I guess Boston commuters have never seen a female football player before.

Okay. I know my bag’s big, and I know it smells, and I know when the T pulls into Park Street, the jersey-clad, half-crunked Red Sox fans are not going to part like the Red Sea. But every practice night, every game day, it’s the same ritual once they notice the insignia: Boston Militia Women’s Football. Stares. Whispers. Fingers pointing. Feet shuffling. General anxiety and confusion. And when there are two of us, well, that’s just too much to handle. Even small children cry.

Before the corpse-sized bag, I carried my helmet and shoulder pads in one hand, my cleats in the other. Somehow, that warranted less stares, whispers, pointing and shuffling. Mostly because those jersey-clad, half-crunked Red Sox fans seemed to think I played lacrosse. Without a stick. But a female lacrosse player, that’s believable. Female football players? They’re myths, like unicorns, and Bigfoot. Read More »