Sometimes, things just work out. And, isn't it nice when they do?
For the past few weeks, my teenage daughter and more than 100 of her closest friends (or at least, classmates) have been putting in serious hours practicing football. Yes, football. Most evenings, some weekends, for two or three hours at a time. This is on top of schoolwork, her job at the stable, training with her horse, and focusing on college applications. My daughter is one tired young lady.
As of Saturday, she's also a champion.
Yes, she and her team soundly beat the town — and arch-rival team — next door. All I can say is ... "Thank goodness."
Actually, there is much to be grateful for as we head toward the Thanksgiving holiday later this week. First of all, she got through the entire experience without an injury. (All I could think about was that after riding and jumping horses for the past twelve years, she'd wind up with a concussion from Powder Puff Football.) My worries weren't completely unfounded. There were some casualties during practice and I did see at least two girls limp off the field in Saturday's game.
The annual event may be named after something soft and harmless, but these women meant business, believe me.
With so many girls participating, many didn't see much action. But, my daughter did get to play, several times, and even snatched two of the other team's flags, including the very first one of the game.
Apparently, this is a good thing. (So I was told.)
Even before the big game itself, we had plenty of serendipity and luck. From finding cleats on sale to pulling together all the required outfits for "Spirit Week." (Somehow a pair of camouflage pants from freshman year, two sizes smaller than her current jeans, still fit. It was like our own personal Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.) At the last minute (what else is new?), my daughter realized that she really wanted a new dress for the post-game "progressive dinner." I time-shifted some of my own commitments so we could make a mad dash to the mall. We found the very thing she was looking for at the very last store we visited — and 30% off! — before racing back so she could get to her final scrimmage.
When all was said and done, the camaraderie and school spirit we saw on Saturday was really something to behold. I've rolled my eyes countless times through this process, but I confess, I'm a believer now. Never exactly a sports fan (man, that is the understatement of the year), I was perfectly happy to be there, to cheer when I was supposed to (even though I didn't really have a clue why we were all cheering), to congratulate the victors and celebrate with other proud parents afterwards.
My daughter's Powder Puff game was actually the first football game I ever went to. So, I'm particularly happy that it had a happy ending.
You see ... chances are, it will be my last football game as well.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Several days ago, I was in a coffee shop in Boston's trendy South End with my two business partners. We were celebrating their birthdays and brainstorming ideas for a new campaign for one of our clients. I realized it was after 2:30 and excused myself to call my teenage daughter.
"Your mouth guard is in a zip-lock on the patio next to your cleats," I told her.
I hung up and noticed that both of my colleagues had their mouths open. Over the years, they've suffered through all of my stable mom updates: trailer fees and vet bills, early Sunday morning events, ribbons won (or not and why). But, this was something new and different. I could almost hear them wondering, "Waitaminute, she only has the one kid, right?"
"Powder Puff Football," I explained, then gave them the Cliff Notes version of this time-honored tradition. "And, they take it seriously," I finished up, "Very seriously."
A handsome young man at the next table who had overheard my explanation concurred. "I'm from the rival town," he admitted sheepishly. We laughed and let him get back to his work. Suffice it to say, he was fortunate that it was me and not my daughter and her cohorts in that café. He's probably blissfully unaware that for the last three weeks, he and his fellow townspeople have become public enemies number one.
This will be my daughter's second Powder Puff; as a junior, she was a cheerleader. But, it's the first time (and will be the only time) that she's actually playing. And, getting ready for her moment of gridiron glory has been a lot more complicated than I would have expected.
First of all, there's the practice. 2-3 hours a night, Monday through Thursday. This is on top of riding lessons and training, homework and college applications. All of the girls in my daughter's class are feeling stressed, but that didn't stop 100 (of 140) of them from joining in.
Then, there's the gear. As parents of an equestrienne, my husband and I know from gear (and our bank account has the scars to show for it). But, this was virgin territory. "Can you pick up some cleats for me?" my daughter asked a couple of weeks ago, casually in passing.
