Inner Warrior Makes a Court Appearance

The NBA season had not even officially begun when Shaq landed the first shot. Laker center O’Neal delivered a slap to the head that left his Utah Jazz counterpart sprawled on the Forum floor.

It wasn’t exactly in the heat of battle. The two teams had just finished a practice session Friday when O’Neal approached Greg Ostertag, with whom he’d traded public barbs since the Jazz knocked the Lakers from the playoffs in the spring. There was a brief exchange of insults, then Smack! . . . Ostertag hit the floor so hard he didn’t even try to get up, just crawled around looking for his contact lens.

O’Neal, the Lakers’ young team captain, was roundly criticized, fined and suspended, and later apologized for getting “caught up in the drama of the season’s first game.”

But no one expects that mea culpa to dim the spectacle of extracurricular aggression that’s become a staple of sporting events these days. Football, baseball, basketball, hockey. . . . No season is complete without a bench-clearing brawl.

Once I would have scoffed at such displays as testosterone-charged excess, the dominion of the male of the species, from whom we more or less expect an occasional temper tantrum.

But now I’ve seen women exchanging on-court blows, and I’ve felt the heady rush of adrenaline that powers a cocked fist.

And I’ve come to see sports as a way to both awaken the warrior within us and teach it to stay in its place.

In the neighborhood where I grew up, fights among girls were not uncommon. A nasty comment about someone’s boyfriend, hairstyle or choice of ensemble and word of an impending fight would circulate on campus. After school, crowds would gather to witness the hair-pulling, name-calling spectacle of junior high female fisticuffs.

But I was never brave or tough enough to enter the fray. Most of the girls I hung out with were of the bookish variety; we might argue and raise our voices but never our fists.

Back then I often wondered what it would take to draw me into a fight, to make me angry enough to punch someone.

I was 40 years old and on a basketball court when I learned the answer. And I’ve been replaying the scene on my mental tape delay since Shaq punched out his nemesis last week.

It was after the third game of the season in our Moms’ Basketball League, a collection of mostly middle-aged women who play for fun at our local park. My team had just posted its third straight loss, and I had been personally embarrassed in the process.

I’d gained a reputation in our first season as one of those scrappy, aggressive players--of the not much talent but a lot of heart variety. But in our league’s second year, we absorbed a raft of former college players, who racheted up not just the level of play but the intensity of our games.

Now our team--average age about 40, including a grandmother or two--was facing off against a squad that included a 22-year-old hotshot, who would out-muscle, out-hustle and outshoot me that day . . . and gloat as her team cruised to a win.

By the time the buzzer sounded, I’d had more than I could take. I strode over to where she stood high-fiving her teammates and, in the nicest, most ladylike voice I could muster, warned her to lighten up next time: “We’re old ladies, playing for fun, and we don’t want to get hurt,” I said.

She laughed derisively, waved me off and walked away. For fun? That ain’t the way the game is played, she told me. If you can’t stand the heat. . . .

I don’t recall exactly what happened next, except that, propelled by adrenaline, I followed her across the gym. And when she turned to taunt me again, I knew instantly I was about to throw the first punch of my life.

Fortunately, a teammate pinned down my arms and led me away. And then I did what I’ve always done when I’m really, really mad.

I burst into tears.

It was anger as raw as I’d ever felt, and it unsettled me so, I was afraid to turn out for the next game with her team. Not afraid of being shown up on court, afraid of losing control and pounding that young woman to a pulp . . . with my three young daughters looking on.

That set me to thinking about that part of me--and of many women--that doesn’t find much of an outlet in the civilized world, that part that sports can unleash when competition pushes you beyond the boundaries set by the rules.

Unchecked aggression is not only the domain of men; the challenge of self-control is one women will be facing more and more with the growth in popularity and intensity of women’s sports.

I see it already when I watch my daughter’s middle-school team on the basketball court. A blocked shot becomes a push, and somebody is shoved to the floor. A foul is called, but it doesn’t end there. There’s whispered name-calling as the players pass each other, and girls known mainly for their sunny dispositions are glaring and plotting revenge.

Already in their premiere seasons, both women’s professional basketball leagues have produced on-court scuffles, including one in which a player was punched so hard by an opponent in a playoff game she was hospitalized with a concussion.

It’s hard to tamp down your competitive impulses when you’re out there diving for loose balls, fighting for rebounds, muscling your way in under the boards. But when the game is over, you have to be able to shake hands, walk away and leave it on the court.

It’s a good lesson--applicable to life as well as sports--and the basketball court is a pretty good place for a girl to learn it.

* Sandy Banks’ column is published Mondays and Fridays. Her e-mail address is [email protected].