“Knock him down again, Tara, then help him up and tell him he was knocked down by a girl.”
Tara was an eight year old soccer player who told her parents she wanted to play on the Almor West Elementary School little league football team. I’m not sure how many parents dream that their precious little princess will grow up and play football someday, but I know Tara’s parents weren’t among them. Their eye darted nervously, up and down as they broached the subject of their baby girl hitting the gridiron with the 3rd and 4th grade men. “Tara wants to play on your team, but she can’t, right?” In retrospect, I think they hoped I would say no, but being slow on the uptake, I missed the subtle message. “Sure,” I said. “What position do you think she’d like to play?” “Kicker,” her dad sighed. “She plays soccer and she wants to be the kicker.” I thought kicker was a great place for Tara to play, but then I asked a team-changing question. “We’ll be doing some pretty tough contact drills. We’ve got to teach these kids to hit people. They’ve got to get over years of parents and teachers telling them not to hit other kids. Can Tara participate in the hitting drills? She might feel left out if she doesn’t. And I’m afraid the other boys won’t accept her if she doesn’t take part in everything the team does.” Her parents reluctantly agreed that Tara could be part of the hitting drills if she wanted to be.
At first, our boys didn’t react well to Tara’s presence on the team. “Girls can’t play football,” they said. I think some of the boys’ parents thought the same thing.
Nevertheless, about a month later Tara started the first game of the season by kicking off to our opponents. Then she took her place as our starting nose tackle on defense and the starting left guard on offense. Our sweet, soccer playing Tara was a brute on the field, terrorizing any boy who dared line up against her.
Word got out that there was a girl on the Almor West 3rd and 4th grade team, but no one suspected she was lurking in the middle of our offensive and defensive lines. Most of our opponents assumed our quarterback was the girl because he wore his beautiful blonde hair in a long mullet that hung out the back of his helmet well past his shoulders. They never dreamed that the anchor of our defensive line, the big, strong kid in the middle who kept knocking their center into the quarterback, was the girl.
We were playing one of our rivals and Tara got down into her stance in front of the center as she always did. As he snapped the ball Tara lunged hard at him. She hit him with both hands in the shoulder pads knocking him backwards. She jumped over the poor kid and tackled their quarterback. Three times in a row, in a display of quickness and ferocity I rarely witnessed in little league football, Tara knocked the poor kid right on his back. As they lined up for the fourth time Tara looked like a hungry jungle cat ready to pounce on her defenseless prey. She dug her toes into the ground for leverage, so she could shoot forward like a sprinter. She got so low she had to turn her head sideways to look the center in the eye. He snapped the ball and for the fourth time, she drove him backward and onto his back, only this time she didn’t jump over him. Tara just stood there, towering over the kid. She didn’t taunt him. She didn’t say a word, even. She just looked down at him. But the boy, in a fit of frustration I’m sure, jumped to his feet and kicked her in the shin. Exhibiting self-control beyond her years, Tara didn’t react. It was like nothing happened, like she felt nothing. The referees however, noticed what happened and kicked the boy out of the game. While hitting is encouraged in football, kicking is not. There are standards, you know.
I continue to be amazed at the barriers, prejudices, and fears that can be overcome by someone with a little bit of talent and a lot of heart. Girls can’t play football. Really? Tara didn’t know that, and I’m glad.