The cleat chaser conundrum--Part Two

Before you read this, go back to yesterday's post. 

Now let’s try this. Picture the following conversation first with the first group of women from yesterday and then with the second:

The three women take their seats with their beers and watch the team warm up. “Johnson’s starting tonight. Hope it’s a better outing than last time,” says the brunette. The redhead nods, “He said his elbow feels a lot better after skipping a couple starts.” The brunette concurs, adding, “Let’s just hope 10 days on the DL is enough and it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass.” The blonde intently watches two outfielders play catch but does not join the conversation.

Did the conversation seem more of a surprise with one group over the other? Don’t lie to me. It happens every night. Let’s take the first scenario again; allow me to tell you the rest of how that went down. We got our beers and headed for our seats. As we were settling in, a woman in the row behind us whispered—or so she thought, “I wonder whose girlfriends THEY are.” Her friend sighed and said, “So high maintenance for a game.”

We sat directly in front of her and had the very conversation I described about Johnson (only the real pitcher’s name is irrelevant). It continued for a few more minutes, extending to an analysis of his warm-up, whether the change up would be as effective as it had been in previous games, how much it would suck if he was really hurt and ended up out for the season, and so on. Our blonde friend wasn’t much for the discussion, but I give her the benefit of the doubt since she was openly just learning the finer points of the game. She’d grown up in a conservative and traditional home where the ladies did lady things, and lady things did not include knowing a circle change from a head gasket. Being around us allowed her to discover that she loved the game itself, and she graduated from dutiful spectator and attractive companion to rabid fan. I take only half the credit.

As the game wore on, a brand new pitcher was called into relief. My friends and I realized we’d never seen him pitch and knew nothing but his name, so I turned to the group of people behind me, the one that included the judgmental women, and asked, “Who’s this guy? Anyone familiar with him?” The two women shared glances, and one of their male companions said, “He just got here last night to replace Castrovedes,” and then proceeded to tell me how Minor League Baseball worked. I stopped him and said, “Yeah, yeah, so he’s up from A-ball since they sent Castrovedes to Triple-A. Cool. Thanks.” Then I turned back around. I let the male need to explain baseball to me roll off my back, but it doesn’t mean I obediently listen so the guy can save face. Nope. I am cutting you off.  

His response was one I hear often. He tapped me lightly and said with a hint of (maybe?) sarcasm, “So you know the game, don’t you? Are you dating one of these boys?” Even though I was, I told him no and said I had grown up playing.

“You played softball?”

“No,” I said with feigned patience, “I played baseball.”

He chuckled from the gut. Big gut. Big chuckle. “I see.”

I’m sure you don’t. I turned back around and the guy who had been sitting to our left was coming back from a beer run and said, “I just overheard you tell that guy you played baseball. That’s awesome! Johnson was on fire tonight. Dude is deceptive as hell. He always looks the same.”

I laughed and told him Johnson would have made me look like an idiot, and he said, “Me, too. Of course, I was a pretty shitty hitter anyway. No timing. That’s why I’m sitting here watching now.”

My friends and I kept talking to him, discovering that he had played Minor League ball—AA for a short period—in the early 2000s but that his bat did him in before he was ready to quit. He never once asked if we were involved with the players nor did he belittle our knowledge, avoid baseball jargon, or try to explain the concepts of the game. Maybe he’d heard me tell the guy behind us that we weren’t, in fact, dating the team; maybe he wasn’t socially aware enough to think we might not “get it.” I doubt both of those things. He sat down after the dating question, and he was too good at conversation to be lacking the requisite social skills.

More than likely, it was the thing. The thing that happens time and again at ballparks—college, minor league, major league—in which somebody assumes that the way a woman dresses or looks is intrinsically tied to her knowledge or investment in the game. (Quick disclaimer: Before anyone goes on a “what about gay fans and players?” rant, that’s entirely different because it is so much less obvious at first glance. I recognize that there are plenty of homosexual fans, players, and other roles at the ballpark, but that conversation is not the same as this one. Maybe another day).

