By this point, science has established over and over again that if you've got a vagina and you watch football, you're just doing it to impress the boys. Duh. That's a no-brainer. Female sports fandom is a myth perpetuated by feminists to make women seem more equal to men, like the G-spot and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. But even though we know that a woman's real reason for watching football couldn't possibly be "she likes football," there are a myriad of stupid ulterior motives a lady might have for wanting to witness the savagery of sport. So let's find out: What type of played out female football fan stereotype are you?
In Hoboken 411's Jersey Girls, therapist Jessica Kasevich answers the important questions: What's underneath your jersey? and What does [female sports' fans'] presence really mean [at bars]? and, most importantly, What are women's real reasons for watching football? Getting to the bottom of these tangled psychological mysteries will first require each and every one of us to admit what Jessica Kasevich knows: we've all got some sort of deceptive ulterior motive that is driving us to do something as unfeminine as fandom.
You've tried everything. Designer dresses. Fancy high heels. Brazilian asshole bleaching and very expensive salon nipple extensions that must be reapplied every 2-3 weeks. You go out with frowning suit-wearing men you meet at gallery openings, at work, while trying to catch a cab, while squeezing fruits at the grocery store. And they're all terrible! Ugh! Men! As you sit at your laptop writing another exhausting email to your gay friend who has long ago stopped giving a shit about your self-obsessed neuroticism, you can't help but wonder: In Order To Win At Dating, Do You Have to Get in the Game?
So you hear about this thing called "foot-ball," which apparently involves various geographically-based teams of millionaire sex offenders who attempt to carry a purse-sized inflatable down a long, grassy field while wearing colorful helmets. You study up and learn that a field goal is not called a "three pointer," and that the New York Giants' David Carr is not the same David Carr who writes for the New York Times. Man-trap set, you and your equally man-hungry friends paint your faces like a bunch of hussies, strap on some designer shoes, and teeter over to your local "sports bar," a place that smells like burps and doesn't serve wine spritzers, but nonetheless boasts many potential future husbands.
I'm sorry to inform you, weak, non-cooking snobby urbanite women who work in PR, but football anthropologist Jessica Kasevich is onto you.
Some single woman look at football season as a way to meet men at bars. These women usually have well made up faces, carry a designer purse, dresses in jeans, high heels and wear their team of choice foot ball jersey under false pretenses. They really don't like football. They use the jersey as a commonality to strike up a conversation.
Let's hope your maybe-potential-future-Mr. Snotty Urbanite doesn't catch onto your ruse. Otherwise you'll be trapped into pretending to care forever.
Unlike Scary Sadshaw up there with her endless yammering and expensive tastes, you may have a more blue collar pedigree or a more cartoonish sexual appetite. You don't care about the game; you just want to pull a hapless guy in a backwards baseball cap into a bathroom stall and give him a theatrical blow job in front of several cell phone cameras. But your methods are more refined than the Scary Sadshaw's; you might even take time to learn the names of the players, to scream at the flat screen TV's, to jump up and down and hug your friends when "your" team scores.
This is all a trick. Like Scary Sadshaw, CCBGBSP wears the sacred jersey in the spirit of lies and deception. After showing up at one game watch and successfully interacting with a boner, she'll return again and again until she has made that boner her own. Her poor football fan mark won't even know what hit him. Soon, guilt over all those sloppy post game trysts will push him into having a girlfriend he never intended to have. Which brings us to our next played out female fan stereotype...
Ugh, there you are again, hanging all over your stupid jersey-wearing boyfriend and pursing your lips disapprovingly as Scary Sadshaws and CCBGBSPs nearby high five him after impressive plays. Who is that slut? How do you know those girls? you ask, eyes darting around the perimeter to survey the potential threats to your claimed man. If he goes to the bar without you, he'll end up making out with one of them, you just know it, because you used to be one of them. Ugh, women are terrible.
These women believe their presence will ward off other women. Maybe the girlfriend's presence will deter interaction for that day, but what about the other days?
Yeah, what about other days? Better get his email passwords, just in case. How about a joint Facebook account?
You won, lady fan. You won WIFE. Your prize is a shiny diamond ring and the promise of baby-growing sperm deposits and a house and a driveway and Sears family portraits and stability. But you've made a deal with the devil when you entered into a relationship under the premise that you give a spiraling fuck about football. Now, you're going to have to decorate a room in your house with Packer green and gold, even though those colors look like different shades of infant poop. You're going to have to go to every game watch with him, no questions asked, because you're his Cool Lady Football Wife. You're going to have to make Football Snacks, serve them on Football Snack Trays, and then hand wash the Football Snack Trays because they're not dishwasher safe. No, honey! You and the boys relax! Just let me clean up! It's your day!
Kasevich, again, elucidates:
Some women who are not fans go because their boyfriends have asked. They do not mind sacrificing a Sunday afternoon to make their partner happy, because they are emotionally rewarded from the selfless gesture. Stay at home moms can relate to these feelings of happiness they gain from sacrificing for the better of their families.
Did you hear that, Doormats? The stay-at-home retirement of your dreams is imminent. You've earned it.
What if you watch football games by yourself so that you're not distracted by Black Eyed Peas songs playing over loudspeakers during the commercials and random angry dudes suddenly pushing each other for no reason? What if you have to go on a long walk, alone after a team loss, because you just can't be around other humans at a time like this? What if you don't enjoy sexual relations with men? What if you're in a relationship with a man who actively hates football and so you have to sneak watching highlights of your alma mater so he doesn't make fun of your continued debilitating fandom?
Check between your legs. You've probably had a penis this whole time. If you don't, check under the couch cushions for a man you may be subconsciously trying to impress. There's no way you actually like football.