MELLIE MACKER
I love baseball. Every year, through 162 games, my emotions rise and fall with the success or failure of my Detroit Tigers. I follow the records and outstanding plays of every team, and adopt an appreciation for the all-stars and rookies who capture my heart with their athletic abilities. I eat, sleep and breathe statistics – AVG, OPS, BABIP, WHIP: I know what they mean and who’s leading in the rankings.
What I don’t love, however, is talking to men about baseball. As with cars, beer, or even comic books – when women cross over into the realm of things that are considered “masculine”, their opinions become subject to severe scrutiny. Sports are the goddamned paragon of this brutal prejudice.
It would be one thing if I were merely a casual spectator, but instead I am a die-hard fan with an ego that refuses to be flexed with – just like any number of spectators with testicles.
Not all men are at fault; in fact, many of the guys I know and revere for their baseball knowledge genuinely don’t care if I’m XX, because they are too wrapped up in the game to even notice that I happen to have boobs.
So, if I’m talking to a guy, and he puts on that shit-eating grin when I mention that I live and die with the tide of America’s Pastime, I prepare myself to field the barrage of condescending questions and insulting statements that I am 76 percent sure will follow. Note: Statistics are variable depending on how many beers have been consumed and if anyone is in scoring position.
This usually will manifest in one of two ways:
- He has one or two particular stats or historical occurrences that he has memorized for this particular situation. Usually, he’ll frame this into a question that has a correct answer and if I don’t guess correctly, he wins. If I do know the answer, great. If not, I have an entire arsenal of response questions that he probably won’t know. Sandy Koufax’s ERA in 1965? 2.05. The year Al Kaline was adopted into the Hall of Fame? 1980. 1929 Batting Champion? YEAH I DIDN’T THINK SO. Lefty O’Doul, for the record. I have mastered length and girth in this dick-measuring contest.
- “You only like baseball because you think (insert conventionally attractive baseball player here) is hot.”
Yep. You caught me. I obsess over a rotating roster of 25 men and their individual performances, and closely monitor the activity of 29 other fully-staffed teams over the course of nine whole months in hope that I will one day have the golden opportunity to put my mouth on some dude’s weiner. RED-FUCKING-HANDED. The sheer douche-baggery of this cannot be understated. In so few words, I am accused of being unable to properly enjoy an activity unless there is some sort of sexual context introduced – and this doesn’t work both ways. Men are allowed to “appreciate” the undulation of bodies, the grace of on-field motion without being accused of any sexual inclinations (“seriously bro, no homo”). This also undermines my intellect, by suggesting that I cannot actually comprehend the fundamentals and intricacies of the sport, and therefore must be drawn to it by some alternative primal instinct.
It used to flatter me when I talked to a fellow about baseball, and after some time, his skepticism relented and he said, “Wow, you really know your stuff!”
Not anymore. It’s exhausting, and quite frankly, it’s ruining my appreciation of the game because I have to prove that I like something more than someone else in order to be let into the Secret Club of Men Who Know Things About Sports No Girls Allowed.
If I like baseball, I should be asked normal questions, like: “Who do you think is going to win the World Series?” Not: “Who is the hottest player from 1977?”
But just because you asked, it’s Bucky Dent from the Chicago White Sox.
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