Archive for the 'Sports' Category

Tuesday night notes and links: three fun photos, some good art, and a poem that made me cry

It’s a quiet Tuesday night here on the home front; a rare night for me to relax at home and putter.  I’ve got some serious posts coming up later this week on everything from lesbians in women’s sports to encouraging young men to challenge sexism amongst their peers, but I’m not in the mood for anything serious tonight.

Some notes and links:

I’ve got three new, very special photos of Matilde up in this album.  Check out this one of her in full descent or this one of her in full dust bath flip.  And, since yesterday was my birthday and the second anniversary of Matilde’s near-death experience, consider making a tax-deductible donation to her charity.   Exciting news about our work coming soon!

Lynn has a good post up about women, visuality, beefcake, and porn.  It touches on many issues I’ve been dealing with, and asks some interesting questions.  Please be civil when commenting over there.

Slate magazine linked to my post this morning on politics and virtue.  Both evil_fizz and Glenn Sacks sent me notes to let me know about it, and I’m grateful to both of them.

One of my most memorable and talented students in recent years, Courtney Raney, is an artist, and I’ve been meaning to link to her website.  Check out some of what she’s done here and here; it’s terrific.

If there’s a male blogger in the blogosphere on whom I have the famous massive blog crush, it’s surely Chris Clarke.  He shares with me a passion for justice and a love for the hills of the East Bay Area in Northern California.  He’s ten times the writer I’ll ever be. He put up a poem this past weekend about a baby squirrel he found. It’s a beautiful and heartbreaking piece about the choice between sentimental interference with nature on behalf of one little creature, and respect for the harsh but wise choices of the natural ecosystem.  At the end of the poem, Chris does what I would not have done.  When I first read it, I wept, and I cursed him.  When I read it a second time, I nodded my head and honored him for his courage, his humanity and his humble recognition of our rightful powerlessness. 

Enough for tonight.  I’m going to watch some WNBA (Storm vs. Comets) on ESPN2 and try and figure out who the heck to vote for in the California Democratic primary for secretary of state and lieutenant governor.  I welcome suggestions from those who know more about these things than I.

More on men, women, hazing, and why we should avert our gaze

Third post of this birthday day.

I’ve posted both here and at Inside Higher Ed on the brouhaha over women’s sports teams and hazing. I’d like to revisit two other aspects of the issue.

On Friday, Jill linked to this dreadful Kathryn Jean Lopez essay at National Review Online.  Lopez reacts to the news that Catholic University of America’s women’s lacrosse team has also had its hazing rituals revealed in online photos:

Young men shouldn’t be getting sloppy drunk and doing childish things and paying for a stripper. But young women really shouldn’t. There is something more disconcerting about the latter—and it is even more disturbing that we won’t all have that reaction. It’s not beyond the call of duty for women to encourage men to be gentlemen. It’s women’s work.
   (Bold is mine)

Jill takes that apart very well, but I’m going to add my two cents.

The notion that women ought to hold themselves to a higher standard than men is a profoundly upsetting one to those of us who care deeply about issues of faith, feminism, and gender.  Jill, and other articulate feminists, rightly point out that making young women responsible for civilizing men is a cruel burden to impose on women.  But of course, what’s also so infuriating is the implication that men can’t be civilized and restrained without the active intervention of women.

A key thrust of the pro-feminist men’s movement (a movement to which I happily belong) is to empower men to escape the "myth of male weakness" (the notion that at their core, men are sex-crazed brutes who need women to soothe, nurture, and restrain us.)  In my life, one of the most liberating discoveries of all was the discovery that I could control my actions, and I could challenge other men in all-male settings to hold themselves accountable.  It’s a fine thing indeed to discover that possessing a penis (even an erect one) does not vitiate the ability to reason, nor does a rush of testosterone automatically override compassion and common sense!

The CUA lacrosse team hired a male stripper (photos are on the internet to prove it).  So too did the Duke men’s lacrosse team, with infamous results.  But the two actions aren’t comparable, largely because of the enormously reduced threat to a male stripper as opposed to his female coutnerpart.  Zuzu writes below Jill’s post:

The dynamic is very different than when you have a bunch of men hiring a female stripper. There’s no expectation of sexual acts with the stripper for a little extra cash, for example, and the fun is in being naughty with your friends and letting loose for once, with no men around but the bouncers and the stripper. There’s no real menace, because no matter how much they’re whooping and hollering and drinking, women aren’t going to, say, gang-rape a male stripper. Even if he does a little lap-dance type of thing for you, the goal is not for you to get off; the goal is for you to have fun (and for your friends to have fun watching you).

That’s exactly right. I don’t want anyone hiring strippers, period.  But I’m not going to pretend that what the CUA women’s lacrosse team did is remotely equivalent to what the Duke men’s team.  Zuzu’s right: women don’t rape male strippers.  The man may take off his clothes for money, but he can be reasonably certain he won’t be forcibly violated.  And though some women may respond sexually to his gyrations, the real pleasure for most young women in hiring a man to strip is in the role reversal.   Look at the faces of men watching a woman strip — the men look hungry.  Look at the faces of women watching a man strip — they’re contorted with often hysterical laughter.  There’s often a sordid, deadly seriousness beneath the raucousness when a group of men watch a naked woman dance for them; there’s usually a kind of embarrassed silliness among the women when a man in a thong cavorts in front of them.

Lopez has it exactly backwards.  While I don’t want any college team stripping or hiring strippers as part of an initiation ritual or celebration, I think that it’s far worse when men do so. It’s not that I hold men to a higher standard — it’s that the threat of potential violence and violation is infinitely greater to a female stripper with a male audience than with a male stripper in front of a female audience.  Young men worthy of carrying the name of their university on their chests or backs ought to know this well enough, and college administrators — and conservative pundits — would do well to keep this in mind.

I also want to reiterate my strong feeling that we shouldn’t be looking at the photos circulating on the internet from these parties.  Inside Higher Ed (as well as most other websites and many national papers) already linked to the site, and thus I mentioned it in the version of the post I wrote for that webpage.  But I’m not linking to any of the pictures here.  I’ve seen a few of them — once. And there are numerous photos available on the web and linked to by major publications that I have avoided viewing.  And I am adamant that I think we should all avert our gaze from these photos.  The people who snapped these pictures of young people in various states of undress and intoxication did upload them to various photo-sharing communities.  But they never intended the photos to be discussed, analyzed, and quite possibly drooled over by millions of folks across the country.

