The concept of the legitimate female sports fan is unsettling to
many a man. If she exists, he will simultaneously be enchanted by
her passion, yet afraid that she will show him up in this, the
manliest of arenas.
The unearthing of this interest is usually impressive enough to
ensure that you do not have to pay for another drink for the rest
of the night (yes ladies, it is that powerful
when used correctly). In the rare instance, however, that you
encounter a man with the unfortunate birth defect of having his
capacity to perform any semblance to mental functioning located
further more south than usual (it is highly likely that they're the
ones asking "huh?" right now), it's almost as though a Y-chromosome
is regarded as some exclusive secret handshake to gain entry in to
the clubhouse of sports fans. As far as they're concerned, any
woman who watches sport must be drooling over the new Spanish
signing heating up jersey #4 or that we're willing to sit through
the match in order to produce a running commentary on the tattoos
and torsos that inevitably get revealed. When it comes to Formula
One, however, it soon becomes clear that any interest confessed by
a woman would have to be genuine. Pretending to
like a blatantly male-dominated and technically complicated sport
where no-one even gets a little naked at the end would be like
stroking the male ego: we've simply got better things to do.
Something strange tends to happen when a woman mentions in
conversation that she's a Formula One fan: any man who hears this
suddenly feels the apparently irresistible need to test her. As if
anyone in their right mind would fake interest in a sport that
virtually needs a Masters degree in Engineering just to decipher
the rule book (I have no doubt that many a female fan will
currently be having a flashback to a Friday night at a bar
somewhere in the world). There is something so incompatible to men
about a well-heeled woman discussing KERS and next season's
Pirellis with the same confidence with which we compare notes on
waterproof mascara and colour blocking (look this up if you want to
impress anyone with ovaries) that you can almost see them go in to
a mental anti-stall mode. They attempt to conceal their sheer
surprise, but the inevitable spluttering attempt at compiling a
fail-proof quiz to unmask our groupie ways never ceases to amuse.
Their questions are a dual attempt at impressing us and proving
that any alleged interest on our part was a sweet effort but
ultimately we should stick to watching ladies tennis (well, that or
lawn bowls). After we find ourselves correcting them for the
10th time, reminding them that, in fact, it was
Giancarlo Fisichella who won in Brazil '03,
and not Kimi Räikkönen (rookie error), his
respect is evident and our purses stay firmly in our chic clutch
bags for the rest of the evening (I'm not complaining - more money
for shoes).
If this is not the case, you will find yourself in the
unfortunate situation of having to deal with the second type of
male fan. This will inevitably involve the rules of the sport being
explained to you as though he is trying to potty train a one-year
old. We're surprisingly used to this though. It started in the days
of our fathers screaming in frustration and hurling the words "lost
cause" about at our apparent inability to understand their
deliberately overly-complicated explanation of the offside rule and
it will end with our husbands finally succeeding in communicating
just what a "ruck" is (well, that or divorce). So gentlemen, let me
gift you a favour to ensure that our species' reproductive capacity
endures: for the love of all that is holy, save your breath. Unless
we ask you to explain just how many more extra kilometres DRS gives
cars on straights, chances are we already know it's about 12kph
more (suck it) so save your pre-school level explanations for
pre-schoolers.
So the moral of my little story is a simple one: gentlemen,
female Formula One fans most definitely exist and when a woman
admits to being a proper Formula One fan, chances are you're about
to be shown all the reasons just why you're not.