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EDITOR IN CHIEF
Sarah Kickler
EDITORIAL EDITOR
Mike Schmierbach
NIGHT EDITOR
Holly Sanders
CHRIS HUT CHINSON/Emerald
Watching the women of Title IX
I ba nks to an evolution in
thought, women athletes are
finally taking center court
I am a boomer. But more importantly
and more defining is the fact that 1 am
a Pre-Title LX-er. 1 could have been on
any court, diamond or field sporting
the colors of any school. I would have been
a Spartan heavily recruited by the Huskies,
Cougars, Ducks, Beavers, Bears, Cardinal,
Bruins or Trojans. Any other
scholarship(s) offered me east of the 117th
longitude, even a full ride to one of the
Seven Sisters for field hockey, would have
been met with a Pacific Northwest region
al/Puget Sound islander tick of rolling the
eyes skyward, modest slight of head and
Hannah
Dillon
bemused retort, "Now,
which conference was
that again?” (Some of
such pride comes from
having grown up in an
unparalleled setting insu
lated by a natural moat
and cradled by two spec
tacular mountain ranges.)
Sorely tempted by the
powder-blue and imperi
al-gold ensemble of
uula, my family would have bargained
with Mephistopheles to divert me from the
Golden State so that I would wear the pur
ple and gold of the Dawgs, our alma mater.
We played baseball in a field behind Ro
dal’s store after school when the pussy wil
lows began to swell and get their fur in late
February. The return of light in drier skies,
the softening of air and the downhill slide
to full-blown spring and then summer’s
freedom mandated after-school neighbor
hood baseball. Two boys — usually the
oldest and tallest, but not always the best
players — would somehow emerge as cap
tains. No one had to say anything. We
knew who they were. Kids are graced with
an interior galaxy full of quiet, acutely ob
servational, intuitive knowing. Or perhaps
children’s instinctive assignment of pack
hierarchy is the primary operative.
The first part of our baseball ritual re
quired a school book, usually science, for
homeplate, and jackets designating the
bases. We then formed a circle around the
one who spun the bat on its fat end perpen
dicular to the ground like a top. It fell and
pointed to the closest captain who got to go
first. One of us would toss the bat to that
captain. His grip around its middle would
be followed by the other captain’s grip and
hand over hand they would go until one of
them had the last grasp, fingertips over the
handle butt, which he had to be able to
hold up for about 30 seconds. If he didn’t
let the bat fall, he got his choice of the first
player. No matter how many times we en
acted this high liturgy on the field, there
was a diplomatic delicacy necessary in the
proceedings. After all, we began kinder
garten together and would remain with
each other on the island sometimes long af
ter high school graduation.
The first three players chosen would
nonchalantly step to their respective sides,
heads down, sporting slight grins. Pitcher
captain and bases were covered. The rest of
us were leftovers with varying degrees of
competency. How well we could hit be
yond the fifth pitch and chase down balls
that evaded the infield and rolled into the
woods were key factors in determining
who got chosen next. I was always the top
choice of the second tier. I could hit and
field the ball well, and I loved to compete. I
couldn’t understand why some of the other
kids didn’t have the same fire for it as I did.
I was the first girl chosen while some of the
boys remained unclaimed. Both captains
wanted me on their team even though one
was always my brother. Whoever got to me
first did so with veiled relief. My place in
the Rolling Bay social-political-athletic hi
erarchy of our national sport remained se
cure and as respectable as my age, ability
and gender would allow.
There were no colors, no uniforms, no
referees, no band, no fans, no write-ups or
photo-ops, no tournaments, no admiring
parents and no dreams of drafts. Just the
same kids, the same field, the same cap
tains, the same teams, the same competi
tion and varying weather. And then it
would get too dark to see the ball as we
suddenly became famished and exhausted,
so we would gladly call the game and lope
home for dinner.
Some of the boys would make their way
onto state-sponsored teams and have to
practice at school. My friends and I began
to practice smoking Old Gold non-filters
behind the store after school. We perse
vered until we got quite good at it.
Jody Runge is the first fruits of Title IX
who has already established an impressive
lineage of athletes here. Mac Court is filled
with Pre-Title IX-ers who come to revel in
the adventure of finally being able to watch
young women compete with increasing
athleticism in green and yellow uniforms
with referees, bands, fans, media coverage,
the possibility of beating Stanford and
leading the Pac-10 Conference, the NCAA,
proud families and alas, the fledgling
WNBA/ABL.
