Having been a shy bookworm who grew up in a football-obsessed town just 30 minutes away from Penn State University during its “JoePa” heyday — when legendary coach Joe Paterno led the team to two national championships in 1982 and 1986 — I’ve always had an urge to run in the other direction (preferably straight to the closest library) when confronted by people’s in-your-face enthusiasm for sports.
So when a good friend asked me to accompany her to a Portland Thorns FC professional women’s soccer game a few years ago, I was more excited about catching up with my friend than about watching the game.
But as the athletes raced down the field and the crowd roared and a cheerleader with a mohawk unleashed a cloud of red smoke to celebrate a goal, I came slightly undone. I couldn’t believe how incredible it felt to scream in support of … women.
After four decades of watching the women in my family — my main role models — only cheer when men were playing, the act of cheering for women was intense and empowering.
A couple years after that Thorns game, my own daughter joined her first high school athletic team and started competing at cross country meets. Later that year, she became a cheerleader. I went to her meets and to the games for which she cheered, expecting to feel a similar sense of euphoria screaming in support of my own child and the young women running and cheering alongside her.