I haven't found myself taken with a woman in uniform since our postal carrier switched routes a few years back. Not that there's not an ample supply of late, what with Georgie's little war, but I'm not big on accessories, and when one of those accessories is likely a long-range sniper rifle, I'm even less enchanted.
Recently, though, a flutter of excitement rose in me at the sight of a gal in uniform new to the Chicago area. Tight pants, cleats, stirrup stockings: be still my beating heart, it's Chicago's professional fastpitch softball team, the Bandits ( chicagobandits.com ) . With only five other teams in the league so far ( New York Juggernaut, Akron Racers, Arizona Heat, New England Riptide, and Texas Thunder ) , it's not exactly the bigs, but it could be a start. Nevertheless, given our other professional women's teams have had the lifespan of a ladybug ( remember the Chicago Breeze women's professional volleyball team? yeah, me neither ) , we rushed out opening day, June 2, to see the Bandits lest they become the dis-band-its before we had the chance to rub our eyes and see them take the field.
Along with three of the students from the queer mentoring program my partner Kathy runs at the University of Chicago, she and I climbed the rain-slick bleachers at Benedictine University in Lisle, Illinois. The atmosphere was electric to us would-be/has-been/current athletes. Whole girls' and women's softball teams were there in uniform to watch, and many spectators—boys and men included—were already sporting Bandits apparel or their black-and-orange colors. And something weird happened when we sat down: we weren't just five people in row S—we were part of a larger group.
A father, there with his young daughter, checked with us to make sure he wasn't blocking our view, and the three high school girls in row R quickly struck up a bantering friendship with the three college gals among us, Eliza and Katie coming back from the concession stand with some Dippin' Dots for their new young pals. The family in row T shared napkins with us so we could wipe rain from our bleacher seats. When the Bandits scored a run, rows R and S sent a flurry of high-fives around amongst us. There was this sense that we were a part of something momentous, that maybe, just maybe, this time it would last more than a season or two.
It wasn't perfect: I could have done without the tackily clad mascot—a young woman in short-shorts, halter top, and giant cowboy hat—and the bout in left field between two guys in suma costumes was anticlimactic ( they kept falling over and couldn't get up ) . But the game was fast moving and exciting. Entertainment was also provided by the noncoupled among us, who picked out their potential date choices from the Bandits, who we then cheered with special zeal.
We learned a little something about each other, too. We learned that when a 12-inch hard leather-encased ball comes hurtling in our direction Eliza would duck, Demetria would be too stunned to cease eating her hot dog, and I could take a hit for the team. In disbelief that—after attending many, many ballgames, in which a Dawson or Sosa or Patterson foul ball never once came within reach—one was finally flying directly at me; the only thing I could think to do, sans baseball mitt, was lean back and hope it cleared me. Instead, it clobbered me smack dab in the right breast. 'Ooh, that's going to leave a mark,' quipped my girlfriend. We already knew she was a smart aleck. But we learned that she could be chivalrous as well, for when the ball ricocheted off me, Kathy fought some guy for it. 'No way!' she said. 'She got hit, it's hers.' And our compatriots in rows R and T murmured assent, with the mom behind me helping to stash the ball in my Life Is Good cinch sack.
The Bandits won in the late innings of the game, and a lot of the crowd, despite being soaked from a long, chilly rain, lingered, wishing to prolong the moment. But when we finally left I took home several souvenirs: my new orange Bandits baseball cap, a scuffed up yellow softball, a contusion on my breast, the memory of my girlfriend's gallantry—and a rediscovered love of a woman in uniform.
Yvonne Zipter may be contacted on e-mail via her Web site, www.yvonnezipter.com .
© 2005 by Yvonne Zipter.