Runge’s newest recruits, most of whom
are freshmen, can move in ways I have
never had the privilege of watching
women move individually, as a team and
as wholly focused and ardent competitors.
The sweat, muscles, flailing elbows, dives,
skids, pilings, vyings, the inherent articu
lated grace of the game and passion these
young women have for it is something I
could never have imagined nor dared hope
for as I spent seemingly endless summer
days and twilights shooting baskets at our
neighbor’s netless hoop or pitching tennis
balls into the chalked strike zone on our
house underneath my mother’s cautious
face at the kitchen window. I had learned
to dribble, pass, shoot, throw, swing, catch
and hustle normatively — “not like a girl.”
But my natural ability and fervent desire
for team competition were contained in the
yards and fields of our neighborhood with
whoever happened to show up.
So it is with great joy and satisfaction
that this Pre-Title LX-er and others like her
come to Mac Court to watch the manifesta
tion of an evolution in thought, attitude
and behavior due to decades of coura
geously hard work and dogged determina
tion inspired by innate dignity. We can fi
nally watch women athletes who can play
the game, play the game.
There is a tinge of regret from time to
time. I could be on that court having just
broken the team’s all-time high 107-point
mark by my reverse lay-in against Stanford
for the conference title with coach Runge
applauding and the fans on their toes, cre
ating tlie thunder that it would surely be
had I just been born a little later.
Hannah Dillon is a columnist for the Emer
ald. Her tieics do not necessarily represetit
those of the newspaper.
TIBS TO m EDITOR
-mm
UO means business
In response to the editorial piece
by Jeff Shaw and other stories con
cerning the current economic crisis
in Asia, I would like to say (as nicely
as I can), you guys need to stop living
in a fool’s paradise. It would be nice
if Dave forked over that Nike money
to actually help those students in
need. It would also be nice if tuition
reduction was also available as an op
tion, but I think that most people are
forgetting the most important func
tion of a University. Do not be fooled
by the liberal education you think
you’re getting and all the “so-called
avoiding life" activities offered by the
University. The University is a corpo
ration that is here to make money,
and what they are selling is educa
tion. This is why those of us who are
out of state pay three times more than
in-state residents. If education was
the priority, we would have a lower
tuition and more financial aid in the
form of scholarships as opposed to
loans, loans, loans.
Take this example: Let’s say all
your life you’ve been shopping at
Saks Fifth Avenue, and one day you
run out of money and you can’t af
ford it anymore. Now, let’s say, since
you’ve been shopping there for nu
merous years that you know the staff.
One day you go in and see a bunch of
clothes that you must have. Is the
store going to let you put that mer
chandise on layaway? Are they going
to say, “We trust you; just bring the
money when you have it.” No,
they're not because they are in the
business to make money. Welcome to
the U.S., where your money is your
salvation.
If I am sounding a bit unsympa
thetic, it is because over the summer
my mother was injured in a car acci
dent and is currently undergoing
physical therapy (along with just giv
ing birth for the fifth time). As a re
sult, a loan that she had taken out in
order to send me to school had gone
into default because she couldn’t
work, and money is tight around the
house these days. The end result was
that in September, I got a letter saying
that I was $7,000 short of tuition for
the year. This is my senior year, so
you can imagine what it is like to be
so close to the end and then having
this thrown in your face. The finan
cial aid office was able to offer me yet
another loan (in the sum of $5,000,
leaving me with $3,000 to raise on
my own) or the option to transfer to a
school back east. The only problem
with the latter was that I would have
to repeat two years because all of my
credits would not have transferred.
During my financial ordeal, there was
never once a mention of a tuition de
ferral or a tuition reduction. For me
and a lot of other students in various
economic circumstances, it was like,
“Sorry, I guess you are just going to
have to work and concentrate on
things that are within your reach.”
Don’t get me wrong. I understand
what economic crunches do to peo
ple. I’ve been there. I am merely say
ing that if anyone thinks that the Uni
versity is going to reduce someone’s
tuition simply because they “are an
important part of the University,”
they are living in a fool’s paradise.
Also, it the University decides to go
through with this idea (since they
have been known to push aside the
needs of some students to benefit oth
ers), then they better be prepared to
offer the same options for everyone.
After all, this is an institution devot
ed to equality.
John Lugo
English