Of course the young people involved should have known better.  Yet I suspect that many of the young women involved in the most noteworthy of the hazing incidents,that of the Northwestern soccer team, had no way of stopping the photos from being taken.  (When you’re being hazed, how do you tell the juniors and seniors who are running the show not to take a picture of you drunk and in your underwear?)  But even if they put the photos up there deliberately and intentionally, even if they want us to look, we still shouldn’t.

I wrote in February that I gave up my Myspace account for many reasons, not the least of which that I thought it was inappropriate that I be exposed to the (frequently) revealing and embarrassing photos that teenagers post of themselves on that site.   I understand the temptation that young people feel to share their amusing, silly, and mildly shocking pictures with their friends and the broader world.  But I know full well that what one considers funny and daring when one is 18 and smashed may be humiliating and painful at 28 — or heck, even the next day when sobriety arrives with a brutal reality check.  Those of us who ARE old enough to know better must do more than simply shake our heads and bemoan the poor judgment of "kids these days."  Yes, we need to mentor and counsel and supervise.  But we also need to avert our eyes, both out of a healthy and loving respect for the young people involved as well as out of a sense of what is healthy and good for us to see. I don’t need to see a photo of some eighteen year-old soccer player giving a drunken lap dance in her bra and panties — and I’m pretty damn sure that given the time to reflect on it, she doesn’t want the likes of me to see that picture either.  Out of respect for both of us, I’m not going there.

And yeah, I don’t think of any of you should be going there either.

Thinking about women, sports, and hazing

There’s been a fair amount of attention this week to the issue of hazing and women’s college sports teams.  Earlier this week, a website published a number of photos depicting the Northwestern University women’s soccer team conducting an initiation for new players.  The women are shown being forced to chug beer, give lap dances to members of the men’s soccer team, all while various words and pictures are drawn on their bodies.  This morning, the same site has pictures from a dozen other colleges and universities, almost all of which focus on hazing/initiation rituals involving various women’s sports teams.  All of the colleges involved have anti-hazing policies, and all (naturally) prohibit underage drinking.

I’m not giving the name of this particular website, though national newspapers like the New York Times have linked to it and it’s easy enough to find.  I looked at a few of the pictures on the site and then chose not to view any more.  In the national media, the faces of the women involved are obscured, but on the site that the Times linked to, they are in full view.  Though it was obviously foolish for the teams involved to photograph their hazing rituals and post the pics on the internet, I grieve the embarrassment the young women involved must now be feeling, and I have no interest in staring pruriently at the various details of their humiliations.

What I’ve seen tells me what I already knew: the kind of hazing that goes on on contemporary college campuses is more or less identical to what happened when I was an undergrad twenty years ago.  The essentials, then and now, are these: forcing the pledges/initiates/rookies/frosh to undress (at least to their underwear); forcing them to consume large amounts of alcohol; asking them to "perform" sexualized dances in front of members of the opposite sex.  The Northwestern University women were required to give lap dances in their underwear in front of members of the men’s soccer team — while the Quinnipiac College men’s baseball team is shown on the site stripping and dancing for a group of unidentified women.

As an adult who struggled with problem drinking for years, I am of course greatly concerned by any ritual that requires that folks consume large amounts of booze in a short period of time. I have no sympathy for those who see binge drinking as an essential rite of passage; I’ve seen the damage it can do to lives and bodies. 

As a feminist, I’m grieved to see that ritualized sexual humiliation is still such a vital mainstay of initiation practices.  It’s not new, of course.  When I was a freshman at Cal, I flirted with the idea of joining a fraternity (one to which my grandfather, a great-grandfather, and numerous uncles and cousins had belonged). In the end, I decided not to, both for reasons of principle and because I worried that I wouldn’t fit in with the fraternity culture.  I had lots of friends in the Greek system, however, and I heard their initiation stories.  One of my former wives was a Pi Phi in the late 1980s; she told me that she had never gotten over her hazing.  She recalled being stripped down to her underwear, and all the "actives" (members) of her sorority took magic markers and wrote on her body — circling areas that they thought "needed work" and writing commentary about her attributes.  She said she laughed at the time — but years later, she would still sometimes gaze at those parts and think about the criticisms and obscenities she had seen written there.

I’m a fierce fan of intercollegiate sports.  With the possible exception of golf, I love to watch men and women play any NCAA sport.  (I’m very excited about the upcoming NCAA women’s college world series, as I have a particular heart for softball.)  I know the good that sport has brought to my life, and I’ve seen it bring discipline, health, camaraderie, and character to a great many young people.  I’m not one of those professors who "goes easy" on the jocks, but I’m not someone who wishes that intercollegiate athletics would disappear, either.  And as a fan of sports — and former athletic department tutor at UCLA –  I’ve got at least a passing understanding of how vital it is to build close community on a team.

I think initiation rituals can be very valuable.  Requiring frosh or rookies to go through a series of steps before they are accepted as full-fledged members of the team is healthy.   It is axiomatic that to suffer together is one way to build community.  But not all suffering is the same!  Forcing the frosh to run extra laps or do extra push-ups or go through a weekend of brutal fitness camp can build community and fellowship just fine — all without a drop of alcohol and without a single lap dance.  Requiring frosh to put on silly skits that don’t involve vulgar humor, nudity, or intoxication can have a similar bonding effect.    The problem is not with the nature of sports teams/fraternities/sororities, or with initiation rituals — the problem is with a culture that connects that valuable process of initiation to ritualized sexual degradation and binge drinking.

One of the reasons that this sort of hazing troubles me so much is because it is so fundamentally antithetical to what sports can be in women’s lives.  The beauty of sports for women, at the high school or college level, is that it teaches women that their bodies are not merely decorative objects to be gazed at.  It teaches women that their sexuality and their potential reproductivity are not their greatest assets.   Sport — at its best — teaches girls that their bodies are strong, and powerful; it teaches the athlete that she can transform and control her flesh for her own delight as well as for the good of the team. It turns objects into subjects, turns the passive active.  I’ve seen sports from softball to track to soccer to basketball do that for countless women and girls in my life, and I rejoice in it.  And thus I grieve when I see young female athletes forced to use their bodies so differently — as objects of public, sexualized ridicule — all for the sake of creating community that could so easily be created in a different way.

