Reinstating a Hero

One small jersey is perhaps the most shameless, most unethical, most ironic, most disappointing, most infuriating piece of sports marketing you have seen in a long time:

It’s a jersey for a toddler. Someone of an age when they’re picking their first favourite player, a hero selected for often arbitrary and irrelevant reasons, who should remain treasured as the child grows into adulthood. A player who should remind the beholder of a simpler, more innocent time in their life.

Of course, thanks to the actions of some athletes, the choices of some kids turn out to be less simple-naïve-adoration and more innocence-shattering-life-lesson.

In ‘One Week at a Time: Sex, Footy and the Flag” – an extract of which is one of the great pieces of Australian sports writing – Stephanie Holt provided a stunning example of this when describing her young daughter Lydia’s joy at presenting a jumper to a random player at the St.Kilda Family Day:

“Lydia, concentrating on doing everything right, takes the stage right on cue, hands over a jumper as Leigh Montagna is introduced…turns and heads off stage.

“‘He asked me if I’d like a kiss,’ says Lydia; when I pump her for details, afterwards, and though she’d been too nervous to answer, she is delighted by the brief, gallant brush on the cheek she received. ‘He’s really really nice,’ she tells me.

“We head off to buy a Leigh Montagna badge. Lydia’s beaming fit to burst.

“Less than two days later, we wake to the news that Stephen Milne and Leigh Montagna have been accused of sexual assault.”

Throughout sports history, when stars commit atrocious acts – be them related to betting, to drugs, or to far more heinous crimes – parents are thrust into the role of translating such adult material to children still young enough to be imbued with a belief in the inherent goodness of their heroes, if not all of mankind.

And yet, the first item on the ‘Toddlers 2-4’ page of the Minnesota Vikings online store is a toddler-sized Adrian Peterson jersey. In fact, three of the first five items are emblazoned with Peterson’s name and number, including a pink “Girls Vikings Adrian Peterson My Crush T-Shirt”.

Last September, Adrian Peterson was indicted in Texas on charges of reckless or negligent injury to a child. Peterson used a tree branch with the leaves removed – which he referred to as a ‘switch’ – to thrash his four year old son repeatedly on his back, backside, legs and scrotum. Apparently, the kid had pushed another of Peterson’s children off a motorbike video game. TMZ published photos of the kid’s injuries, which won’t be linked to here.

Peterson referred to the incident as a “whooping”. He pleaded no contest, avoiding jail through a plea deal.

After being suspended from the NFL for a season, Peterson was reinstated last week and is reportedly receiving interest from a number of NFL teams keen on obtaining his services from the Vikings.

Different sports in different cultures draw their ethical lines in different places. This past weekend, the tennis cognoscenti tut-tutted about Genie Bouchard’s arrogance and lack-of-sportsmanship when she refused to follow Fed Cup tradition and shake her opponent’s hand before the tie. Meanwhile, the NFL is famous for employing players who are suspected of murder or who have served time for severe, indescribable cruelty to animals.

And in 2015, no longer is it bad enough for a child’s hero to fall from grace. Now, the modern NFL is ahead of the game: they promote the idea of pre-schoolers worshiping a man who beats up pre-schoolers.

Like a Girl

Unsurprisingly, I have no clue what relationship my four-week-old daughter will have with sport. I mean, she’ll be forced to have some idea about it – she won’t be able to avoid footy unless she spends her winters in a venue that isn’t our place or those of her grandparents. But who knows whether it will become a lifelong interest as it is for her mother and myself, or a great passion as it is for her 3-year-old brother.

Regardless of this, it’s impossible not to look at her brother – a guy who spent a recent Sunday morning watching some of the Davis Cup and flicking through the pre-season Footy Record before deciding to get off the couch to play some serious hallway cricket – without wondering how the modern sporting world might appear to a girl born in 2015.

For starters, the kid’s been born but months after cuts to the ABC led to the announcement that the channel will no longer broadcast the WNBL or the W-League. As Australian Womensport and Recreation Association executive officer Leanne Evans said, now “You’d struggle to find much at all in terms of women’s sport on television.”

So how might a newborn-come-infant-come-toddler respond to this kind of world? When even though her parents always have sport on the television, women cannot be seen participating either side of netball, Grand Slam tennis tournaments and Olympic fortnights?

Suddenly, one is forced to really consider the moments when one’s daughter might actually see a female on a mainstream sports broadcast. There are occasional female commentators, although with the exception of the NBA they very rarely commentate on anything other than women’s sport. There’s also a goal umpire or two, cycling’s podium girls, and cheerleaders are apparently still a thing. Other than that, there are women in the crowd enjoying the spectacle of men’s athletic achievements and there are some on the ads, of course.

Obviously, this is all common knowledge. And it’s not as if a lack of sports coverage is anywhere near the list of Biggest Problems 21^st Century Women Face, as emphasised by the debate surrounding the latest ad for the ANZ Championship. As Traci Holmes said on Offsiders this past weekend, when Sharni Layton appears in the last shot with the remnants of a black eye, it’s supposed to present the sport and the women who play it as fit and tough. But unfortunately, in this day and age many people look at an image of a bruised woman and automatically associate her with the world’s incomprehensible number of victims of domestic violence.

