… It's the Only Thing

August 10th, 1992

The woman behind the table chewed her gum like a cow working her cud as she stared blankly at my nine-year-old sister. “This is for boys, dearie. Cheerleading sign-ups are down the hall.”

“No, ma’am. It’s for me,” she said. Ma and I were at another table, with her filling out my forms for the rec league. The only one paying any attention to my sister was the woman refusing to help her.

“But you’re a girl. That’s a boys’ sport. Not for girls.”

“Are you saying girls are unable to play?”

“No, dearie. Just….” She trailed off and looked around the parks department offices; there wasn’t anyone else to take over the table. Nor anyone to pay attention to other than Sis.

“Then I want to play pee-wee, like Junior used to when he was my age.”

The woman glanced over at my mother, who was ignoring their conversation with the high-intensity focus of someone trying to pass a much-needed final exam. When our eyes met, I gave the woman a noncommittal smile and shrug. If I were her, I would’ve just handed over a form and been done with it.

She then leaned forward, dropping her voice, but I heard what she said, harsh as sandpaper and full of iron. “Listen, dearie. Boys aren’t going to like you playing with them. They’re going to hit you—hard. You’re going to get hurt—bad. They’re going to make you cry—loud. That’s if the coaches let you play—which they won’t.”

Sis stared, and I could tell from the way her arms were crossed that she’d had enough. “Joan.”

“What?”

“My name is Joan, not dearie. And I need a form.” I cleared my throat and Sis flushed a little. She added, “Please.”

The woman took her gum out and stuck it under the edge of the table. Her jaw looked tight, and her cheeks had turned red. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Joan, dearie, go fetch your mother.”

* * * * *

The ride home in the Caprice was tense between the two of them. I watched through the window from the passenger seat. I didn’t want to get brought into their conversation, so let it pass, same as the scenery.

“Joanie, you know your father isn’t going to let you play football. He might let you lead cheers if you ask him nicely. He’d probably like that.” Ma and Pa called her “Joanie.” I called her “Sis” or “Joan.”

“I don’t care.” She pointed toward me. “He played. And I can beat him.”

Ma laughed. “Junior’s too big for you, he lets you beat him.” Her laughter stopped when I shook my head; there’s a reason I don’t call her “Joanie.” “That don’t matter, baby. You’re a girl. Girls lead cheers; we don’t play football. I led cheers when I was your age.” It wasn’t a winning argument.

Joan held tight to the paperwork in her lap, like it was a get-out-of-school card. She needed a parent’s signature. Ma had already made it clear that she was deferring to Pa. So Sis needed him to sign the paperwork. He’d already gone to work for the evening, so she had until the next day to come up with a plan. But knowing Sis, she’d figure something out.

* * * * *

The following day, after we’d done our chores, Joan was busy at the table, reading one of her “Little House” books. Odd, as she finished that series a couple years ago. I saw her reading Hatchet last month, from my summer reading list, not hers, and I barely got through that one.

Ma was busy making Pa’s supper. She looked startled when I said hello to each of them and swatted at Sis with the dish towel. “What are you doing sneaking about? I thought you were outside.”

“Don’t want to wake Pa early.” Joan got up and grabbed a glass, filling it with water from the tap. She returned to the table; I saw the book was On the Shores of Silver Lake. I had no clue which one that was; I preferred the TV show.

Pa came down about an hour later, after five, half-dressed for his job at the prison. He sat opposite Sis, and Ma set a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes down before him. He grunted his approval and started digging in, without acknowledging any of us directly. Ma and I rose to serve ourselves, while Joan sighed loudly and kicked her chair leg.

Pa looked up at that. He looked half asleep. “What’s the matter with you, girl?”

She thumped the book closed and got up. “Just thinking, Papa. Laura Ingalls was so lucky.” She was playing the “Papa” card; she normally called him just “Pa.”

I returned to my seat while he chewed and swallowed, but eventually he rose to the bait. “That was a hundred years ago.” He pointed with his fork at her. “They lived rough, girl. You got it easy.”

“Yeah, Papa, you know she played in one of the first football games in Dakota?”

Ma was staring at her now, plate untouched. I chewed as quietly as possible.

Pa swallowed a scoop of potatoes, and pointed again. “That true?”

She nodded and patted her book. “Yeah, right here, Papa. They showed it on the show, remember? You watched it with me last month.”

I coughed; my meatloaf tried to go down the wrong pipe. Ma shot me a look. Pa and Sis were in their own little standoff, ignoring my near-death experience.

Her gambit paid off, as he passed up on reading. “Yeah, I remember. That weird episode—they all looked younger?”