I’m not at all sure that suspension is warranted in the case of the Northwestern women’s soccer team (and the other teams revealed today), but clearly, greater oversight and education are badly needed.

Monday notes

Noted here and there:

‘Twas a busy weekend.  Like so many others, I’m honoring the passing of Buck Owens.  I’ll admit, I didn’t grow up on him — I first started listening to Buck after he was referenced in a Dwight Yoakam song.  This makes me uncool, I know, but I did grow to love that "west coast" country sound of his.

I’m interested to know how many Americans successfully picked George Mason, UCLA, Florida, and LSU in their men’s final four. I did pick UCLA correctly, but the other three are stunners.  At this point, I’m predicting UCLA over Florida in the final, but wouldn’t be surprised if the Patriots beat the Tigers a week from tonight either.

I’m surprised by Oklahoma’s loss in the women’s tournament — Courtney Paris just seemed so unstoppably dominant to me.  I’m rooting for the Tennessee Vols now.  But please, sweet Jesus, not UConn again.

I’m grateful to Inside Higher Ed for linking to Friday’s post on student crushes.  It’s worth another 1000 visitors a day at least; if you came here from IHE, welcome!

Thanks to Feministe, I learned that this blog has been listed at About.com as one of the "Top Ten Blogs on Civil Liberties and Women’s Rights".  In addition to Feministe, Feministing, Alas, and The Happy Feminist were selected.  Mysteriously, Pandagon was not.  The list was put together by writer and activist Tom Head, who says such kind things about this blog that I am going to (as ever, immodestly) repeat them:

Male feminist bloggers want to be Hugo when they grow up. He has both an intuitive understanding of feminist values and an intuitive understanding of how to try to humbly live into those values as a heterosexual white man–dealing as much with the business of day-to-day life, and the day-to-day values and relationships that give it meaning, as he does with policy issues. And with rational humility, but without a hint of self-mortification, he makes it all look easy.

Matilde the chinchilla sends kisses to Tom.

And of course, the big story in Los Angeles wasn’t the Bruins beating Memphis. It was the massive demonstration for immigrant rights held on Saturday in downtown.  We weren’t there; I was on the El Prieto trail when the march began, and was at Pilates class when it ended.  (Then again, I only found out about it early Saturday morning before heading out for a run.)  I’ve posted about immigration before, and recommend this piece from Maia at Alas, A Blog.  She makes the old  point that if capital is going to be free (something NAFTA has accomplished) then labor too must be free.  If money can move effortlessly across borders, than human capital must be allowed to do the same.  Whatever standard you use, human capital and cash must be treated by the same set of rules. 

For different perspectives from two L.A. Christians whom I respect, read what Rudy and Christy have to say.

I’m going to quote what I wrote last year, because my feelings have not changed an iota:

"In general, we Christians are called to follow the laws of the secular state.  We are to render obedience to Caesar, save in those instances when Caesar’s imperatives conflict directly with God’s call to radical, biblical, universal justice.  Civil disobedience has a place, after all; I am convinced that Christians are called to be disobedient to the state when the state demands that we treat folks differently based upon their immigration status. 

But those of us who hire the undocumented must be very careful not to exploit them financially.  After all, giant corporations regularly hire "illegal aliens", not out of biblical compassion but out of a desire to save money by hiring vulnerable, non-union labor.   Having hired many, many day laborers over the years to help with everything from moving to landscaping to very minor construction, I’ve always made sure to pay wages that are well above the minimum.   (I’ve never hired anyone for under $20 an hour, frankly, and I’ve often paid more.  Indeed, I try to pay day laborers what I think I would pay someone whose name I got from the Yellow Pages, though that is often tough to gauge.) 

I know that many of the men I’ve hired are sending money home to Mexico, Central, and South America.   Our church has an ongoing, long-term mission project in a small Sinaloa town near the Pacific.  On my visits there, I’ve seen the tremendous good that the money sent home by those working in America has brought about.  (When I visited my fiancee’s family last year in rural northeastern Colombia, I saw the same enormous benefits that remittances from America had provided.)  When I hire a day laborer, and pay him well, I’m not merely enabling him to eat; I’m helping to support an entire community.  And as a Christian, I believe I am called to love a Latin American community every bit as much as one here in the United States.   Yes, my salary is paid by taxes — but villages in Mexico and Colombia survive on the money I pay to their sons and daughters here.  Is it not contradictory to the gospel to prefer one’s own people to those who live abroad? "

Rituals

I’m in the midst of my pre-marathon rituals.  Eating, drinking, laying out my running gear.  Deciding whether to run shirtless or not (I will if the temps will climb above 55 degrees, even if I frighten small children); deciding which socks to wear.  Packing my gels and deciding whether to wear a water belt.

Every serious marathoner I’ve ever known becomes a creature of ritual sooner or later, and after a  great many distance events, I make sure mine include the following:

1.  No caffeine after 2:30PM the day before a race.  That means I can still work on my coffee until then.  After that, water, water, water.

2.  Bagels, bagels, bagels.

3.  A one mile run.

4.  Thirty pushups, forty crunches.  Nothing else.

5.  Anxious worrying about faint twinges in my muscles.

6.  My wife marking up my race bib with encouraging messages for me to read when the going gets tough.

7.  Listening to the Leontyne Price recording of "He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands", over and over again

Today, I’m also watching college basketball.  And flipping back and forth between the men’s and women’s tournaments.  Two fundamentally different but equally compelling ways of approaching the sport are on display with the men’s and women’s games, and as a fan, I appreciate both.  I’ve picked the Duke men and the Oklahoma women to win it all, but I really just enjoy all of the drama.  And it’s keeping me distracted.

Prediction #2

Women’s Final Four:  Tennessee, Baylor, Duke, Oklahoma.  Oklahoma wins it all.

Prediction

My men’s final four:  Duke, North Carolina, UCLA, Boston College. 

Saturday notes and a new idea

Lots of good comments below several of this past week’s posts; I’m very grateful.

Quite a few folks  — looks like about a dozen — found this blog by googling or yahooing my name today.  Wonder what’s up?  People also got here by looking for running chinchillas; narcissism religion sexual boundary violations; teenage infatuation older men; white men married to black women, and Mennonite feminists.  I’m well equipped to hold forth on several of these issues, no doubt, but Matilde will answer questions about her running all on her own.  She’s thinking of getting her own blog.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I ought to try and nap before heading off for All Saints Saturday early evening service.  My wife is out of town, but I’ll be hanging out with her brother tonight for some "guy time"; I’m dragging him to church tonight, with the promise of dinner and a movie afterwards.

