Free You Let Some Girl Beat You? by Ann Meyers Drysdale

what we knew was right, worked hard, and did nothing to hurt others, we were just fine in their eyes. But still, I wondered. Was I gay because I wanted to play competitive basketball with the guys ? But how could I be gay when I was attracted to boys? I didn’t know what the right thing to do was anymore. I wasn’t trying to prove a point, I just wanted to play the game.
    I had always just wanted to play the game.
    When the names were announced for the summer team, mine was among them. The other players eventually welcomed me, though not exactly with open arms. The press had no easier time wrapping its pens around stories about a girl besting the boys. “Sonora High Boys Summer League apparently has the best prospect in attractive 5’8” Meyers,” the paper wrote.
    â€œShe went in during the second quarter and led the fast break, and she is quick, fakes, and has good footwork,” a college scout was quoted saying. “She is also cute and has a good figure.”
    This last part struck me as funny. Male athletes were never described physically in the newspapers unless it had something to do with their ability to play, their height, their weight, etc. While it was flattering to be called attractive, it also felt odd. It was almost as if no matter how well I might have played before this coach, he would never think of me as a real basketball player, but rather as a cute basketball player.
    When my senior year started there were the inevitable questions about whether or not I would go out for the boys’ varsity basketball team. After all that had happened, all of the comments from the parents about letting a girl play on the team, about allowing me to take their son’s place, and the idea that my classmates would question my sexuality, I ultimately declined.
    It would be the last time I would let anyone’s opinion dictate my decisions.

6
Learning to Harness the Fire Within
    â€œControl your passion or it will control you.”
~ G.M. Trevelyan
    Not going out for the boys’ varsity team turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Had I joined, I wouldn’t have been available weeks later to try out for the Women’s U.S. National Team.
    It was a three-day invitation-only competition in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the other contenders were seasoned USA players and three to five years older. I had some stiff competition, and the thin air didn’t work to my advantage because it was hard to catch my breath. Still, in 1974, I became the first high school player to make it onto a U.S. Women’s National Team.
    Our first game was in New York City. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. I’d never flown without my mother and siblings before. Now I was in what felt like the capital of the world and staying at a small hotel across from the famous Waldorf Astoria. And if the hotel lacked the gold leaf trim and satin sheets I’d heard were commonplace at the Waldorf, I didn’t care. I still felt like I’d made it to the big time. After all, we were about to play at the Felt Forum in Madison Square Garden! The whole thing seemed surreal. The night before that first game, I had one thought continuously pounding in my brain: If I’m dreaming, don’t anybody pinch me .
    The next morning the alarm went off at 7:30 but it felt more like 4:30 because of the time difference. Standing in front of the mirror, I ran a comb through what was left of my blond locks. At least I don’t have to worry about my hair . The up side was that, apparently, I no longer looked like David. Now I looked like Doris Day. Right, Doris Day versus the Soviets.
    Our rivals were the Soviet Union Women’s Team, who’d dominated women’s basketball for nearly two decades. Some were in their late twenties and thirties, and were mothers. A friend told me he’d heard that communist countries would inject the pregnancy hormone, HCG, into their female athletes because