Aiming to Please [9.17.08]

In terms of sports etiquette, there is a galactic volume of difference between men and women. For the most part, men practice the ever-popular "he-man" method: nothing exists but the boy and the ball. If someone, preferably the enemy, needs to bleed or sprain something in order for a man to win, it will happen. For centuries, men have devoted themselves to fighting longer, running faster, and playing harder. On the other hand, most women practice something completely contradictory, and perhaps perplexing, compared to the "he-man" method. When it comes to women, in most cases, there is no method. I would never imagine myself saying this, but Cyndi Lauper was right - girls truly just wanna have fun. Every Wednesday, my girlfriends and I spend some time at the gym, not to see who can bench-press more or break their lifting record, but to play a distinctively non-competitive game of racquetball. Our skills are not comparable to Olympiad status, but instead are graceless and blooper-esque swings popular to any novice. Expecting to follow our weekly fad, we rendezvoused at the bridge and shuffled over to the gym. We approached the desk, and the student worker had us swap our ID cards for three racquetball rackets and one tennis racket. Once I saw the condition of the rackets, I felt like we essentially bartered our souls for leftover morsels in the form of bent sports equipment. Once we entered the court, I knew that we had one hour to have the time of our lives. Halfway through our game, the ball seemed to connect with each of us, one after the other. Our practice finally paid off, and the girls and I shared unmistakable excitement due to our newfound skill. However, the moment got the best of us, and our brick wall of awareness became a wall of aluminum foil. Our attention had been averted, my usually aimless friend swung fast, and the ball smacked me square in the eye. My glasses popped off, my hand instantly shielded my face, and my ducts instinctively brought on the tears. The next few minutes were a literal blur: I flushed my eye out at the germ-packed water fountain while my friends cleared my glasses of skin and smudge. We clumsily laughed through the remaining twenty minutes of our session and eventually returned to the student worker, unharmed rackets in hand. Leaving the gym, I got to thinking about my recent injury: Why wasn't I offended? If I were a man, would I have been? Would I have attempted to get even? Is blood the secret weapon of champions? How far is too far when it comes to battle scars?