We nailed a hard 17-18 miler in the mountains this morning, and after a quick shower and a Promax bar, it was off to Pilates.  I know you’re gripped to know I may start doing Pilates regularly after my long runs — I’m certainly warmed up for it, and the stretching is great.

My wife and I went to a high school basketball game on Thursday night.  I won’t mention the schools involved, but we went to see one of the girls from my youth group play in the final game of the season.   "Our girl" was on the home team, and they were absolutely shellacked by their visiting rivals.  I couldn’t help but notice that the rival team was coached by a very active fellow; not a screamer, but a constant verbal presence.  The young women on his team played an effective zone on defense, passed the ball crisply, and even ran a decent version of the "pick and roll."  The home team looked lost; their defense wandered between an ineffective man-to-man and an even more ineffective zone.  They took ill-advised shots from greater-than-NBA three-point distance, and shot — perhaps — 20% from the field.  Their coach sat on his hands and ate snacks while his girls managed only 14 points in the first half.

After the game, we hung out with our All Saints teen, and I asked her about the kind of coaching she had received — she agreed that she had learned virtually nothing most of the season.  She and her teammates were frustrated.  My wife and I looked at each other over dinner, and decided: we are going to start learning to coach!  We both love sports, love kids, and believe that athletics can be one (though surely not the only) vehicle for profound personal and spiritual growth.  So, in addition to everything else in our lives (running the chinchilla charity, working out, volunteering, teaching, etc.), we’re thinking a lot about learning to coach.  I’d be happy coaching soccer, basketball, track or cross-country (the four sports played in high school I know a bit about).  I’m fascinated by softball, but don’t have any idea at all how one would coach it.  I suppose I could learn.

Yesterday, I talked to a good friend of ours who coaches basketball at the community college.  He offers periodic coaching clinics, not only for basketball but for all those interested in learning the fundamentals of effective coaching.  My wife and I are seriously considering taking his clinic together and perhaps finding a new avenue for service. 

We’re both Geminis, of course, so take our enthusiasms with a grain of salt…

Two disparate passions

How many men in American wasted time on these two sites today:

New York Metro’s Fashion Week Report

The scout.com message board on college football recruiting.

I care passionately about both subjects, and can while away far too much time fantasizing about new outfits to wear and debating the merits of Cal’s latest haul of high school seniors.

I once had a subscription to Women’s Wear Daily and, simultaneously, several premium memberships at various college football recruiting websites.  (Ask me for recommendations!)  Am I odd?

Schlafly on Title IX

Noted here and there…

First off, let me sing the praises of the excellent new Carnival of the Feminists 7 up at Feministe.

Reflecting on yesterday’s 6-3 Supreme Court decision on assisted suicide, one can only conclude that the elevation of Samuel Alito will still leave Anthony Kennedy and other relatively progressive social voices in charge.  The key question — can John Paul Stevens, the court’s oldest justice and a moderate liberal, hang on until a Democratic president can name his replacement?  Much seems to hinge on that, more than on either of the previous two vacancies.

And then, there’s this stunner from Phylis Schlafly: Radical Feminists Reinterpret Title IX.  It’s filled with the old-time religion that blames women and girls for the decline in male enrollment on college campuses.  What’s noteworthy is that she builds her piece around the immensely entertaining (and for some of us, heartbreaking) Rose Bowl game of a fortnight ago:

This year’s spectacular Rose Bowl game attracted a phenomenal 35.6 million viewers because it featured what we want: rugged men playing football and attractive women cheering them on. Americans of every class, men and women, remained glued to their television sets and nearly 95,000 spectators watched from the stands.

The runaway success of this game proved again that stereotypical roles for men and women do not bother Americans one bit. Political correctness lost out as all-male teams battled and women cheered.

I’m assuming that the "attractive" women Schlafly refers to are the female cheerleaders and dance squad members for USC and the University of Texas.  Of course, perhaps she means my lovely wife?

I’m a bit baffled as to how "political correctness" lost out at the Rose Bowl, however.  USC, long ago shedding its conservative reputation, has one of the most progressive Gender Studies programs in America, as well as the best archive of lesbian history in the English speaking world.  I know plenty of very left-wing gender-studies types affiliated with the university — and almost to a man and a woman, they are all football-crazed.  (Last week I chatted with a sixty-something lesbian couple whom I know, affiliated with USC’s ONE Institute and of impeccable PC credentials; they were still gnashing their teeth in frustration at Coach Carroll’s play-calling.)  So enough with the tired old idea that all authentic feminists don’t like football.

Schlafly gets odder:

It’s too bad that male sports are being eliminated on most college campuses. Except for Texas, USC, and a few other places, radical feminism rules in the athletic departments at the expense of popular male sports.

Gosh, as I said, ‘SC has the most progressive Gender Studies program on the West Coast.  And some pretty awesome women’s teams in a variety of sports (water polo, track, and at least in the 1980s with Cheryl Miller, basketball.)  They’ve managed to fully fund both men’s and women’s teams just fine.

More fine logic:

The Rose Bowl proved that public demand is for all-male sports, not female contests. Boys do not want to go to a college that eliminates the macho sports, and that is true even if the boy does not expect to compete himself.

The effects of the feminists’ attack on men’s sports are now coming home to roost. By the time this year’s college freshmen are seniors, the ratio will be 60 percent women to 40 percent men, and women are now crying that there are not enough college-educated men to marry.

China’s brutal one-child policy has artificially created millions of young men for whom no wives are available. Right here at home, the feminists have created millions of college-educated women for whom no college-educated men are available, and the trend is getting steadily worse.

The American people clearly want male football, baseball, track and wrestling, and colleges that cut these sports should be cut out of the federal budget.

Well, I don’t know what Schlafly means by "eliminate macho sports."  The male teams that have been cut by many universities in recent years include swimming and tennis and crew — not traditionally seen as "macho" compared to football and basketball (which are cut far less often.)