But the contrast between how a girl or a boy might respond to modern sport is still worth asking questions about, right?

Is it harder for girls to find sporting idols, leaving them instead more likely to choose someone from the entertainment sphere to look up to and love as a child?

Do young girls even think about sport becoming a part of their pretend play, the way that the 3-year-old does when he impersonates Mitch or Rhino when bowling down the hallway?

Are stereotypes surrounding athletic girls – from the traditional “tomboy” to the notion that only butch or gay women play cricket, soccer or footy – still going to exist as the newborn progresses through the 21^st Century?

Will we look back at Australia in 2013, when one of the four women’s sports leagues on television was the Legends (formerly ‘Lingerie’) Football League and see it as an anachronism or as a precursor to the future of women’s sport on television?

What is the true impact of men calling for women to wear more revealing uniforms, or of the most marketable female sportspeople being the most attractive ones regardless of their on-field success?

And, ultimately, does any of this actually matter to the health, joy and wellbeing of a young girl, regardless of her level of interest in sport?

Parenthood brings so many uncertainties into one’s life. At least Mrs EPO and I can rest assured that we both know tens of wise, compassionate, honourable, modest, spectacular women who the newborn will be surrounded with throughout her childhood and adolescence. May they help us guide her through the minefield of life, including discussing issues in women’s sport as often as modern life will permit and, sometimes, require.

A Kyrgios is a Kyrgios

Australian tennis’ newest star Nick Kyrgios finds himself as modern tennis’ referendum on the note that Birdman’s protagonist Riggan has on his dressing room mirror: “A thing is a thing, not what is said of that thing.”

Those who are fond of Kyrgios – either as a person, or at the very least as a “breath of fresh air” – take a Swiftian haters-gonna-hate stance, wherein critics of on- and off-court style and persona are irrelevant in an individual sport where results are the only things that matter. It’s a stance in which one of tennis’ great purities comes to life: that all a player need do to gain entry into the world’s biggest tournaments is to earn a ranking that’s high enough. No proving one’s self to scouts, seeking the approval of judges, or taking psychological tests to be drafted onto a team. You just have to be able to play.

Those on the other side, criticising Kyrgios for his personality regardless of on-court success, instead play the role of Birdman’s Tabitha, the theatre critic sitting alone in the corner of a bar, pouring scorn on an as-yet unseen play because it stars a movie idol rather than a theatre actor: “After the opening tomorrow I’m gonna turn in the worst review anyone has ever read and I’m gonna close your play. Would you like to know why? Because I hate you and everyone you represent. Entitled, selfish, spoiled children.”

For the reputation of a polarising tennis player evokes Birdman at its most existential. What is the point of being one of the best players in the world if the people watching don’t like you? Or should the question instead be who cares about what people think of you if you’re one of the best players in the world? Is the pursuit of excellence purely for its own sake, or is it for the sake of entertaining and earning the appreciation of others?

Fred Stolle, a commentator and ex-player safely ensconced as one of the bastions of Australian tennis, provided perhaps the most telling – and most hilarious – criticism of Kyrgios’ persona during the Australian Open: “Asked whether Kyrgios could learn from Lleyton Hewitt, whose fierce on-court behavior came under scrutiny early in his career, Stolle said: ‘Yeah, but Lleyton never smashed racquets. Lleyton got annoyed and abused people but he never, he never broke racquets.”

Stolle’s comment was an imbecilic version of the insta-classic Birdman quote from Edward Norton’s character Mike Shiner: “Popularity is the slutty little cousin of prestige.” It’s as if Stolle’s saying, “Win a prestigious tournament, Nick, and we’ll forgive you all of your previous ills. Once Lleyton won prestigious events and became one of us, his behaviour became irrelevant. Until then, you’re nothing.”

For this is Australian tennis, where Lavers, Courts, Newcombes and Rosewalls have blazed trails. And where Philippoussis is forever a disappointment. A wasted talent. A failure. We expect more from our freakish athletes when tennis is their sport of choice. Patty Mills was handed the keys to the country when he was the eighth best player on a successful NBA team, but Scud failed to live up to his potential despite once being the eighth best player in the world. Australia now holds the same expectations over Kyrgios as it once did of Philippoussis – two Slam finals and a top ten ranking won’t be enough to avoid being an eternal disappointment to the country’s sporting critics.

Actually, the modern requirement for entry into Australian sporting royalty is winning two Slams. Pat Rafter won two and he has an arena named after him. Meanwhile, Sam Stosur is the only Aussie woman to have won a Slam since Goolagong in 1980, and yet every summer Sam’s trotted out as fodder for the sportspages. For can’t you see? She’s a failure who needs serious psychological help.

Of course, as Birdman’s Riggin shouts at his critic, “That’s a label. That’s all labels. You just label everything. That’s so fuckin’ lazy… It’s just a bunch of crappy opinions, backed up by even crappier comparisons… You write a couple of paragraphs and you know what? None of this cost you fuckin’ anything!”

For the moment, as we viewers of tennis’ play-within-a-play wait to see exactly how it’ll all end up, we know that Kyrgios cares about some labels. When he rocked up to the entrance to Rod Laver Arena for his quarter-final, he asked court announcer Craig Willis to introduce him to the crowd as “The Wonder from Down Under.”

Oh for the unexpected virtue of ignorance.