Maria Sharapova, Danica Patrick, Natalie Gulbis. Have you heard of them? No?
Well then, allow me. (I’ve been watching a lot of sports lately. I’ve learned a lot.) Maria Sharapova, a professional tennis player, won Wimbledon last year. Danica Patrick, an open-wheel racecar driver, came in 4th at Indy last month. Natalie Gulbis, a pro golfer on the LPGA circuit, has already won over a million dollars in her fledgling career, and is in contention to win the U.S. Open this week.
But that’s not why you may have heard of them.
You’ve heard of them because they’re hot. You’ve heard of them because they make sportswriters, and men in general, drool.
And I, for one, think it’s terrible that we can’t be satisfied with these women on their merits alone. I mean, isn’t being hot…enough?
Being hot doesn’t happen often. It’s rare. And my oh my, what does it say about us as a culture that we can’t be satisfied with our hot women for their hotness alone, and insist they also…play sports?
Sports are hard. Sports are grueling. Sports aren’t pretty. And yet, we demand our pretty women play sports if they want to get on the cover of “ESPN The Magazine.” What kind of slave-drivers are we? Who among us tolerates such indentured hottitude?
In America, you won’t get the Nike endorsements, the Adidas commercials, the Fox Sports exclusives unless you have a killer forehand, a power fade, or a top qualifying speed of 212 mph. What is that about?
Hell, there’s only one month a year when the women wearing swimsuits in “Sports Illustrated” don’t have to be athletes as well.
Sports exact too harsh a toll on our beautiful women. Like engendered species, they should be protected, and instead, we exploit them and demand they fly too close to the sun for our amusement. We send them into the arena for an exhausting three-setter, an 18-hole playoff, a 200th lap. The burnout factor is insurmountable. I guarantee you, somewhere, Anna Kournikova is staring into a mirror muttering, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. McEnroe.”
I don’t have the answers. I can only raise the questions. Such as: Annika Sorenstam – what’s wrong with her form? Who the hell is (was?) Billie Jean King? And next time you insist your beautiful women also accomplish miraculous feats of athletic derring-do, ask yourself…
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