(I’m a female in my mid-twenties, and have just started a new job. One of the upper managers, who is in his early sixties, has come over to my desk to introduce himself. Somehow we get on the subject of football. I’ve been watching football with my dad since I was ten.)
Manager: “You watch football?”
Me: “Yep! My favorite team is [Hometown Team].”
Manager: “So, if you know football, tell me about [My Team’s Quarterback]. What do you think of him?”
(This happened several times at my previous job; guys don’t believe that a girl can like football. I feel an evil grin spread across my face.)
Me: “Well, I think he should stop throwing to [Wide Receiver] in triple coverage. That’s just asking for an interception! We’ve got so many great wide receivers, and he never uses them. Maybe his judgement has been clouded by the number of hits he’s taken. I guess that’s not his fault. The offensive line gets overrun by opposing defenses on every play. But I don’t want to talk about our offensive line. It’s the worst.”
(The manager is staring at me, open-mouthed.)
Manager: “Um, hmm. I, uh, don’t actually know that much about football. So, I guess I can’t comment.” *walks away*
(I told my dad the story a couple days later. He got a good laugh out of it.)
(I’m at rehearsals for an upcoming play with my local players’ society. I’ve gone into the kitchen in the village hall where a group of teens, who are also part of the play, are talking.)
Teen #1: Hey, [My Name], what team do you support?”
Me: “The Poole Pirates.”
Teen #1: “Who?!”
Me: “The Poole Pirates! Best speedway team ever.”
Teen #2: “We were on about football.”
Me: “Well, you should have said.”
Teen #1: “Why do you even support them? You’re not even from Dorset!”
Me: “What football team do you support?”
Teen #1: “Chelsea.”
Me: “You’re not from the Chelsea area, so why do you support them?”
Teen #1: “Whatever.”
(They all went back to talking about football and just ignored me.)
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(There is a football match, called the State of Origin, between two of the Australian states — Queensland and New South Wales. It is taken quite seriously. I work in a pizza shop in New South Wales, but I am a Queenslander born. The customer in this story has come in later on in game time, ordered his pizza, and paid. After I have made his pizza and put it in the oven, he begins talking to me.)
Customer: “Do you know the score for the game?”
Me: “No. Sorry, mate, we don’t have a television here. Besides the fact that I volunteered to work this evening because I don’t watch football, I would be cheering for Queensland if I was watching.”
(He stares at me.)
Customer: “I don’t want a pizza made by a Queenslander.”
(He walked away. He never came back, and I got free dinner.)
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(I am being taught about the equipment needed to safely rock climb. A carabiner is a kind of clip. Lockable carabiners don’t snap open when pressed against a rock, and the instructor considers knowing this very important.)
Instructor: “What kind of carabiner do we want?”
Everyone: “A locking carabiner!”
(Later:)
Instructor: “What kind of carabiner do we want?”
Everyone: “A locking carabiner!”
(Later:)
Instructor: “What kind of carabiner do we want?”
Me: “Pirates of the carabiner!”
(I’m attending a minor-league baseball game. The centerfielder for the local team is a young man with a distinctively Middle Eastern-sounding name. Think something like “Muhammed Shah.”)
Girl Sitting Behind Me: *in tones of strong disapproval* “Muhammed Shah? Where’s he from?”
Boy Sitting Behind Me: *reading from program* “Cincinnati.”
(Mr. Shah, a former all-conference standout, was four for five and despite a sub-par performance by the team’s third base coach, demonstrated some very heads-up base running.)
