Bury Me Not in a Pink Hat

I wrote an anti-fangirl manifesto three years ago as one of my first ever sports journalism columns. I came up with the idea while walking down International Blvd in Oakland on a warm May day, heading to an evening of enchiladas and drunkenness at a local kickass Mexican joint.

The names might be dated, but the concept remains the same:

Being a fan means something different to the billions of followers of sports around the globe. When it comes to fans of Major League Baseball, twenty-six World Series titles may have more significance than a decades-long curse finally being broken, and not everyone understands why the Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants hate each other so. Ask any fan and you will get a unique and beautiful response to what they think being a fan is all about.

Being a fan is about skimming the box scores from the previous night’s game as you scoot to work. It’s about tacking up your team’s schedule so it’s in plain view. Fans know their team’s telecasters well enough to expect the jokes and references that come up during broadcasts. It’s the smile that comes to your face when you hear a familiar voice calling the games, it’s the aggravation of a losing streak, it’s the jubilation of high-fiving random strangers in the bleachers in celebration of a timely hit.

Fans go to the ballpark for a variety of reasons. There are the hardcore fans who attend every game they can. There are those who go for work outings, or just to get out in the sunshine. Then there are families, Little League teams and Scout troops who take in a day at the yard. But there’s an increasing number of fans out there who don’t belong with any of those groups.

Fangirls are out there, and if you don’t think they’re a problem, you may be unaware of who they are, and where they go wrong. A fangirl is a female sports fan who doesn’t know much about the team or teams she claims to support. Rather than pay attention to stats and trends and team happenings, she can rattle off a player’s height, eye color and favorite band. She could be the lone female in your fantasy league. The one who dropped Randy Johnson to pick up Noah Lowry because she likes the way he looks in those white baseball pants. She may hang around a ballpark just to get an autograph or picture, or she might double as a sports groupie, the true dark side of the fangirl realm. If you need a definition of what a sports groupie is, I regret to inform you that you must be at least this informed to read the column.

They come to the ballpark wearing team attire. Just like the boys, right? Think again. Major League Baseball found a serious cash cow in “feminine” apparel. When the definition of feminine team apparel became discolored cropped jerseys and baseball caps in grotesque shades is beyond the comprehension of many. We’re talking jerseys that don’t look a thing like the jerseys they imitate, from the lettering across the front to the ghastly lime, banana yellow or pink and white fabrics, and the equally confusing pink and baby blue ball caps. The growing appeal of these items can be summarized by a simple assessment of, “it’s cute.” Cute. There’s no cute in baseball. For the record MLB shops do offer replica team jerseys for ladies, just smaller and cut to fit a woman’s body, so at least a woman can wear one of those and not look like a walking marshmallow Peep.

A fangirl shows at the ballpark to get drunk, be loud and obnoxious and show off for horny drunk college males, because watching Suzuki Ichiro go 4 for 4, is like, so boring. Sometimes she wastes time in the bleachers planning the winter formal for her sorority with a few of her sisters while Kerry Wood crafts a gem on the mound. They descend upon the McAfee Coliseum to gawk at the concentration of male pulchritude but can’t tell you how many Gold Glovers are on the field at any time.

A mildly offensive fangirl is one who exhibits knowledge of her team of choice, at least enough to name the members of her starting rotation, but can’t provide fact one about a team or player outside her city. The idea that twenty-nine other teams exist in the league is lost on her. Everyone knows the sun rises and sets behind the Green Monster. Duh.

Alone, or in small groups, these women are harmless. But in the inevitable boys club of sports fandom, narrow-minded perceptions rule. A common assumption among male sports fans is that girls don’t know sports. Or, equally myopic, if she does, she only got into it because of her boyfriend or father. So when a knowledgeable lady comes along who can explain the pitcher of record as well as offer you her thoughts on why American League hitters may have figured out Barry Zito’s curveball, it’s always a shock. Lowered expectations from the aforementioned factors aside, the chick feels a certain satisfaction when she proves she can hold her own. The fact that she has to go to such lengths to gain the respect that’s almost automatic for male sports fans is, in a word, bullshit.

When fangirl behavior is either tolerated or looked down upon, depending on who you encounter, and when surrounded by sherbet-toned jerseys, what does a smart female baseball fan have? She has Barry Bonds, Albert Pujols, Roger Clemens, Carlos Delgado, Carl Crawford and Vladimir Guerrero, and she knows just how great it is to be a baseball fan.