by Jordyn White; TheRoot.com
In women’s pro football, color matters, but race does not.
I hate her. I’ve never seen her before, and don’t know her, but I don’t need to. I see what she looks like. I see what she’s wearing. I see who she’s with. That tells me everything I need to know. She can’t be trusted–her kind never can–and all she wants is to push her own agenda and obliviate mine. So, for the next hour, my sisters and I will do everything in our power to show her and her little girl gang how we feel about having to share our turf with them. They will leave here, battered and bruised, with their heads down and their tails between their legs. And we will remain superior.
My fervor for this sectarian battle into which I am all too eager to enter has nothing to do with race or skin color. When my opponent is in her war gear, all I can see on her is the white in her eyes. But her armor– helmet, pads, uniform, socks, gloves, cleats–makes her readily identifiable. I’m a linebacker on a women’s semi-professional full contact football team, the DC Divas. Eleven Saturdays a year, for 3 hours, my teammates and I put on our maroon, gold, and white, and go to war.
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