Super Bowl: Women’s Lib Lineup

The Super Bowl

A big game named after a tiny ball and one of America’s most anticipated holidays–although it would be much bigger if it ever fell on a weekday and we were given time off from our jobs to watch it. With pay.

In the past, it was Dad’s me time–he had complete control of the TV and nobody bothered him with emergencies like broken bones or bickering–American Fathers could spend the day living the dream–which usually meant that there was lots of loud yelling from the den (the man-caves of yesteryear aka–the 1970’s), beer, and absolutely no women and children allowed.

 

Somewhere along the line, we ladies earned the right to:

–     vote – on which food to serve on Super Bowl Sunday

–     to treat our bodies as we please–Yes, I will take another Corona and some chicken wings

–     to not only gamble on and watch the big game–but to like it.

And why wouldn’t we? As much fun as it is to assume that women don’t like violence, have you seen reality TV?

Or how about those mobs on Black Friday?

More often than not, shoppers arrive in teams, made up of both men and women, but the quarterback is almost always female. She calls the plays at midnight in the car on the way to the store:

First, she designates the running back, usually the smallest and most wiry, to navigate around The Fridges and to avoid the Clothesline Tackle. After a forehead pluck to the sleepiest of the crew, she warns her fullbacks that if they don’t tech block and she can’t nab an iPhone 6+, there’ll be hell to pay when they get home. They go over the strategy several times and she drills them endlessly.

The Christmas Quarterback is usually an overachiever. Four downs is three too many…they still have five other stores, each the size of a football field to hit. But in the end, if there’s a flag on the play, Mamaback will fly solo and take the game to the next level… that Big Hugs Elmo isn’t going buy and wrap itself…

How did this Aggressive Revolution start? 

Many would like to argue that after years of oppression and mediocre wages, an uprising began and the All-American sport seemed like the best way for women to express their hidden rage. The days of smiling through gritted teeth had ended, and women were sacking their lives, bent on changing things.

I don’t agree. I think it began in the park, at a time when it was no longer acceptable for nuns or parents to take out the switch and beat children into behaving. In the eighties and nineties, kids were suddenly acknowledged as human beings with feelings and personalities that were affected by their environment. The spotlight was put on pedophiles, child abusers, and the idea that parents and kids should be BFF’s. We were beginning to live longer. If kids hated their parents, what kind of home would they put them in when they got old?

And so  a new era of playground mothers donned their game faces and formed a defensive line.

As far as they were concerned, no unauthorized players would make it to the end zone where their kids were playing.

Every sandbox has one–the alpha female–the quarterback. Her closest confidants–the only ladies who know that she and her husband haven’t had sex in two months–aka the defensive tackle, are authorized to babysit her kids if an emergency pops up. They have a say in choosing the defensive ends–you need more than three women to take turns bringing the wine to play dates–the ones who round out the clique. Sure they criticize everyone’s parenting skills behind each other’s backs, but if a new kid and parent want to use the swings, they are a team again, enforcing their seniority status and effectively blocking bullies and newcomers from muscling in.

Cornerbacks visit sporadically, sitting on the far side, usually near the see saw. Typically they are working moms choosing to keep to themselves on a rare day off. Although they are welcome to come to lunch at Mickey D’s, they are more acquaintances than friends. When strangers (especially ones who arrive without a kid in tow) approach, they are the first to see and will welcome them in a loud, high pitched tone–a signal that is acknowledged by the other parents. Quickly, but subtly, the linebackers take their places, alert and ready to tackle any wrongdoer if need be.

 

After a few years, women began to realize that they had more in common with America’s favorite pastime than anyone had previously thought.

Respect for the game grew, and it trickled down through the female bloodline. Suddenly, they started speaking up when it came to sexual harassment and their love of sports. Women’s participation in games like soccer and basketball were well received, and more and more female fans were born. I’m not sure that we’ll see women playing professional football anytime soon, but when my man asks for another beer and I throw a perfect spiral, he smiles and winks at me. In our house, that’s code for get ready to score after the game. And if you can pass those chips without blocking my view and interrupting the play, I’ll see you later for the extra point.