Pity the poor young men of Rowan University’s football team. All they want to do is practice their passing and tackling and that thing where they run over a bunch of tires lying on the ground, free from distractions. Is that so much to ask for?
Apparently it is, and by now you probably know why—it’s because of the lustful temptress sin-sirens of Rowan’s women’s cross country team, aka runners in sports bras. As has been widely reported, a couple of weeks back Rowan’s football team was practicing when the men’s and women’s cross country teams showed up to do mile repeats on the track. It was hot, so many of the runners—both men and women—removed their shirts.
Long story short: One of the football coaches “approached the women’s cross country coach and told him that the runners were distracting the football players.” The story went viral, and the school quickly affirmed that sports bras are okey dokey.
Well, if Rowan University thinks it can dust its hands and walk away from this problem, it’s got another think coming. Because the issue here isn’t sports bras. The issue is a football team with an apparent near-total lack of discipline and focus.
Any young man who gets sidetracked by seeing a few runners training in weather-appropriate gear, after all, will just as easily be distracted by…
Clouds that look vaguely like things.
Someone coughing off in the distance.
The skin-tight pants of the dude directly in front of him.
A car alarm in the parking lot. Is it his car? What does his car alarm sound like, again? Wait—does his car even have an alarm?
A plastic shopping bag stuck high in a tree. They should just ban those things already!
A cool bird. A hawk, maybe? Hard to tell from this distance.
The coach’s whistle. So shrill. Gross, too, when you think about. Think he ever cleans it?
The moon. It’s always so weird to see it during the daytime! How does that work, anyway?
Those skin-tight pants again. Is it gay to notice that so much?
The dawning realization that the underlying patriarchal structure he’s benefited from, and taken for granted, all his life is slowly, finally, crumbling around him and a reckoning is coming fast and he’d better get his shit together.
Is it even possible to eliminate all of these distractions? Will doing so help the team—finally!—focus enough that it doesn’t routinely get shellacked by, say, the gridiron powerhouse of Montclair State?
There’s only one way to find out. And that is to construct a sealed-off, distraction-free shelter for the team to practice in, where all they have to think about is themselves and where women exist as mere abstract thoughts, not as real people.
Sort of like the shelter they’re in now, but with exits.