(Re)bound for glory

It's early morning in late September, and National Public Radio sports commentator Frank DeFord jolts me awake with the news that it's the 20th anniversary of Title IX. Ahhh, what nostalgia overtakes me. Suddenly I'm running past snowbanks in my Pete Maravich look-alike sneakers in the pre-dawn, trying to make it to the gym before the bell strikes 7 from the tower of the English building.

The women's basketball team at my small, New England liberal arts college ranked just below men's intramural, round-robin, left-handed Ping-Pong in priority for gym use. Hence the 7 a.m. practices.

"Be glad. It's a big improvement," said the sophomores-through-seniors on the team. The previous year, they had played their games in a pint-sized gym in a dormitory basement. The court ended at the walls, and more than one of my teammates had been carried off to the hospital for X-rays after slamming into one.

As high school athletes, we had played with six women on the court, and only two (known as "rovers") were allowed to cross the center line. I guess the prevailing data showed that most young women couldn't actually run the length of a basketball court without fainting. My team had played our games in orange-and-blue jumpers, sort of the team-colors equivalent of playing basketball in a dress.

So this was progress. We were grateful that the college had opened the door to the gym for us--even if we got there most mornings before the sun. And we were thankful for the handful of people who showed up to watch our games--mostly roommates and children from the town for whom we were "Big Sisters" through a college program. Women and children cheered us on in the early afternoons.

THAT FIRST BASKETBALL season in college, we qualified for the Maine state tournament. The athletic director told us that there was no money for us to go. This seemed odd, because at the time the football team was eating steak at their training meals. (This was the football team that had made Newsweek magazine for being just one game short of breaking the all-time losing streak for small-college football; they blew it by winning the next game).

We may have staged the first sit-in in the college's athletic history. We were determined; and that year for the first time we had the law on our side. We threw around a little Title IX lingo about equal access to budgets and facilities while camping out in the athletic director's office. We went to the state tournament.

By the next year we were alternating with the men's varsity team for prime time in the gym. The weight room was cleared of men for us (two-gender sweating in the same room was considered dangerous) an hour every day. And we had access to the trainer, earning me the privilege of having my sprained ankle wrapped and shin splints taped just like any man.

For the first time, we felt like we mattered. And that was important in and of itself. Because when you grow up female, there are so many times when you feel that you don't.

Our coach added volleyball and lacrosse to the athletic program. Of course she drafted all us basketball players. There was that first volleyball game with the University of New Hampshire, in which they drove four hours round-trip in order to rack up a grand total of 15 seconds of court time, which is about how long it took them to launch a serve and us to pass it to the bleachers 15 times. But we got better. By my senior year, we took second place in the state tournament.

We never got better at lacrosse. In fact, I'm not sure we completed a pass all season. But, hey, it was fun out there whacking preppies over the head with our sticks.

I SMILE NOW when I get invitations to come back to college during Homecoming weekends to take on the various women's teams, and when I read about their victories in the alumni magazine. It warms my heart to see the skills and strength of young women athletes who have achieved because so much has been invested in them.

After hearing Frank DeFord's commentary, I went and pulled out my old burgundy-and-black college letter jacket from the closet. The one I never wore. (It was only cool in those days for men--or their girlfriends--to wear letter jackets.) And I felt a little like those grand women in A League of Their Own, knowing that in our own little way, we pioneered something.

I'll always cherish the memories, and the joy that came from the discipline, competition, and camaraderie. And I rest content knowing I've earned my place in totally obscure sports history--as the quick guard who always stole the ball, tore down the court...and missed the lay-up.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.