"Say what?"
Turns out, she needed the aforementioned cleats and mouthguard for practice and she needed them (What else is new?) "Um ... this afternoon." Okay, I'm comfortable in a bookstore, in a museum shop, an antiques store or boutique. But, I've rarely (if ever) been in a Sports Authority. "Where would I find a mouthguard?" I asked a helpful associate. She pointed the way, but didn't warn me that there were about fifty different options available. I chose one that was in the mid-price range and red (one of my daughter's school colors). As far as cleats were concerned, I snagged a pair on a sale table. Alas, they didn't fit. But, my husband exchanged them on his lunch break the next day. Ugly (some might even say, "Fugly") neon green, but he promised to spray them black before the big day.
We are now in the final countdown and the excitement is nearly overwhelming. My daughter was assigned "inside linebacker," at first. But last night, she practiced as "defensive end." Despite the best efforts of more than one ex-boyfriend in my past, I have no idea what any of that means.
Maybe I'll find out on Saturday. "Go team!"
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I just wrote yet another check to my daughter's high school. Honestly, given that it's a public school, they do seem to get us coming and going. This time, it wasn't for a field trip, or PTA dues or PSAT registration. Instead, it was for a tank top and sweatpants. The official, de rigeur — and also default — uniform for the annual "powder puff football" game.
I say "default" because, until last year, the girls wore sweatpants and sports bras.
Our new principal in all his (often hotly contested) wisdom, recently declared a ban on the bras. And, while I'm no fan of censorship and find most dress codes to be misogynistic and an impotent form of slut-shaming, I had to agree with him. Kind of. Sort of. Which has made me not-too-popular with my teen daughter and her friends.
Parents had complained about the revealing outfits. Apparently, some girls were self-conscious about their bodies and didn't attend. Others drastically dieted, no doubt fueling any existing body image and eating disorders. Anything that keeps a girl from starving herself or putting her finger down her throat is ok by me. Plus, it's a school event, and since baring midriffs is against policy anyway, it probably isn't appropriate.
"But, it's tradition ..." everyone whined. And I mean everyone.
If, like me, you grew up in a big city or some other place bereft of this storied tradition, let me fill you in on the sacred ritual of "powder puff football."
Typically, it takes place as a warm-up, a morale booster, a week or so before the big Thanksgiving game. The teams are girls (in our school, senior girls play while junior girls cheer — thus the need for sports bras). And the game is supposed to be the kinder, gentler version: touch football. Official rules state: It is not meant to be a physical, pushing and pounding game. Just like boys football, right? Not! So essentially, "powder puff" provides the best of both worlds. Competition with a soft side.
Oooh, look! The girls are playing football! Isn't that so cute!
Am I the only one who finds the concept condescending? (Then again, I have an issue with cheerleaders too. But, we'll save that for another post.)
Title IX became a law in 1972. "No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving federal financial assistance." This portion of the United States Education Amendments is supposed to assure that girls get the same opportunities as boys. Although not specifically cited, athletics became a major focus in how this law was interpreted. In other words, they should have equal access to organized sports, coaches, teams, equipment and facilities.
Champions of Title IX can point to definitive progress in the growth of sports programs for women. In 2006, a study revealed that the number of women in high school sports had increased by 900%, while the number of women in college sports had increased by more than 450%.
Yet, the "powder puff" lives on. In our town, at least. For now. In fairness, some schools have retired the event. I hope our town will do so soon.
My daughter will be there — in her tank top — and she'll cheer on the girls from her school. But, I hope she realizes that this silly show is just that, silly. Meanwhile, she herself is an athlete. My daughter harnesses the power of a 1,000-pound animal. She rides him in tough competition, jumping fences and logs, hedges, ditches and water obstacles. She is a serious equestrienne. She is strong. She is fearless.
She doesn't own a powder puff.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
