I look in the morning paper today, hoping for a recap of the women’s national team game — a game that was carried on actual TV (Yay!) but on a station our region doesn’t get (boo).
Instead, I find a big inside story on a pissing match between the men’s national team coach and the men’s professional league. Seriously, someone said something another person didn’t like, and it’s a big story. There’s also another story, shorter, on a new coach for our shitty local men’s pro team.
And yet … the women’s team barely squeaks by last night in its first game to qualify for the World Cup — a game that actually means something — and there’s not a mention.
Not a story, not a blurb, not even a tiny little box score.
I get that it was a great day for San Francisco sports. The Giants are one win away from their every other year trip to the World Series.
So clearly it was an even bigger sports day than I imagined, and the women, second class citizens that they are, had to take the back seat again.
I continue flipping through the paper to find all of these important stories and discover:
The Colts’ owner says something about his DUI … from March.
Steve Nash injures back carrying luggage.
The NFL sends letter to players about Ebola.
There’s a big color piece on a former high school football player now doing well in Oregon. That’s really sweet.
Look, I get that not everyone loves soccer.
But if you’re going to cover the sport, at least fucking mention the only god damn American team with a chance to win the World Cup.
The sexism. It’s subtle. And non stop.