Published Wednesday, April 21, 2010 3:19 PM
Updated Wednesday, April 21, 2010 3:20 PM
That’s because after seeing Nadia Petrova blast 120 mile per hour thunderbolt serves all afternoon at the Family Circle, I realize once again that there are quite a few women who, quite frankly, kick major butt. Far more than many guys probably know.
Petrova, of course, is a major force on the women’s pro tennis tour. She’s more of a statuesque Valkyrie of the courts rather than what the old folks at home might once have called a tall drink of water. She hammers these blazing first serves, seemingly at will, to the peril of her opponent, in this case, to a game and very skilled -- but this time overmatched -- Vania King.
Even though King lost, I don’t think anyone I know, and most folks I don’t know, could go a set with her, either.
One of my favorite set-ups was from the movie “Jackass,” when Bam Margera was to go a round or two with a world champion female kick boxer.
“Hi, I’m Bam, and I’m about to get my a** kicked by a girl,” was his introductory line.
And she did.
That’s not my liberal, sensitive side speaking – I don’t have one of those – that’s just common sense. If you think about it, women are far tougher than most of us guys. We can stand anything but pain and temptation. It is absolutely true that if men had to have babies, the human race would be extinct in the first generation.
So yeah, I wouldn’t mind hitting like a girl, playing golf or tennis like a girl, playing guitar like a girl, or writing like a girl. The point being, if you’re good at what you do, I want to be like you when I try to do whatever it is you’re doing so well.
Which reminds me: Congratulations, Kathleen Parker, on a much deserved, well-earned Pulitzer! Yeah, I want to hit just like you, too.
I’ve always been surrounded by tough, assertive, bad-to-the-bone women, from my own sainted mother, the original Steel Magnolia, and her mother, my grandmother, one of the sweetest, most beautiful, and toughest folks I ever knew.
My grandfather was the dreamer; my grandmother the realist. Together they did extraordinary things, starting with building a successful military school in an unlikely and sleepy little Southern town in South Carolina during the height of the Depression.
Highly intelligent, well educated, she was also blessed with a quick wit and a down-to-earth common sense. Once, she and my grandfather were traveling somewhere on a two lane rural road when they almost met their maker in the guise of a dilapidated old logging truck that drifted into their lane, forcing my grandfather to swerve and stomp the brakes. The old Lincoln they were in went into a 50 mile an hour tailspin and after completing several 360s, they came to a stop on the other side of the highway, a little shaken up but unscathed.
My grandfather looked around, wiped his brow.
“I’ll tell you what. The Good Lord was riding with us on that one,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied. “And I bet he was about scared half to death. Why don’t you let me drive?”
Being the courteous, thoughtful, respectful, loving husband that I am, I always open car doors and such for my Beloved. It not only makes her feel special, it makes her less likely to drop my beer and golf clubs. And of course, I will never, ever, lay a hand on her.
This is because I know she can beat the ever-living daylights out of me and if for some reason she couldn’t, she knows where I sleep.
And they say chivalry is dead…