The Power of a Little Red Fabric

When I was sixteen years old, I decided to play football. That doesn't sound all too riveting, I'm aware, considering millions of sixteen-year-olds play football every year in America. But the catch was that I was a sixteen year old girl. And I did do it—play, that is. When I turned seventeen, I became the varsity placekicker and was the only girl on the team, the only girl to play football in the school's history, and to my knowledge, the only girl to ever play in and score points in a New Jersey State championship football game.

Go ahead, avail yourself of your impulsive thoughts. I've heard them all. Girl power! Kick like a girl! That's weird! Whatever tickles your fancy, feel free to think it. I have but one request to make of you, dear reader, and that is this: try to place yourself in the pink soccer cleats (with a purple fade) of a seventeen year old female football player. Hormones raging. Boys staring. And a blaring attitude of I don't give a damn.

Playing football proved itself to be one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. As it turns out, you can’t exactly waltz onto a football field styled in Pop Warner sized gear, adorned with pink soccer cleats, while worrying what people think of you. It just doesn’t work.

No, instead, the young girls flipping the bird at the man while walking onto America’s football fields must have nerves of steel. And because of that necessity, I was very lucky to see success with my team during my short-lived football career. Together we led our school to its first state final with the most wins in the school’s history, and I personally got to boast a 33-yard field goal and a record of 43 for 47 extra points.

In all honesty, I couldn’t have achieved any of it without the help of my team. Now, before you stop reading because you think this is another sappy story from a 45 year-old guy reminiscing about the glory days, remember, I was a seventeen year old girl among 60 boys, and this is a story about an embarrassing moment.

Now that I have your attention once more, let us resume. My team and I became very comfortable around each other. It was perfectly normal that I was on the field, and most of the curiosity about my playing came from the other teams or the fans. My teammates and I were friends. It was great. They supported me and always had my back. But in life, as you have likely discovered by now, sometimes you can get embarrassed even in front of the best of friends. This is one of those times.

On the days before our games, we had what was called a walkthrough practice. There was no contact, and therefore no gear, save for your helmet. We wore our game jerseys and either shorts or sweatpants, depending on the weather. The particular walkthrough practice I’m thinking of happened to take place during the fall, so I was wearing a pair of loose sweatpants with our team logo plastered on the hip. I specifically remember these sweatpants had no elastic band around the ankle, because our coach was, well, let’s say picky.

As per usual, my role during the walkthrough was to go through the special teams operation of extra points and field goals. We began our usual line up on the ten yard line. The offensive line was in position, and my holder dropped to his knee. I set my block up and took my steps: two back, two to the side. My holder looked up at me through his facemask, giving me a nod. I nodded back.

“Ready, ready,” he called out the cue. The center snapped the ball back and my holder caught it, placed it down on the block, and I was there, swinging my leg through and watching the ball sail through the uprights.

Only something caught my eye. Something red followed in the ball’s path and landed between me and my holder and the offensive line. I stuck my arm out, my finger pointed at it.

“What’s that?” I called out.

No one answered. The red thing glared at me from the center of the field, surrounded by players.

“Guys,” I said a little louder, eyeing the mysterious red thing closely. “What the hell is that?”

Radio silence.

Then suddenly, the guys all got up from their positions and quickly hustled off the field during the same moment that I realized what I was staring at and why everyone was ignoring me.

There on the field lay a lacy, bright red thong, and it likely didn’t belong to one of the 60 young boys on the field. Instead, I—the seventeen year old girl standing in her feminine lonesome—hurried over to the thong and swiped it off the ground, stuffing it into my pocket. I realized that the underwear must’ve stuck to the inside of my sweatpants during its tumble in the laundry, and flew happily across the field when I kicked the ball.

Now, if you recall, seventeen year old girls playing football must have, with no exception, at least one thing: nerves of steel. But nerves of steel don’t prepare you for the unexpected flight of lacy red thongs in the middle of 120 teenaged boy eyes. They just don’t.

But looking back with my now 25 year-old eyes, I laugh with a deeper understanding of why those teenaged boys ignored my questions and scurried off the field. Oh, do I laugh.