Is that a Championship Trophy in your pocket, or are you...

Don’t call me stupid.
~ Kevin Kline as Otto, A Fish Called Wanda

Don’t call me shallow. Often.
~ CJ

Fact: I am a chick.
Fact: I like sports.
Fact: I have been known, on occasion, to appreciate the physical attributes of boy-types who play sports. In a very shallow and slightly lascivious way.

What?

At least I’m honest.

It ain’t always easy being a female sports fan. Not in my world, anyway. Most of my galpals don’t get my intense affection for all things ESPN-esque. Sure, they may have cursory interest in their college teams or our local sports franchises, but nothing resembling what I would call passion. And when I try to talk games or stats or drafts with the fellas, I get mixed reactions – from a condescending pat on the head to being ignored to some genuine give-and-take.

It’s just the way it is.

I grew up in a household that was filled with sports. My dad loves them; my mom could be considered a fan. My brother played ‘em – primarily baseball. Many spring and summer nights were spent with my fanny riding the splintery pine of Little League bleachers, drinking slightly flat soda (because there was something wrong with the dispenser in the concession stand) and learning to watch and call balls versus strikes.

Oh – and I also took serious note of the players on any of those teams – who appealed to me in a hormonal sort of way. Hormones. The Achilles Heel of any adolescent. But it was a win-win all the way around, the way I looked at it.

Cute boys and sports. A match made in CJ heaven. Been that way ever since.

And ever since, I’ve tried to reconcile my genuine interest in sports with my genuine appreciation of the male specimen. Tried like hell to make sure I’m not looked at like a “camp follower” or a “groupie” or that most loathed of all labels – a “bimbo.”

Sure, I developed a rabid interest in the LA Dodgers of the early/mid ‘80s because of the chiseled boyish good looks of their ballyhooed second baseman, Steve Sax. (That's him over there <<<<<) But I also became attached for life to the Boston Celtics around that same time – and trust me, that was not a team made up of pinup boys. Bless Larry Bird’s heart. Good thing he’s one hell of an athlete.

It really is the “sport” itself I am interested in – that I follow and study and watch and obsess over and enjoy. And if there’s a player I find that I fancy (John Lynch – call me! How you doin’, Andre Agassi? Buy me a drink, Dario Franchiti?) then that’s just a bonus.

I think.

Note: there is one exception to my “I am not a bimbo” declaration. Swimming. While I do like the sport – even though I really only pay attention during Olympic years – have you seen those boys in their “uniforms?”

Mother Nature – thank you thank you thank you.

I started this blog/site (yes, I have grand plans for this thing… stay tuned) to be an outlet for my perspective on something that, let’s face it, has traditionally been a man’s world. And this here chick’s perspective could be clinical (I am a Fantasy Football commissioner/team owner.) Observational (got an opinion on everything.) Retrospecitcal (that is so a word. I just made it up. Hush.) And sometimes hormonal and borderline lascivious. Rowrrrrrrr...

But never ever bimbo-esque. Promise. You can take it to the bank.

We could always opt for the more temporal gratification

Of sheer physical attraction

That wouldn't make you a shallow person

Would it?
“Here I Am” ~ Lyle Lovett