The term “cleat chaser” gets thrown around a lot. The first entry on Urban Dictionary defines the term as: “a promiscuous woman who follows athletes (baseball or football) usually on the college level, in the hopes of having intercourse with one of them,” and follows with this example: “Yo, that bitch is a cleat chaser, the whole team has nailed her.” I quite prefer the second definition, but I'll let you go read that one yourself. Women have either taken pride in this term or tried to reclaim it, but in either case, its connotations are dangerous.

Before I go on, I know some of you embrace this lifestyle and are just having fun. That's fine. I don't judge you for that; in fact, I commend your honesty if you ARE being honest. I commend and respect your decisions. I'm more concerned with the false labels and dangerous assumptions. I worry about the misguided women I know who think calling themselves a "cleat chaser" is a great way to get that hot outfielder to fall in love with you. If you are a cleat chaser and you are okay with it, that's your prerogative. We can talk when you slip up and fall for one of them and can't understand why he doesn't feel the same. For now, girls, carry on. Just be smart. 

Otherwise, ladies, this is NOT a compliment. It’s not something you want the guys to call you if you want to be taken for anything more than a post-game pit stop. I don’t care what YOU think it means, they have your picture up in the clubhouse and every time you bang one of them, they autograph it. This is not an accomplishment so stop calling yourselves cleat chasers. Stop with the Twitter accounts, the Pinterest boards, and the t-shirts. Don’t advertise this.

On the other hand, no. Do. Please. By all means, label yourself clearly so that the rest of us who aren’t living this label can exist in peace and enjoy the game. Maybe people will stop assuming we’re all the same and just let your stupid labels do the talking.

Players, stop assuming that we’re at your games only to nail you. We don’t know your WAR, ERA, or WHIP because we want to see you naked. Trust me. The two ARE mutually exclusive. If we meet you in a bar and tell you that we were impressed with the 7 innings of 2-hit ball you just threw, this is not code for, “Meet me in the bathroom with your pants off.” It genuinely means that we enjoyed watching you play. This is also true if we don’t know you are a ballplayer when we meet you but when you tell us, we’re excited. We might just be thrilled to meet someone who has the same interests as us and with whom we can actually have a conversation in a bar that isn’t about sex or beer or that weird guy dancing with himself in the corner (although that’s pretty awesome, too). That’s right, guys. When we say, “Wow! That’s great! I’d love to see you play,” the chances that we simply mean, “we would like to see you perform on the field,” outweigh the chances that we mean, “We would like to see you perform in the bedroom,” by about three to one.

Surrounding fans, you’re judgmental assholes. Stop thinking that every girl who isn’t in sweats is there to land a player. Sometimes we go out after games and want to avoid going home to change. Sometimes we just want to look like we woke up and took some time on ourselves that day. Stop assigning feminism, independence, and strength only to women who shirk the traditional ideals of feminine beauty. I hate doing my hair in the summer humidity, and I don’t wear full makeup on any given day, but if I have on some mascara and curls, it doesn’t make me any less knowledgeable about the third baseman and his terrible range. Ultimately, who cares why we’re not dressed down? It’s not always because we want or because we have a ballplayer; most of the time it is in no way related to baseball. In either case, it’s not your business.

Everyone, don’t automatically assign the label to any woman you see at the ballpark. This is especially true of the women who are dating players. There are at least as many women who date players because we legitimately have so much in common with them (namely, THE GAME OF BASEBALL) as there are women who date players because they’re “cleat chasers” (self-proclaimed). Not all relationships can be easily broken down into your narrow labels, and it isn’t fair to the woman you judge nor to the player who cares about her. It complicates two already very complicated situations: 1) dating and 2) female sports fandom.

People who don’t do any of these things (players, fans, ladies, etc.), thanks. Thanks for being evolved.

The bottom line is this: This is my game as much as it’s your game. This game belongs to the cleat chaser as much as to the fan who judges her. It belongs to the carefree single player as much as to the married-guy-with-two-kids. It belongs to all of us. Equally. Regardless of your reasons for being there. All I ask is that you stop categorizing and dismissing us. If you let us talk, you might learn something about the new center fielder who hit .317 with 25 home runs and 90 RBIs in independent ball last year before the Blue Jays bought his contract and gave him a shot in the system. Then next season when you see him on MLB Network as an All Star rookie, you can thank us.

Because you listened.

Or you might find out she does only like the tight pants. And in the end, that's fine, too. 

But we're not all the same.