Congrats! You like sports. But uncongrats–you have boobs, so that can’t be true. That’s how it works, right? Well, according to, like, 99 percent of the world it is. Being a female fan is both a blessing and a curse. Here’s why.
You own a pink version of your favorite team’s jersey with a generic number.
Don’t worry, you probably didn’t buy this shit. Your aunt got it for you for Christmas five years ago because she thought it was “adorable” and that you “love that sporting team!!!” This jersey hasn’t seen the light of day since it accidently fell out of your Goodwill box in your closet. You laugh at the girls in the bar wearing an identical jersey who probably don’t know the difference between a double scotch on the rocks and a first down.
No, you don’t watch the WNBA, either.
Sorry, we think it’s just as uninteresting as you do.
Non-sport girls hate you.
…because they think you only enjoy sports for the attention. They think you majored in kinesiology or sports management or athletic training in order to meet athletes to date. Behind your back, they whisper about how you only play in fantasy leagues for the attention, you only go to games for the Insta likes, and you only root for a team so you can look cute in an oversized jersey that belongs to a player you know nothing about. They couldn’t be more wrong. You play fantasy because you love learning about and following players from other teams besides your own, and maybe winning a little cash along the way. You go to games because you love hanging out with thousands of fans just like you. You wear your favorite player’s jersey because you love what he does on the field or the court, not because of the way he looks.
But you still think the players are hot.
So what if you’d saw off your left leg with a butter knife for a shot at one night with Andy Dalton? (Let’s make some ginger children, Andy–even though you play for Cincinnati #ew.) Who cares? Is every guy who has a Redskins cheerleader calendar in his bedroom a phony?
You didn’t go all the way to Buffalo Wild Wings to get a salad.
There’s a reason this female-cut jersey has a little extra wiggle room. Everyone knows that calories on game day don’t count, so excuse me while I dip my barbecue wings in some ranch and chase them with queso and a Coors Light. Call me fat during the game and watch me cut off circulation to your scrotum.
You know the damn rules.
You may or may not pee your pants from excitement when your favorite player intercepts the ball and runs it back 52 yards for a touchdown. You jump up in pure enthusiasm to high-five everyone at the bar, but then someone taps you on the shoulder to politely explain exactly why your team just earned six points. Motherfucker, does it look like I need to be explained to?
So you constantly get quizzed.
Because your ovaries automatically make you an insincere biatch. You know you don’t need to prove yourself to any dumb jock, but if you don’t comply, you’re written off as an attention-loving liar. You could nail 4,000 questions in a row, but the second you get asked about some insignificant stat of a third-string kicker for an equally insignificant team such as the Cowboys (#HTTR) you’ve lost all credibility..