“HIP! HIP! HIP! LET ’ER RIP! WOMAN PASSING? USE THY WHIP!”
Nor were the cheerleaders the only ones forced to adjust to Terry’s presence on the gridiron. At the highest levels of professional football, the grand pundits of the game were engaging in a bitter debate regarding the rule changes necessary to accommodate female players. Their arguments spilled over into the press and soon, the fans were taking sides.
Hard-liners thought that new rules should be instituted to limit the effect of women on those against whom they played. More pliable fans, less threatened by the toppling of tradition, thought the rule changes should concentrate on providing women some special protections in keeping with their femininity. The debaters voiced their views as follows:
“Their breasts should be bound to flatten them, so they don’t distract the guys on the other team.”
“A ten-yard penalty should be instituted for holding a woman player above the waist.”
“Wiggling should be declared illegal motion!”
“Fifteen yards for groping a female in the pile-up.”
“If a chick quarterback gets caught flashing, she should be thrown out of the game.”
“They should automatically penalize ’em half the distance to the goal line for buggering a female tight end.”
Sports announcers were also having problems dealing with a woman player. Commenting on Terry’s games, more than once they found themselves trapped into double entendres. For instance:
“Fumble! And, making the recovery, Terry Niemath goes down on it like a real pro!”
“When it comes to fly patterns, this lady quarter-back sucks ’em in every time!”
“They have to play deep and hard, and so she always has that defense breathing heavy!”
“Few quarterbacks can lay ’em down like Terry Niemath does!”
“Ahead or behind, Terry just keeps banging away!”
Aside from game coverage, TV took cognizance of Terry in other ways. Suddenly there were women appearing in the formerly all-male commercials slotted into the time-outs. Lissome blonde kickers shaved their long legs for Gillette. Curvy, bosomy brunette linebackers arm-wrestled for light beers. A redheaded defensive guard with hips like Raquel Welch’s53 did a Danone Yogurt ad with a male ballet dancer famous for his entrechats. An Afro-American beauty in the bedraggled post-game uniform of a defensive left tackle accepted a coke from a starry-eyed waif-fan and tossed the kid her sweaty bra by way of appreciation. Inevitably, Terry herself was signed up to do a commercial.
It was for a manufacturer of sanitary napkins. “I never have to worry no matter how rough the game gets,” Terry informed the viewing audience. “I’m always secure in the knowledge that I have the utmost in feminine protection.” The video accompanying her voice-over showed Terry taking three tackles, one right after the other, all in the crotch. Then, there was a quick fade-out and fade-in to show her in organdy drinking champagne with a guy in a tuxedo against a background that was all candlelight and soft focus. “I may be a football player,” Terry confided, “but I’m a woman, too.” The guy kissed her hand, and she sighed. “Just like you,” she told all those women stuck with husbands nailed down in front of the Sunday afternoon football game.
The day that particular commercial debuted, Terry’s arm propelled the Whittier Stonewalls into contention for the Western Division championship. The playoff game was set for the following Sunday. It was a stunning achievement for the Stonewalls. We’d started the season in the cellar and here we were with a shot at being Number One. If we made it, that meant the Superbowl. Most of us didn’t even dare think about that out loud.
Charles Putnam called me. He wanted to tell me that he and his associates were delighted with my handling of the Terry Niemath situation. If we took the Division championship, there would be a bonus in it for me. And, if we won the Superbowl—well, perhaps it was premature to look that far ahead, but he could assure me that I would be a very happy man. Even if we should fall short of that, he wanted me to know that the gentleman from Whittier was out of his depression and proud as a peacock of the team established in his honor. “He hasn’t been in such high spirits since the bombing of Cambodia,” Putnam assured me.
His call was followed by the news that Terry Niemath had been named “Woman of the Year” by SWAP (Sensual Women Against Pornography). Stephanie Greenwillow, one of the founding members and an officer of the organization, was coming to Whittier to present Terry with a scroll honoring her. Despite our falling out, I couldn’t help looking forward to seeing Stephanie again.
An unexpected happenstance, however, spoiled my anticipation. It occurred the night of the win that put Whittier in the playoffs. I had made a date with Rhino Dubrowski to go out and have a few drinks to celebrate. Rhino, however, had gotten a head start on me, and so, along about nine in the evening, I found myself putting him to bed, and our celebration was aborted. I’ve never been one for celebrating by myself, and so I decided, the hell with it, and went to my room to hit the sack early.
Terry, obviously, wasn’t expecting me. I walked in on her and Grinder Meade performing the old in-out with the kind of energy you might expect from runaway slaves hotfooting it across the ice-floes with the bloodhounds at their heels. Grinder’s ebony ass was going like he could feel their fangs snapping.
“What the hell do you call this?” I exclaimed.
“Y’all mean you can’t tell?” Terry panted, not even bothering to stop.
It was pointless trying to lay a guilt trip on her. “Grinder!” I tried him. “You know this is against the rules!”
“You got to be kidding, boy!” Grinder wasn’t buying it.
“You think this is right?”
“Miz Scarlett here ain’t hardly complainin’.” Grinder was both sarcastic and undeterred.
I closed the door on them and went back downstairs to the bar. Sometimes, drinking alone isn’t so bad after all. My only complaint was the hangover I had the next day when I bumped into Grinder in the hallway. “I’m surprised at you,” I told him, my liquor-dulled brain incapable of much more by way of an opening line.
“It bother you ’cause I'm black?” He towered over me, but his voice was more sad than hostile.
“No. It bothers me because it’s not good for the team.”
“You mean good for the team like when you fuck the lady?”
“That’s different,” I rationalized. “I’m not on the team.”
“Oh! I see! You’re all upset ’cause somebody on the team is balling her.”
“That’s right.” I had too much of a hangover to keep the self-righteousness out of my voice.
“Well, then, you’d best get un-upset. ’Cause, you see, Steve boy, everybody on the team, black and white together, has been ballin’ the quarterback in the locker room all season.”
“Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?” I demanded.
“We figured you were getting yours in a nice soft bed, so why bother you with the seamier side of locker room life?”
“Listen, Grinder, if you’re telling the truth, we’re all in trouble! Can you imagine what Coach Newtrokni’s going to do when he finds out?”
“He ain’t goin’ to do nothing!”
“How do you figure that?”
“Hell, Victor, he’s the one said we shouldn’t bother telling you we were all fucking her.”
“You mean the coach is screwing her too?”
“Hell, it was him set up the schedule for the team, and you'd best believe he wasn’t getting no sloppy seconds.”
So much for duty! So much for professionalism! So much for the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth!
For the rest of that week, I brooded over how I’d been had. I’d thought I was servicing Terry in order to maintain the team’s equilibrium. I'd thought I was at least partially responsible for the team morale that had brought us victory after victory. And all the time it had been Terry screwing the whole team, as always, which had been behind, it. I brooded . . . oh, how I brooded!