I Hate Sports

I tried to leave work at 6:15pm today. 25 minutes later I managed to get back from a few blocks away and get back to work. The traffic was so bad I could not face the prospect of the commute across the bridge.

Apparently there’s some kind of football game or something and everyone had to go. In their cars. Separately.

I truly hate sporting events.

I am really looking forward to returning this car to my folks and getting back on public transit. If I had the parking permit for my neighborhood, I’d just leave it at home during the day, but I don’t so I drive. Under the best circumstances driving a car takes 15 or 20 minutes less, which seems like a big deal in a 55 minute commute, but if those 55 minutes are generally calm and involving reading or playing games on my PDA and the ones in the car are incredibly stressful and irritating, which would you prefer?

Published by

dinahsanders

Author. Discardian. Defender of life, liberty, & the pursuit of happiness. she/her

206 thoughts on “I Hate Sports”

  1. Hey im in 7th grade and they really do make us watch sports… I HATE IT durring GYM if a game is on they turn it on the TV and make us watch it! im sick of it. I got hit in the head with a fizbee because i didnt make a catch! this is bull shit hey im 12 u know where i herd that word ON THE SPORTS AT SCHOOL! this is bull shirt < omg shirt but rlly this sucks i am the kid who is being ruined by this! they make it seem like this is the world, that id u go to space the earth is shaped as a foot ball or the US is shaped at a hockey stick well if it was because flordia where i am would drown! I hate going to lunch and finding a place to sit everyone wont shut the fuck up about sports! i tried to sit in 1 table and i couldnt stand it and all my friends went on to diffrent teams (Are shcool puts kids on diffrent teams with diffrent teachers) and this sucks! THEY NEED TO STOP MAKEING US DO GYM im a heathy wegith even my doctor said so! so i dont understand why i need to take gym everyother day!
    -Anonymous

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  2. All sports bore me to tears but I truly despise football. It represents all that is wrong with masculinity at its most aggressive worst. The only guy that bullied me in high school was one of the football jocks. He and the other football jocks would always call me a pussy. Which I always was but so what. Why should that bother them so much?
    My all time favorite activity has always been cross dressing and I have always considered myself blessed that my facial structure and appearance was always more pretty rather than handsome. By end of freshman year I had grown my hair past my shoulders and would always delight whenever anyone would mistake me for a girl. So along with calling me a ‘pussy’ and threatening to “pummel my pansy ass” would be the jocks continuously stating the obvious that I looked like a girl. Still today I would love to know why it was so important to them for me and every boy to look like a boy and not a girl.
    Well, no sooner that they had zeroed in on me for my effeminate appearance that they, and by this time the cheerleaders also, had noticed that I never dated nor really even talked to girls. I guess that got them curious about what I did in my spare time because one day before the homecoming rally in sophmore year, the head cheerleader of my class cornered me in a hallway begging me to wear her cheer outfit and ‘be her’ at the rally. She said she could not get any of the football jocks to do it. Of course I wanted to say yes and to do it very badly but I was afraid it could somehow ‘give me away’ as a cross dresser but I have always wondered if that was going to be a set-up by the cheerleaders and the jocks to trick me into exposing myself as a transvestite.
    As if everything up till this point wasn’t enough to bring attention to me from the football jocks, the PE coaches had made us begin weight training. Well I had decided by age seven or so that muscles don’t look good in a dress and that the most important thing to me in my life was to look my best (my most feminine) in a dress so weight training was definitely something that I wanted no part of. So, on my second day of weight training in PE I faked a weight lifting accident and injury in PE that I was able to use to get a doctor to get me excused from weight training and other typically muscle building PE crap for the remainder of high school. Of course, this bothered the football jocks even more so that didn’t help matters as they all got strong, muscular and more manly while I got more and more feminine looking.
    I got out of high school a year early and began junior college and at that time my mom bought a bigger er house right behind the high school. The second story back deck of our house overlooked the high school athletic field and every day possible I could not wait to get home from the JC, strip off my boy clothes, do my make-up, then doll up like ‘the girl next door’. Then, while the football jocks were smashing each other up and getting all sweaty and filthy on the field below, I would be all dolled up dancing on the deck dancing to tunes such as “I Am Just A Girl” by ABBA, “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story and “How Lovely to be a Woman” from Bye Bye Birdie. They obviously did not have a clue that this dancing girl was me or even a boy at all which made me certain that none of them knew where I lived so they not only just thought I was some swishy girl who danced on her parent’s back deck during their football practice but they made no secret out of the fact that they thought I was a rather attractive girl at that although I’m certain they thought I was no older than junior high or even sixth grade because I always looked much younger whenever I was dressed as a girl.
    I still love cross dressing more than anything else and I have a ritual I do every Superbowl Sunday: I doll up entirely as a fairy princess and spend the day girly shopping, and every women’s clothing store I go to I introduce myself as: “The Soft Meek Weak Effete and Ever Ever so Very Sweet Testosterone Neutralizing Anti-Football Fairy”.
    I think that all professional athletes get paid way too much money. Playing a sport is not very difficult nor does it require much talent. Certainly not like make-up or fashion design.