Schlafly suggests that the American public would much rather see men play anything than women.  But it’s absurd to imply that all intercollegiate men’s sports are more popular than all women’s sports!  Yes, football is the sacred cow of American university athletics.  But Phyllis, with all respect, I’m willing to bet I’ve been to a heck of a lot more intercollegiate track meets than you have.  I’ve sat in a near-empty Drake Stadium at UCLA (one of the most famous venues in the sport), watching the Bruin men in many a dual meet.  (Quick: name the defending NCAA champions in cross-country and track.  No looking it up on line! Yeah, that’s what I thought.)  I’ve been to water polo games and soccer matches and gotten the best seat in the house time and time again — most folks don’t care about the so-called minor sports, regardless of who’s playing!  On the other hand, the famous University of Tennessee women’s basketball program regularly outdraws their male counterparts in terms of spectator attendance, and I’ve often seen more fans at UCLA softball games than at Bruin baseball matches. 

If these are the best arguments against Title IX that the right can come up with, we’re in better shape than I thought.

The morning after

I know that a large number of excellent bloggers call the marvelous city of Austin, Texas, home.  I like Austin.  My wife likes Austin.  But we aren’t at all happy about the outcome of last night’s football game.

We had decent seats at the Rose Bowl last night, surrounded mostly by USC fans but with a fair number of Longhorn rooters scattered around us.  We witnessed a thrilling game in an extraordinarily electric atmosphere.  I’ve been to a great many college football games in my day, including past Rose Bowl games, but I’ve never experienced anything like the energy and excitement of last night’s national championship.

As is now widely known, Texas beat USC on a last-minute touchdown, 41-38.  The Longhorns deserved the victory, but my wife was heartbroken.  I grew up in Northern California with a healthy disdain for all things Los Angeles; in my years at Cal, I developed an intense loathing of USC.  But last night, I stood alongside my Trojan spouse, sang "Fight On", and waved a red and gold pom-pom with genuine enthusiasm.  I may have been the only one in the stadium with a Cal BA and a UCLA Ph.D to do so, but I did it shamelessly.  (I regularly wear a Trojan cap.)   And I did it for love.

Did I really want USC to win?  Yes, but not out of any personal tie to that university.   What makes me happy is to see my wife happy, and USC victories make her happy.  What upsets me is to see her gutted by a loss, and last night’s defeat was a painful one indeed.  Fortunately, as of this morning, her sadness has turned to a vigorous anger, and she thunderously critiqued many of last night’s key coaching decisions over morning coffee and chinchilla play time.  Such is the nature of sports, and my wife (an athlete from her early childhood) understands that agonizing defeat is part and parcel of what it means to love games.  Still, I do hate seeing her disappointed.

May I add that the Longhorn fans were gracious winners,and that I saw nothing but civil exchanges between Texas and USC partisans at the Rose Bowl last night.  Perhaps it was because most folks there had paid too much for their tickets to risk being thrown out, but the general level of self-control was very high and quite commendable.

“A game was always on”: some thoughts on masculinity and television

Here’s something I meant to get back to.

In this comment below last week’s post on football and fandom, Heather writes:

I am someone who could go her whole life never having watched a sporting event of any kind and be perfectly happy and I am engaged to a man who loves sports. He watches the games, monitors the message boards and goes to as many live events as he can, and I resent it. I think it’s time away from our family (I’ve got three kids and we plan to have a child) and from ME. I had a stepfather who’s interest in sports superseded everything else. We couldn’t make noise while a game was on. We couldn’t ask him a question while a game was on. And a game was always on, and I’ve got some anxiety about my fiance and his interest in sports because of this. I don’t want him to have to pencil me in at halftime in order to get his attention. I know I’m not the only woman who feels like this and I feel like it is a feminist issue in terms of how much undivided attention men think they need to give their partners in order to nurture a relationship. I suspect it’s somewhat like housework - men will tend to think the toilet only needs to be cleaned every other month or so, while the women think it’s at least once a week. Of course, not to compare relationships to toilets. How do we close that gap? (I’m somewhat disappointed to hear that your wife is a sports fan since I can’t use her in my defense! :)

As both a pro-feminist and a sports nut, I’m struck by the important points Heather raises here.

Indeed, it is almost axiomatic that millions of men here and abroad prioritize sports over both household responsibilities and "relationship maintenance."   In sitcoms and commercials and on talk shows, we’re shown — over and over again — the classic image of wife or girlfriend trying unsuccessfully to get the attention of husband or boyfriend while he stares, rapt, at a television set.  "In a minute, honey"; "I’ll do it at halftime, sweetheart"; "I know, but this is a very important game" — few among my readers have never heard these words in their families, or uttered them themselves.

I was raised watching sports.  I didn’t play much, really, until I was in my twenties.  (I still don’t think of myself as "playing" sports.  Weight-lifting, Pilates, marathoning, cycling — these somehow seem too serious to be referred to as "play", but that’s probably due to the exaggerated sense of import most endurance athletes attach to their activities.)  But as early as I can remember, I loved watching sports.

Like many men, my love of watching sports was initially connected to my desire to bond with and receive attention from older men.  My Austrian-born, English-raised father (once a member of Cal’s cricket club) had little interest in American athletics, but my cousins and uncles on my mother’s side all did.  As a boy, I idolized my first cousin Scott, eight years my senior.  My earliest sports memory was as a boy of eight watching the 1975 NBA finals with Scott (our local Golden State Warriors won their one and only title that year.)   I didn’t understand basketball, but I knew I wanted to be near my big and wonderful cousin.  I imitated what he said, and tried to pick up on the nuances of the game he loved.  Even now, three decades later, the way I cheer and lament aloud at sporting events is based on what I heard from Scott, his brother, and his uncle (all of whom were mad sports fans).

Like many families, sports-viewing in our family was an almost exclusively male activity.  The women in my large and extended family took little interest in sports.  (Beyond caring that Cal beat Stanford in the Big Game as often as possible).  But while there were few women to be found in front of the television at family holidays, large groups of men huddled around the sets together.  Though these groups were sex-exclusive, they were multi-generational.  Even today, at family gatherings, I’ll see small boys of eight or so sitting with cousins, fathers, uncles, and grandfathers.  And whether they are conscious of it or not, I know that for many of my male family members, the real joy of the experience lies in the rare sense of inter-generational masculine bonding that "watching the game" produces.

The little boys I see rarely understand the nuances of the game.  (I didn’t learn the difference between "zone" and "man-to-man" defense until I was in high school; didn’t understand the "offsides" call in soccer until I was in my first marriage.)  But they are enraptured by the experience of being surrounded by men.  What makes watching sports so pleasant for young men and boys is that while watching the game,  little if any harsh judgment is directed towards them.  If a group of guys go out to play a game of catch, those who are less athletic (as I was) fear ridicule, even from family members.  Actual physical activity reveals weakness; watching television allows male bonding to take place in a much safer, less threatening atmosphere.  I loved that as a child.

