You Let Some Girl Beat You? by Ann Meyers Drysdale

and she’d scream loud and long enough to rattle the bleachers and frighten every bird out of every tree within a half-mile radius. And if you think the birds were freaked out, you should have seen the faces on those refs and other parents.
    Mom was our greatest fan. Somehow she managed to be at Patty’s softball games, Mark and Tom’s football games, Cathy’s swim meets, David’s basketball games, Jeff’s Little League games, Susie’s singing recitals, Kelly’s basketball games, Coleen’s soccer games, Bobby’s tennis matches, and my track-meets—all in the same week, and sometimes several in one day.
    And at each event, every official knew who Mrs. Meyers was. “Mrs. Meyers, are we going to have a good game today?” the refs would ask gingerly.
    â€œI don’t know,” she’d respond, arching one eyebrow. Then she’d look them straight in the face with her Irish-Catholic laser-beam focus that could pierce steel and say, “You tell me .”
    She never complained about having to drive a half-hour each way to get me to my West Covina AAU track team, where I was setting Southern California high jumping records. The team would enter me into every possible event just to rack up as many points as possible. I’d compete against girls three, four, even five years older, but I loved it. My parents knew I’d dreamed of competing in the Olympics as a track athlete, just like Babe. They allowed David and me to teach ourselves to high jump in the entry way and living room by pulling down pillows and mattresses, where we would jump over strategically placed chairs onto the stuffing below. Then I would run the stairs and jump rope with ankle weights, and do slides for lateral quickness—anything to make my legs stronger.
    My parents were aware that I hoped to compete in other sports on other teams, but the problem was there were no organized after school sports programs for kids in the 60s and 70s. When one was finally developed for boys, my parents went through some elaborate measures to clear my playing with the school district. Coaxing, threatening, pleading, signing endless releases of liability, filling out endless reams of paperwork, whatever it took, Pat and Bob Meyers weren’t above it. Yet as busy as they were, not only did they never complain, but they never even let me know that it took any bureaucratic arm-wrestling. In fifth and sixth grade I became the first girl to play on the all-boys after school sports team. And if anyone had a problem with a girl playing on a boys’ team, well they knew better than to let any of the Meyers get wind of it.
    Around this same time, it became clear that we were actually, finally, staying put, which allowed for some routine to seep its way into our lives. Every Sunday it was the same routine; first we’d attend Mass, then my mother would make a huge brunch of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, muffins, the works—all of it, tirelessly homespun from scratch. Like so many other Sundays, I changed out of my dress and patent leathers into David’s hand-me-down jeans so I could tag along with him and his friends, who were riding their bikes to the park to play basketball.
    But this time, David said something I’d never forget. “Why do you always have to follow me?”
    David realized how much I idolized him, even when he was making fun of me for shooting hoops with two hands. I knew he didn’t mean anything by it. I wore my blond hair short because it made it easier to play sports, but it also sort of made me look like him, and he seemed to think that was cute. He never minded me tagging along before.
    â€œYou’re a girl, Annie! Act like one!” He hopped back on his bike and raced to catch up to his friends. I watched and waited for him to turn around, but he never did. The dust stung my eyes as he tore off. At least that’s what I told my mom when she asked if I’d