Joan nodded. “That’s the one, Papa. And you’ve raised me to be a whole lot tougher than her.”

He paused, raising a mix of meat and potatoes to his mouth. “What you mean by that?”

She remained silent as she went over to the counter, until she had her plate. “What I said, Papa. I don’t want to be a pushover, not like Laura with Nellie bullying her. I’d show her, just like you taught me.” She sat back down and picked up her fork. “They won’t let me.”

He set his fork on his plate, eyes looking as though she’d driven him out to the middle of nowhere without a map. “They won’t let you what?” He looked at Ma. “What’s she talking about?”

Ma shrugged, her eyes never leaving that untouched plate on the table before her.

Joan got his attention back. “The other kids say there’s no way you’d do what Mr. Ingalls did. He was a good man, Papa, and they say you ain’t. It was all I could do to just take it.”

Pa leaned forward, his upper body precariously poised over the rest of his supper. One of the few men he respected was Michael Landon. “What did he do?”

Joan sighed. “He let little Laura play football with the boys. And that was back when women couldn’t do nothing.” She looked up at him, her eyes as open as I’ve ever seen them. “Papa, don’t you think I could play football, too, and show those kids just how tough you raised me?”

After he’d gone to work, Joan happily reread the forms he filled out for her. Ma was finally eating. “Joanie, honey, I read those books, too. There’s nothing about anyone playing football in them.”

Sis gave her a look. “You could’ve told him then, Mama?”

That was the last Ma had to say on that.

* * * * *

The rec league had different levels based on the players’ age. The older boys were split into two teams—varsity and JV. We consisted of boys who didn’t make our school squads, as well as home-schooled kids, some private school students, and a couple of the alternative school boys. There were about twenty-four for each team, so most of us would only play offense or defense, not both.

I was an offensive lineman. I hadn’t made the North Davie Middle School team this year—the coach said I was too soft. I would be at Davie High next year, so I figured staying in game shape and working on my skills would help, even if it was rec level.

The league sorted the younger kids into the six elementary schools, which meant smaller teams—though they still played eleven per side. So they didn’t have much option but to accept Sis; the William Davie Raiders would have had just thirteen without her.

All practices were held at Rich Park’s soccer fields until after Labor Day. I had five practices per week, and she had three. Ma, our driver, was there a lot. To save trouble, she sat with one while the other practiced. With nothing else to do, I watched Sis while Ma read her romances.

I played football since I was Joan’s age; I was too short for basketball and too chubby for baseball. So I was familiar with how practices normally went. It would start with warm-ups and then drills. At that age, the coaches didn’t worry about passing. So the team split into groups. One learned blocking, one tackling, and one ball-handling. After that would be a scrimmage, half against half.

Sis was easy to spot even with the helmet and pads making them look identical. Her long black hair covered up half her jersey. One of the team’s shorter kids, she was able to hold her own against most of the big ones.

There were three things people—like that woman from the rec league—didn’t take into account about Joan. The first was that we were farmers. She loved physical labor. We mostly raised corn and soybeans, but she was out there toiling away when she could, keeping up with the rest of us. Sometimes better.

The second thing was her determination. If you told her no, she’d want to figure out why not or what loophole would allow her to do so anyway. I didn’t know what bug got in her bonnet about playing football this year. I just know that if Pa hadn’t signed the paperwork, Sis would have kept trying. That might be why he did it anyway. Much as I’ve heard others whisper it, he isn’t a stupid man.

And that’s the third thing: she did not take after her mother. I love Ma, and I admire her patience. She’s not stupid either; she does what she needs to to get by. I’m not blind. I just have no control over it.

Joan was Pa’s daughter. I looked like him and even shared his name. She shared his spirit and soul. If she wanted something, she would take it, whatever the cost. She fought dirty because that’s what she needed to do. She outsmarted her opponents. There was a reason I didn’t fight her anymore. She won. And if she didn’t win, she learned for next time.

During one of the first week’s scrimmages, she got tackled when one of the boys yanked her hair back like a horse’s reins. That Saturday, Ma gave her a bowl cut. Even after that, I could tell which one was her, simply by looking for the center of the storm.

When blocking, she’d lever the defenders down. Eventually, she learned to do it without grabbing them. When running, she’d elbow or punch her way past defenders. Once on defense, she tackled the coach’s son so hard the kid—a fourth-grader—started crying. I’m pretty sure she kicked him twice while he was down, so he had his reasons.

By the time of the first game, the Saturday after Labor Day, she was considered their biggest threat. And everyone knew it.

* * * * *

Joan debuted against the Shady Grove Bulldogs early that afternoon, playing at North Davie’s field. She was a running back on offense, and handled about a third of the carries, lead-blocking the rest of the time. On defense, she played as a linebacker, a guided missile targeting the football.