Of course, plenty of grown men like to watch sports alone.  That need for homosocial approval may have diminished, and their genuine passion for the game is the main glue that draws them to the TV.  Of course, many guys eagerly look forward to talking "round the watercooler" with other guys about what they saw over the weekend, so in that sense one could argue that at least sometimes, watching sports alone still has homosocial implications!  Think of the extraordinary fascination that millions of men, myself included, have with sports talk radio!  (Is this where I confess my enduring love for Jim Rome?)

But a powerful love for sports is not, as Heather suggests, an excuse for failing to do important relationship work.   This doesn’t mean that men or women who love sports more than their partners do ought to consign themselves to never seeing important games or matches.  But what it does mean is that those of us addicted to sport (mostly, but by no means always, men) will have to prioritize!   "A game is always on" indeed, especially in the era of cable and satellite television.  I can watch Ecuadorian soccer at 11:00 on a Tuesday night, or catch a good Pac-10 women’s volleyball match on a Wednesday afternoon, or watch endless discussion on the NFL network.  But not all games are equally important, and those of us who are enraptured by virtually all sports need to set limits and make compromises.

It’s true that my wife (a former star club soccer player in high school) shares my love of sport, especially soccer and college football.  (We’ve had many a discussion this past weekend of Friday’s World Cup Draw.)   But while she gets excited about "big games", I can zone out in front of the tube while watching the most obscure sporting events.  And I have to be careful not to let my love for passive viewing trump my responsibilities to be emotionally and physically present.  So what I do is carefully decide each week what events I "must see", and what events I can simply read about later online or in the paper.  In other words, I "declare my television" viewing wishes well in advance, so that I can work them around my other responsibilities to the household, to my wife, and to the outside community.   For example, this fall, it meant I had time to watch lots and lots of college football, and very little NFL.  Sundays are devoted to church, confirmation class, and one-on-one time with my wife.   It’s a choice I needed to make, and given all that I get in return, a choice well worth making.

One interesting thing for another post: it seems to me that younger men today are less interested in sports than guys of my generation.   I wonder are interactive video games taking young men away from passive sports viewing?  Anecdotally, I hear more complaints from young women about their boyfriends playing "Xbox" than watching football.   Any thoughts on this shift?

The USC game, football, and the dangerous anger of the fan

Like every Monday, it’s turning into a busy morning.  I’m feeling very guilty to boot.  I have two students with the same first name who are both applying to multiple colleges; one is a former student now applying for grad school, the other a current one.  I wrote them both glowing letters of recommendation — and of course, switched the last names.  They aren’t applying for the same programs or the same schools…  I’ve got time to correct the error, but it’s deeply embarrassing and I have been quite apologetic to the two students involved.   I write dozens of letters of recommendation every year, and I can’t ever recall having done this before. 

It was a happy weekend.  My wife managed to "score" some tickets to two very nice seats for the UCLA-USC football game, so we spent Saturday afternoon with 92,000 other folks at the Coliseum.  I, holder of multiple degrees from the University of California system (including the Ph.D. from UCLA) went to the game decked out in Trojan red.  As I wrote last week, my heart belongs to Cal; I didn’t feel as if I had much of a dog in this particular fight.  My wife, on the other hand, owns every available,purchasable piece of USC paraphernalia, and is absolutely rabid with passion for her alma mater.  (Each year that she was at ‘SC, the Trojans lost to both Notre Dame and UCLA, so she’s got extra reason to be happy these days.)  I had hoped for a more exciting game; as most folks know, the Trojans dominated from the start and won 66-19.  Given that the game was a bit of a dud, I spent as much time watching the action in the stands and enjoying the bands as I did following the struggle on the pitch.   (I also had one of my occasional "non-veggie" days.  I ate two burritos and two hot dogs by the start of the fourth quarter.)

What bothered me — and always has at athletic events — was the venom.   My wife and I were sitting surrounded by USC fans, and with one or two exceptions,  we were the youngest two folks in our section by a decade.  Most of the folks around us were old enough to be grandparents, but that didn’t stop virtually everyone of them from hurling extraordinary profanities towards UCLA, its players, its band, its cheerleaders, and everything else associated with the Bruins.   A woman in her fifties, sitting behind me, shouted "Hurt him!" when a Trojan defender dropped the Bruin quarterback* for a sack.  "Break his fuckin’ leg", her husband yelled.  They were drinking water and sodas; neither seemed intoxicated.   When the husband dropped his camera case on my shoulder, he apologized profusely.  He was perfectly polite to me while simultaenously rooting for a 21 year-old kid he’d never met to suffer a serious, painful injury. This couple wasn’t alone — everyone around us chanted "UCLA sucks" on more than one occasion. Three rows behind us,  that cry seemed to span three generations — I saw a Dad, his father, and his son all joining in the joyous obscenities together.

I do not mean to suggest that USC fans are any worse than any others.  I’ve been to countless Cal games and sat with both students and alumni, and heard the exact same sort of thing.  During my years as a UCLA grad student, I went to a few Bruin games at the Rose Bowl — and heard similar ugliness.  Something seems to give otherwise civilized people permission to say things they might not say publicly outside the confines of a sports stadium.   And I’ll be the first to admit that in my younger years, I sat in the student section at Memorial Stadium and rooted not only for my Golden Bears to do well, but for my opponents to be humiliated — and injured. 

The last time I yelled out something ugly at a football game was back in October, 1990.  I was at the Coliseum here in Los Angeles; my Cal Golden Bears were visiting the USC Trojans.  I was sitting in the visitor’s section, but fairly close to the field.  As folks familiar with ‘SC football know, they have as one of their mascots "Traveler", a white horse who carries a rider dressed in "authentic" Trojan guise.  After each touchdown the Trojans score, Traveler comes out and gallops up and down the sidelines.  (Back in 1990, the Coliseum still had a track around the perimeter of the field; it has since been removed. Traveler used to do a lap around the track .)  As Traveler came out after an ‘SC score that day, he suddenly bucked and threw his rider right in front of the Cal section. 

