It’s not just that I’ve jumped on the Caitlin Clark bandwagon, though I have — along with the 14,624 other people who filled the Barn at the University of Minnesota this week to watch her Iowa Hawkeyes take on my alma mater’s Golden Gophers.
Nor is it that I watched the U.S. Women’s National Team ascend the ranks in the “beautiful game” — a foreign sport, in my youth — in the 1990s and early 2000s, at the very time that my two sons were starting to excel at soccer.
My father and older brother followed the Purple People Eaters–era Minnesota Vikings when I was a kid, back when the team played outdoors and years before one of the fearsome foursome became a state Supreme Court justice. I’ve watched wistfully from the sidelines while my siblings bond each year over their Fantasy Football League.
But now I, too, have found my sport to follow — women’s college basketball in the Midwestern-based Big 10 — and I’m finally feeling it. Here’s what the hoopla is all about!
I’d written off sports as just a guy thing, a way for men to connect and converse while revealing nothing of themselves. I saw the energy but missed the emotions beneath the surface. Following a team through highs and lows, through wins and losses, through “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” — to call up Jim McKay on ABC’s The Wide World of Sports — is a rush, a disappointment, a heady exhilaration, a shoulder-drooping drag.
It’s a slice of life in a single season.
As my career was winding down, my husband and I started going to the occasional Thursday morning concert at Orchestra Hall (the ones with free coffee, cellophane-wrapped doughnuts and an audience base that makes me feel young). Those are lovely and elegant, and they underscore my exposure to classical music as a kid.
But what I really enjoy are the rowdy, rollicking Gopher women’s basketball games that we began attending last year to see Lindsay Whalen coach and then committed to with season tickets this year, hoping that new coach Dawn Plitzuweit could coalesce the team.
David and I met at the University of Minnesota, and we followed the Gophers nominally when Whalen was an award-winning 5-foot-9 point guard and, of course, stuck with her storied pro career with the Minnesota Lynx. David says women play basketball the way he did, “below the rim.” (I firmly believe the NBA should raise the men’s rim, but that’s a different story.)
Basketball is not the only sport where fans are paying more attention to female athletes. Minnesota now has a team in the Professional Women’s Hockey League, and the Minnesota Aurora, a pre-professional soccer team, has been selling tickets and winning matches — all with an honorable and enviable mission: “to create pathways for women and girls to reach their potential, on and off the field.”
Women my age rarely had that chance. Title IX, which mandated equity in sports at institutions that receive federal funds, passed in 1972. I was 15 years old, a leggy, athletic girl who was a cheerleader and took dance lessons and loved to bike and was always a fast sprinter (“for a girl”) but who never was allowed to be an athlete, to play on a team.
I see them now in the stands, women like me in their 60s and 70s or even older, some with white hair and walkers. These are women who have lived through historic shifts in our society — abortion rights won and lost, better pay and political representation, the Violence Against Women Act extended to lesbians, immigrants and Native American tribal lands — and who are showing up and cheering loudly, despite being told for years that they were lesser, they couldn’t compete, they weren’t enough.
Following women sports, being a vocal and unabashed fan, lets us demonstrate that we still are standing strong.
I was working as a “Women in Business” columnist at the Saint Paul Pioneer Press in 1999, when Brandi Chastain kicked the winning goal for Team USA in the Women’s World Cup final at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. My sister Debbie and her family were there. “I actually overheard somebody in the stadium say, ‘They play just like boys!’” she recalls now.
As one of few women on the newspaper’s business desk — and the only one who focused on women’s issues — I was the go-to when male colleagues wanted to get the “woman’s point of view.”
Sure enough, after the sports section displayed the infamous photo of Chastain on her knees, eyes closed, fists raised in the air after she had ripped off her soccer jersey in celebration, my editor called me over to his desk. Was her action unsportsmanlike, inappropriate, simply in poor taste? Or was it sexist that Chastain was getting grief for her exuberance when male players ripped off their jerseys all the time?
And then came the predictable: What do you think of this, Amy?
It was one of those rare moments when I had the perfectly timed response. Pausing to give the photo a once-over, I looked my male editor in the eye and said calmly: “Nice abs.” And then I turned and walked away.
Twenty-five years later, Target Center in Minneapolis is sold out for the Big 10 women’s basketball tournament in March, a women’s sports bar is opening in the Seward neighborhood several miles away and Brandi Chastain, now 55, has framed the famous sports bra, which hangs in her home. As for me? I barely know a fast break from a field goal, but I’m having the time of my life — watching young women excel at opportunities that were denied me, and supporting them every step of the way.