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  3. I was that kid who was always the last one picked for teams in high school PE…Ran like a girl, threw like a girl…had a pretty face and slender build…even faked a weight lifting accident and injury that I was able to use to get excused forever from weight training…The football jocks were the only jocks who were bothered by me, or at least so it appeared. So of course they considered me a wuss and one in particular (Cory) always called me a ‘pussy’. What that guy did not know, or at least could not prove was that I was, and still am, an avid cross-dresser (I HAD to get out of weight training because the most important thing in life to me was and still is, looking good in a dress and as far as I’m concerned, muscles don’t look good in a dress!) and I actually (albeit secretly) LIKED it whenever he would call me a pussy. I think of them all every Superbowl Sunday and I have had a lifelong ritual that I have dedicated to them and my memory thereof:
    I doll up fully over-the-top extreme femmy uber ultra girly-girl (literally as a fairy princess) and spend the entire day girly shopping.. The tradition started several years ago when, knowing I hate football, a couple of football loving friends of mine entered my name (they were thinking that if I won I’d give the prize to them!) in a drawing held by a very popular sports bar… I WON! Two tickets to that year’s Superbowl, airfare for two to LA and back, one night’s hotel room, a full-day rental car and $200 in mad money: I gave one of the air tickets to a female friend so she could visit her Mom some other weekend, flew down to LA Saturday afternoon, booked into my hotel room, then partied myself into and through an extremely indulgent, extensive all-night session of girly dress-up. All dolled up by next morning I packed my purse, drove to the stadium and quickly scalped the game tickets for a significant wad of cash,,,which left me in the delightful position of looking and feeling all girl, flush with mega cash, at ten in the morning, on a Sunday, in the shopping mecca of LA, with a gassed-up rental ragtop good for more than another ten hours! ..Needless to say, I deliriously spoiled myself senseless, tooling all over LA, girly shopping as if money grew on trees, well past the time all thrift and women’s clothing stores closed. I flew back home as a girl (this was many years before 9-11) and as I had arranged before I left, the two friends who entered my name in the drawing picked me up at the airport and as they stone-faced solemnly drove me home I manically chattered non-stop, excitedly sharing with them every last detail of what was absolutely to me, the perfectly ideal way to spend a Superbowl Sunday! I was so keyed up from the day’s excitement and subsequent flight, on the way home from the airport I suggested we stop in at THE sports bar so that I may thank them for my exquisitely transplendent weekend by sharing with them some of the cash wad I still had left’ in the form of an all-they-can-drink bar tab, including me buying at least one round for the entire bar. But no, for some reason, ‘the boys’ opted to be party poopers saying they just wanted to drop me off and forget the entire weekend ever happened. So after they dropped me off I called two female friends who each came over with one other female friend. As I animatedly played Ms. Fabulous Hostess-with-the-mostest, again chattering every last detail while modelling the entire girly-attire contents of the bag I had to buy just to lug back all my newly acquired attire-de-femme, they nursed cocktails and snacked on hors-de-odeurves, periodically asking questions and howling with laughter. Finishing my fashion show, appropriately with ‘the best for last’, a straplessly uber feminine Loralie Originals prom dress, bodice entirely of translucent, reflective, pearlescent pink sequins and poofy, flouncy, flared, just-above-knee-length skirt of billowing pink lace (replete with tiara I picked up for a song at a quinceneara dress and supply boutique in a rather hispanic neighborhood), I most timely completed detailing the day’s events with the part about ‘the boys’ not wanting to let me thank them. At that, the girls wanted to escort me to THE sports bar and share the left over cash wad with them. As I was definitely game for that concept I said: “Great. Just let me change into a skirt and blouse and we’re outta here.”, Elaine, the only redhead among us said: “Oh no, no, no Miss Missy Miss! You are NOT going to change! You look fabulous in that prom dress – doesn’t she, girls? (choral reply in full agreement) – load THAT purse (points to one of my new acquisitions, a dressy pink bag I had bought specifically for the dress I had on) NOW and we ARE outta here!”. Keeping with the fact that all five of us had never before even been in the place, we sequestered our bevy around a more private table as far as possible from the annoying television sets, and keeping my identity and our interest and motivation for being there ‘just a secret among us girls’, we happily and spiritedly carried on the way we girls do (often in sudden volume change to whispers) while the manly, masculine jock boys oogled and eyed ‘the five silly girls who probably don’t even know they are drinking in a sports bar’. And yes, I did buy one round for the house of roughly twenty other patrons but we provided no explanation for why other than Elaine’s tongue-in-cheek quip of “She (touching a sequin or three of my pink bodice) just had a wonderful day – and doesn’t she look festive?”

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  4. “Grow a pair”. Unfortunately I was born with a pair, but in not too long, those pathetic, useless sad little girly boys will be taken out clean along with the insides of my third earring. Then what is left will be wondrously refashioned into a sweet, darling honey pot. But….it won’t end there! Oh no! I HAD to wear those silly grapes in my bikini zone for over twenty-five years so I’ll be damned if they are just going to get the quick snip snip and a toss into a medical waste incinerator! Ha, they wish! Oh no, they are going to pay! You see, I am going to wear them for at least another twenty-five years except that I will be wearing them in a manner that lets them and everyone know who’s boss! By the time they get the snip snip, they will be atrophied to the maximum from a devoted regimen of estrogen and anti-androgen and should hopefully be no larger than maybe one Spanish peanut each. I will dry them out completely then through the process of lost wax casting (Google it!) i will make solid gold, gem encrusted replicas of them then have them as permanently as possible, affixed to my earlobes! Wherein the will serve as a constant reminder to me that I have nothing and never will have anything masculine about me. They will also serve as a fantastic conversation piece at parties, in ladies restrooms, etc.!

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  5. The MOST physically strenuous activity is also the most delightfully feminizing for a soft, meek, weak, effete and ever-so-sweet sports hating transvestite like me: Ballet, and it even has the extra bonus of getting to wear the most ultra uber girlishly feminine garment on earth: The Tutu

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