In an instant several thousand Cal fans, myself included, rose to our feet and cheered madly.  Traveler headed off riderless, and was grabbed by a few brave security men before he went into the Cal bench area.  The rider stayed down; he bled heavily from his nose and was treated on the field.  Some of my fellow Golden Bear fans continued to hurl obscenities at the injured rider, but I began to feel deeply ashamed.  The man was not seriously hurt, but he still needed to be taken off the field on a stretcher.  As he was wheeled off, he raised his hand with the two-finger Trojan victory salute, which served to stir up my fellow Cal partisans even further.  But I felt awful.  You see, when Traveler threw him off, I had wanted that man to be hurt.  I wanted — or thought I wanted — to see his blood and his pain.  And then I did see it quite clearly, and was disgusted with myself. 

Cal and USC ended that game in a 31-31 tie.  (Golden Bear fans will remember that that game was the last tie game in our history.)  As I headed home unsatisfied, I remember an acute feeling of self-disgust.  I did not like my own longing for blood, my own exultation at another man’s misfortune.  I made a pledge to myself: if I couldn’t control my own mouth and my own rage, I wasn’t going to let myself go to any more football games.  I actually took two years off as a result, not returning to a college game until Cal’s next visit to the Coliseum in 1992.  But I haven’t cheered for injuries or yelled that anybody "sucks" since that day some fifteen years ago. 

It’s not always easy holding back my tongue.  Two months ago, my Bears lost a heartbreaker to UCLA at the Rose Bowl. I was bitterly disappointed and frustrated (we squandered a couple of double-digit leads).   On the way out of the stadium for our walk home, some UCLA fans jeered at us (my wife was loyally wearing Cal colors too).   With every fiber of my being, I wanted to yell "Fuck you, assholes!"  But I restricted, and just shook my head at them.  Not only did I feel an obligation to all of the other folks around me not to pollute the air with bile, I felt an obligation to myself not to get high on my own anger.  In my youth, I was intoxicated by the rush of self-righteous rage that seems almost omnipresent at major college football games.  I remember too well that I once enjoyed seeing my opponents lose more than I enjoyed seeing my own team win.  It felt good to lust for blood; it felt good to be enraged; it felt good to feel big and important and powerful.  (It was very similar to how I felt at street protests, as I’ve posted before.)

So today, I don’t let myself go to that dark and enticing place of anger.   I love sports with all my heart.  I love watching sports, playing sports, reading about sports.  But today, I care less and less about who wins and who loses.  I care more and more about the way the game is played,and less and less about the result.  Of course I want my teams to win, but I will only root for them to win — never for their opponents to suffer injury or humiliation.  It took me years and years (and a self-imposed ban on going to games) to figure out how to do that.  I’d like to think I’ve done it fairly well.

My wife and I long to have children.  Given that we are both athletically inclined and sports-mad, our children will no doubt be dragged to many a football game.  I worry about what they’ll hear in the stands.  I worry about what emotions they’ll feel inside. I wonder if, like their father, they will feel that "high" that can so quickly turn ugly.   I don’t know what the future holds for them.  But I know this — no matter what the game, no matter what the score, they will never hear a single word of rage from their parents.  They may hear exasperation and disappointment, but nothing more. (And hey, I’m a Cal fan — I’ve had plenty of experience in recent years practicing being a gracious loser!)

One of the benefits of becoming an "older Dad" (as I surely will be) is that so much of that youthful rage is gone.  It went thanks to my own efforts and God’s grace, frankly, more than mere biological maturation.  I heard plenty of venom from men twice my age this weekend; the idea that men automatically lose all their bile and toxic anger after a certain age is simply absurd.  Nature is not quite so kind — this kind of transformation takes work and prayer.  Time alone doesn’t do it.  Thus Lord willing, my sons and daughters will not have to grow up with a father who gets apoplectic with anger due to lost elections or rivalry games.  They will be, I think, the better for it.

*Drew Olson, the hapless UCLA quarterback on Saturday, is from the same small Bay Area community where my mother and most of my cousins were raised.  Countless family members from four generations went to Piedmont High (Go Highlanders!), and so I really ought to have been rooting for its most successful athletic alumnus.

Noted here and there and everywhere

Some random notes at Thursday lunch time:

1.  I thought I had the market to myself on the topic of men, women, and domestic obligations when I posted yesterday.  But there’s been a lot of talk in the blogosphere about this Linda Hirshman piece, particularly at Bitch Ph.D, Pandagon, and Majikthise.  All good and thought-provoking.

2.  For reasons that I’m not ready to blog about yet, I updated my CV today — something I haven’t done in many, many years.  One of the things about tenure is that I don’t apply for jobs very often!  I’ve got something in the works that may or may not pan out, so I’m keeping it quiet — but I do have cause to fiddle with the old resume.  (Neither fear nor rejoice; I am not leaving Pasadena City College).  The last time I wrote a CV, it was 1993 and I was banging it out on a first-generation portable Mac (pre-Powerbook).

3.  At Christianity Today, Sarah Sumner has an interesting point about how we read Ephesians 5.  Great stuff.  She writes the article I wish I had written when I quickly banged out this post back in February: NIV, TNIV, and Ephesians 5.

4.  I can’t decide whether I’m rooting for UCLA or USC this weekend.  As a Golden Bear to my core, it’s easy to say "a pox on both your houses."  On the one hand, I did spend years and years of my graduate career at UCLA, and they did pay me to tutor their athletes.  On the other hand, my wife is devout Trojan fan and a proud alumna.  She cares a great deal, and I want to see her happy.  On the third hand, UCLA has lost six in a row to ‘SC, and are due a win.  I’ll wear red and blue on Saturday and enjoy the game.  In my days as a Berkeley student, I hated both schools — and I was fond of saying that I would "root for a tie, marred by significant and demoralizing injuries to both squads."  I’ve become a more charitable fellow in my old age!

5.  Last night in youth group, we asked the kids to name their favorite Christmas carols.  We got several "All I want for Christmas is you" responses, (perhaps thanks to Love, Actually) .  Of the traditional carols, several of the choir kids backed "Masters in this Hall" (because they sing it each year).  We got one vote for Dar Williams "Christians and the Pagans" (a song I love, by the way), two votes for "Santa Baby" (how do they know such an old song?), two for "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer", and a few "Jingle Bells".  No "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer".   

I cast my vote for "Joy to the World", but my real favorite is one my mother sang to me as a child in German: "Oh, du froehliche".  I am singing it to myself now.