Pa came to the game with us, riding in the Caprice with the rest of us. He had a transistor radio with him, so he could hear the rest of the Wake Forest game, but it was still a major thing. I don’t think he came to half of my games. Not that I minded; it was Joan, after all, and all those things are much better to watch than us linemen bumping against each other all the time and not doing anything.

We sat next to Mrs. Masterson with her elder daughter, Mary-Ann. Mr. Masterson coached Sis’s team, their son Tommy was the other running back, and their other daughter was a cheerleader. I liked Mary-Ann, but never had anything to talk with her about. She always ignored me anyway.

The Bulldogs had the ball first. I noticed a pattern almost immediately: their run plays would be away from Joan. There had definitely been some scouting. She usually ended up being on the tackle anyway, as did Tommy. They made their way down the field, a few yards at a time, but came to a stop when their back fumbled the ball; they kept control, but turned it over on downs the next play. Pa was grinning.

The Raiders’ drive was a lot shorter. Joan shoved two of their lead linebackers off their feet; Tommy galloped seventy yards to the end zone. The extra kick barely cleared the line of scrimmage. Six to nothing. Pa was happy as a clam.

The Bulldogs next drive, they finished out the first quarter and drove down to the ten again. This time, Sis was playing safety, giving her more room to run and at a better angle. Once they got within the twenty, she tackled their backs twice behind the line. Again, they turned it over on downs. Pa was patting other people in the crowd on the back.

This time, Joan was handed the ball. Tommy missed his block. We couldn’t see exactly what happened, but the defender pulled up, grabbed at his own throat, and started coughing. The refs didn’t see anything, though, as she sprinted down field ahead of the rest. Another flubbed kick. Twelve–nil, and Pa was having a grand old time.

The Bulldogs started again, but ran out the rest of the half. According to Pa’s radio, Wake beat Appalachian State, so he was doubly happy. I don’t think I’d ever seen him that happy, at least not without a beer in his hand. Even Ma was relaxed for once. The only one not there to enjoy it was Sis, as she was down on the sidelines having orange slices and Gatorade. But from here, even she looked to be having fun.

The third quarter started with Davie having the ball first, starting from their ten. Shady Grove had changed up their defense, with only four linemen, everyone else backed away from the line. It looked like they were giving up short yardage runs in order to stop the long gains. Considering there’d been only two plays run by the Raiders, it made sense.

The first ball-carrier was Tommy. Joan was able to hold off two tacklers, but the rest swarmed directly through the line, and brought him down after about five yards.

The next play was again by Tommy, in the other direction. Same result; enough for a first down, but not much more.

The third run was handled by Joan. Two steps past the line, she was lifted up into the air and slammed down onto her back by a pack of the three largest kids Shady Grove had. We couldn’t see the rest from the stands, because of the crowd of boys at the line, but the refs started blowing whistles and waving the clock stopped—odd, since they played with a running clock except after scores. Mr. Masterson went running onto the field. Then he looked into the stands until his eyes met Pa’s.

* * * * *

Ma rode in the ambulance to the hospital with Sis. Joan’s right arm was broken in two places, between her elbow and wrist. Fortunately, she was left-handed, so it wouldn’t affect her writing. Unfortunately, she was unable to play football anymore. I’m pretty sure Ma wouldn’t have let her if she tried, no matter what tricks she might try.

Joan told me later that one of the boys stomped on her arm. She thought it was Tommy Masterson. But she couldn’t be sure, so she didn’t say anything to anyone.

Pa was able to drive me home afterward, but only because the rec league decided not to press charges against him. He punched the Shady Grove coach and threatened a couple of their boys. He was banned from all future games. I was okay with that.

A couple of months later, on a Friday after school, Joan and I were shooting beer bottles out by the barn. She could only use an air-gun because of her cast, instead of a rifle or pistol, so we were just setting them on a fence post and taking turns. Pa was asleep, Ma was inside making supper, and Joan had the idea to empty a few of Pa’s bottles ourselves, so we were feeling a bit braver than usual.

“Why’d you want to play football?”

She blinked at me for the longest time. “Why not? Because I’m a girl?”

I shook my head. “You know I don’t give a flip about that. But you’ve never cared about it before.”

She shrugged. Two bottles shattered as lead slugs slammed into them. She handed me the air-rifle to reload it.

“You ever see Pa when Wake wins?”

I nodded.

“You ever see Pa like that otherwise?”

I shook my head, as I handed the gun back.

Two more shots, two more dead bottles.

“That’s why.”

We never talked about football after that.