the school's sports and special features editor back in 1994. Hope you get a kick out of it.

The hour hand touched four, my alarm clock rang
I stirred, then covered my ears with my hand,
My eyes were glued shut but I struggled out of bed
4:15 a.m.? I'm fifteen minutes late!

I dashed out of my room and stumbled down the stairs
My dad, in pyjamas, was already seated there
One hand holding a book, coffee in the other,
eyes on the t.v., for one and a half hours.

The Cup craze is on! The Cup craze is on!
There are goals to be shot, games and bets to be won
In front of the t.v. we were stuck on the screen
as we applauded and rooted for our favourite teams

For a month, beginning June the eighteenth,
Football was our food, and coffee our drink.
We screamed and yelled and hollered away
and watched like addicts day after day.

We laughed and cried over all the victories
We argued over fouls and criticized the referees
We witnessed the rise and fall of Maradona,
We were appalled by the murder of Escobar from Columbia.

Most thrilling were the spectacular goals and tries
We watched amazed at Romario, Bebeto and Rai!
Enthralled by the magic of Milla and Hagi
Wondering who would win - Brazil? Italy? Germany?

It was a time for upsets, a time for new stars
A win meant some players received Mercedes cars,
Some teams had finesse, some brute strength
but in the end, only the best will be champs

6:45 a.m.? Uh-oh, I've got school!
I grab my things and start wearing my shoes.
But all day long, I'm still in a daze,
Why? That's because I've got the Cup craze.

Lastly, here's an England 2006 World Cup vidsong for all you fans!

Mon Dieu, c'est la Coupe du Monde!

These days, ~70% of my working hours are spent with a group of Europeans. Added to that, the World Cup fever is back - and along with it, the thrill of staying up late and dissecting football plays - something I'd not done since 1994, when I last lived in a country that calls football "football" and not "soccer" (aka anywhere BUT the US). I'm also an unashamed global sports fan so was pleasantly surprised to read Why the World Cup is better than the Olympics in this week's Economist. Poking around during the half time between France and Switzerland, I took this random quiz on what I'd be if I actually were European. Guess my French-speaking colleagues won this one.

Your Inner European is French!

Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so.

Who's Your Inner European?

PS - Way to go, South Korea!!!

The First Year

This June 4 weekend marked a year since we tied the knot in Boston. On Saturday, we had dinner at Saint Julien, a French restaurant at the Fullerton Waterboat House. The hubby went out of his way to get the best seats in the house, aptly called "Lovers Corner." Aww.....

The view of the Esplanade, from the Theaters on the Bay to the Stamford Swissotel, was a tribute to our first "big decision" - getting engaged in 2003. We talked about what a year this has been, our future hopes, and how relevant the wedding message has been for us today.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116