Men can be very dismissive of women’s sports and, judging by the game of beach volleyball I downloaded from the Internet, I must admit, there may be some justification for this seeming chauvinism. As I watched the competitors leaping about, emitting little grunts and gasps as they contested the ball, I was initially impressed by their athleticism and determination. It seemed like quite a demanding game and it must’ve been very hot because the participants weren’t wearing all that much. They weren’t togged out in jerseys or anything. I’d imagine that kind of attire would be stifling.
Anyway, I was beginning to really enjoy the match when all of a sudden they stopped playing. ‘Halftime’ I presumed as both teams headed off to the locker room. I was nonplussed when the camera followed them back to a shared togging out area. Then things really took a surprising turn when the competitors stripped off and jumped into a large, open-plan, communal shower. ‘You don’t get that on Match of the Day’ I exclaimed. I must say, these girls had a real sense of team-spirit and this team-spirit showed in the shower as much as on the field of play when they started to soap each other down. Some of the athletes were even soaping down members of their opposing team, which further exemplified good sportsmanship. Extra commendation must be offered for the high standards in hygiene exhibited by these sports women, nary a nook or cranny was overlooked.
Well, the showering was going on for a while when I realised they’d been cleaning each other longer than they’d spent competing. Naturally, I was keen to see them get back out there and resume the match. I wanted to know who was going to win and, although I hadn’t yet chosen a side, I was enjoying the game. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t know the score. There had been no indication of the score or even a play by play commentary of any sort to keep the viewer up to speed. ‘Hmm’, I thought, ‘not good enough really’.
My hopes of match resumption lifted slightly when a coach (a no nonsense looking man about my age) entered the locker room and blew a whistle. The girls looked up from their mutual grooming and stared at him. ‘Good’, I thought, ‘they’ve remembered why they’re there’. However, my hopes were dashed when the coach proceeded to disrobe and join the others in the shower. The athletes descended on him and he got quite a bath let me tell you. He seemed very pleased about it all. I was less than pleased though. If women are so scatty minded as to wander off washing their hair halfway through a game how can they expect others to invest in their athletic pursuits?
‘No’, I said aloud, ‘not good enough, not good enough at all. They should all be bloody spanked, you hear? Spanked!’ Raising my fist, I reiterated my point - to no one in particular or perhaps God almighty, I’m unsure which - and began roaring the word ‘Spanked!’ over and over again. Needless to say, The Mother comes barging in* and gets the wrong idea entirely.
*(A common occurrence, justified by The Mother under a weak pretext that she has to check the immersion, which is in my room.)