A note on Cal, a movie recommendation, and a surprisingly vigorous defense of Michelle Malkin

It’s not yet 8:00AM, but I’ve already been up three hours.  I felt well enough this morning to do some light lifting at the gym.  I expect to be back to a regular training schedule tomorrow.

It’s a short week, so there are loads of things to do. I always cancel my classes the day before Thanksgiving; the one year I did teach on that Wednesday, fewer than a third of my students showed up.  I’m mystified as to why it isn’t a holiday here at PCC; many of the local K-12 schools do give kids the extra day off.  But a two-day week, as luxurious as it is, just means more work compressed into a very short time frame.  Lots and lots of grading to do, and writing, and so on.

Two notes on the weekend:  First, my Cal Golden Bears won the Big Game against Stanford for the fourth year in a row, a streak unseen since the second FDR administration.  In my four years at Berkeley, we won only once.  For those folks who remember the famous "play" in 1982 (where Cal scored in the final seconds by running through the Stanford band), that victory came at a high price.  Over the next 19 games from 1983-2001, the Cardinal held a 14-4-1 edge over my Golden Bears.  Those were hard years indeed!

Second, my wife and I went to see "Bee Season" last night.  Starring Juliette Binoche and Richard Gere, the film has had generally positive reviews.  My wife and I split on the film — I liked it very much, she didn’t.   Kabbalah is one of the film’s themes, and that had piqued our initial interest.  One thing I can say for Richard Gere — he may not be a great actor, but he’s become darned good lately at portraying self-satisfied, middle-aged narcissists who undergo a dramatic catharsis!

And I write this morning with considerable sympathy for, of all people, Michelle Malkin.  (Hat tip: XRLQ).  The right-wing syndicated columnist, blogger, and commentator is one of my least favorite mouthpieces for the conservative agenda.  I don’t read her blog regularly, largely because I’m not one of those people who takes pleasure in being exasperated. 

But Malkin is an Asian woman, married to a Jewish man.  I’m sorry to say that far more than her white counterparts on the right, Malkin has apparently been subjected to extraordinary sexual and racial ugliness from those whose politics are close to my own.  Last February,  Malkin posted some of the criticism that regularly comes her way; most of it falls into the "yellow whore" camp of nastiness.  This weekend, she posted about it again, as the issue of her race and her marriage resurfaced when she was a guest on a radio talk show.  Malkin, the mother of a kindergartner, writes:

The racist and sexist "yellow woman doing a white man’s job" knock is a tiresome old attack from impotent liberals that I’ve tolerated a long time. It is pathetic that I have to sit here and tell you that my ideas, my politics, and my intellectual capital are mine and mine alone in response to cowardly attacks from misogynistic moonbats with Asian whore fixations. My IQ, free will, skin color, eye shape, productivity, sincerity, and integrity are routinely ridiculed or questioned because I happen to be a minority conservative woman. As a public figure, I am willing to take these insults, but I cannot tolerate the smearing of my loved ones. Because I have always been open and proud about his support for my career, my husband has taken endless, hate-filled abuse from my critics. His Jewish heritage, his decision to be a stay-at-home dad, and even his looks, are the subject of brutal mockery.

Enough.

If you have a problem with my work and what I stand for, go ahead and take me on. Keep calling me whatever four-letter-word makes you feel better when you can’t win your arguments. But leave my family alone.

Well, Michelle, I could have done without the "impotent liberals" bit, as it does knock you back off the moral high ground you’re rightfully occupying, at least on this issue!  Still, I share Malkin’s outrage even as I abhor her political positions.  As a pro-feminist progressive, I’m angered whenever a woman who chooses a public life is attacked with misogynistic rhetoric.  (Heck, I’m happy that Malkin is willing to use the word "misogyny"; some of her colleagues on the right deny that visceral hatred of women still exists anymore in public life).  As a man in a mixed-race marriage, I’m also angry when tired old stereotypes emerge around that issue, as they have in the case of the Malkins.

Though I am obviously not as public a figure as Michelle Malkin, in the past year, I’ve received several hundred "hate e-mails" and hundreds of nasty comments here on this blog.  Because I’ve taken a pro-feminist position and attacked the men’s rights movement, I’ve regularly had my masculinity questioned.  I’ve been called a "mangina" (man + vagina), "pussy-whipped", "a traitorous piece of shit", a "pathetic eunuch", and worse by dozens and dozens of readers.  In a couple of instances, I’ve been threatened — anonymously — with physical violence.  I very carefully don’t disclose my wife’s name or much about her identity, but even in relative anonymity she too has been attacked, at times with racial slurs directed at her mixed-race (African-Colombian-Croatian) heritage.

Above all, my critics use one charge more than any other: self-loathing.  Because I’m so hard on my brothers, because I am so committed to pro-feminist principles, my critics have decided that I must be seething with nearly pathological hatred of my own masculinity.  Over and over again, I’m told by my critics that if I really liked myself — as a man — I wouldn’t hold the views I do.    What’s so tiresome about the charge of self-loathing, of course, is that it is impossible to refute.  How do I prove to anyone — especially on a blog — that I am comfortable in my own male skin?  I’ve given up trying, but that hasn’t stopped the critics.

Here’s where my real empathy for Malkin lies: as an Asian woman with right-wing, anti-feminist politics, she too is tarred with the charge of "self-loathing."  She and I are both accused of actively betraying those who share our sex or our ethnicity.  Her critics assume she’s desperately currying favor with white men, while my critics assume I am eager to be validated and affirmed by women, particularly feminists.   In other words, because our views contradict cultural and social expectations, there can be no legitimate explanation for why we believe as we do.  We are either dupes of our allies (white men or feminists), or we are filled with self-hatred (for our heritage or our sex), or we are simply crass opportunists, using novelty (a woman of color with right-wing views, a straight evangelical man with pro-feminist ones) to attract attention.

If there’s one thing I am clear on, it’s this: one’s skin color, one’s heritage, and one’s sex do not, in and of themselves, impose specific political obligations.  Michelle Malkin, as a woman of color, is under no obligation to toe any party line.  She can be an interesting and effective spokeswoman for her side without being a misguided dupe, a self-hating woman of color, or a shrill manipulator.  I happen to believe that she’s wrong 95% of the time on virtually every major foreign policy, economic, and social issue of our day.  But when she is attacked not for her politics but for her person, she has not only my empathy, she has my vigorous support.