About five years ago, I took my middle niece to a professional soccer game for her birthday. Seattle’s pro women’s soccer team was playing then at a municipal stadium at the base of the Space Needle. I bought tickets, had her invite a friend, and found myself sitting on the hard bench seats at a Saturday match next to two eleven-year-olds.
That’s when I started crying.
I covered it up behind sunglasses. It wasn’t big tears—just the sort of misting that happens when unexpected emotions come out your eyeballs. It took me by surprise, though. I hadn’t been prepared.
I hadn’t been prepared for the dads who were there, sitting side by side with their daughters—the parallel play that so many men’s relationships are built on, not deeply interacting but being together.
Had these dad-daughter pairs done things like this before, or did the fact of a women’s sports team give them new territory to share?
I hadn’t been prepared for sitting next to the team cheering section, where there were drummers and horns and men standing on the benches waving massive big flags for the team.
Men, waving big flags, for women? Had I ever seen that before in my life?
(This may be a reflection of my attendance at sporting events, but the answer is no.)
I hadn’t been prepared for the team to run out onto the pitch, each member holding the hand of a young girl dressed in a mini uniform. Apparently this is standard practice across the soccer world, but I had never seen it before.
Growing up, sports was a male world into which I was occasionally allowed to trespass. But in all my years playing sports, I never had female coach or mentor—not even one.
To see these young girls holding the hands of adult women players—being welcomed onto the field, with role models to look up to—did me in and the tears came.
I remember very little of the game. That part felt less important than the fact it was being played, that these amazing women were running and passing and being cheered on by men and women, young and old.
My niece and her friend took it all in stride, took it all for granted—which, honestly, makes me glad. I’m thrilled they think this is just the way things are.
And I couldn’t have possibly explained to them what it meant to me—and what a change this is from when I was their age. I had been the only girl to play on my town’s co-ed soccer team.
Even later, when I was in high school and there were girl soccer teams, it was so frequently assumed that sports was something that stopped for women once you graduated; the opportunity pipeline ratcheted down to the tiniest trickle.
When the game was over and we were all milling out, we were in a throng of people wearing player’s jerseys from the team. But these were women’s names on the jerseys—and they were being worn by women, by little girls, but also by men.
Have I ever seen a man wearing clothing with a woman’s name on it? I don’t think I have.
Women’s clothes are often emblazoned with the names of male designers—Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Michael Kors—but have I ever seen the name of a female designer worn proudly by a man? (Please tell me if you know of one, I cannot think of an example of it).
That these men would look up to women and want to represent and promote them—it felt like a small step that was actually a profound shift.
I don’t want to overstate the progress here—women’s pro soccer, like all women’s team sports, has struggled with lack of support and lower ticket sales. Despite four World Cup titles, the U.S. women’s national team had to sue for equal pay compared to the (much less successful) men’s team. Last February, three years after the suit was filed—and six years after their original complaint to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission—they won parity of pay, though the difference in resources given the men’s and women’s teams is still an issue.
The game I watched that day is the culmination of years of work and effort to foster women’s soccer, and I suspect it’s been uphill both ways (a huge THANK YOU to everyone involved in the fight). And yet, it felt like magic to see the enthusiasm, to see the support for the players, to be there with two young girls who took the whole thing very much for granted.
No one can tell me that change isn’t possible—it’s happening every day and all around. The key, I think, is to find the niche that matters to you, one where you can stick in and make a difference—and to keep pushing forward.
I’ve always liked this quote, from Indian author and activist Arundhati Roy:
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”
Let’s see how far we can advance down the field this year—for everyone.
[Hello from my childhood co-ed soccer team: just me and the boys.]
beautiful. thank you.