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Brooks Peterson
Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com
Monday, September 27, 1999
How about a little respect for the Comets?
Over the years, I have steered clear of what, for want of a better term, are called "women's issues." This reflects more than just, um, discretion: My take on the matter is that women are doing quite well thrashing these things out on their own, and don't need a hand from this particular U.S. male.
However, in the last few days, I have stumbled across a women's issue I cannot ignore - both because of its intrinsic importance, and because the sisters, astonishingly, have ignored it completely.
Permit me to set the scene: On Friday, we celebrated our daughter's 15th birthday. Since gifts are customary on such occasions (she of course cares nothing for material things, but she indulges us), and since, due to athletic genes she picked up somewhere way back in the family tree, she is a serious basketball player (and I mean serious like Einstein was serious about relativity) . . . In light of that, some sort of basketball-related gift, it seemed to me, would be in order.
And what could be more appropriate than a T-shirt or some other garment celebrating the stunning achievement of the Houston Comets, who recently notched their third consecutive Women's National Basketball Association championship? I mean, how could the shelves in our sporting goods stores not be bulging with Houston Comets regalia?
Oh, sure, last year about this time I came up empty attempting the same thing - but that was just after the Comets recorded their second championship. Down here, we're a little off the beaten path; it takes a while for stuff to filter down here from the vast metropolis to the northeast.
This time, surely, there would be no paucity of T-shirts, tank tops, shirts, windbreakers, sweatshirts celebrating the Comets' epic season.
How could there be? It was a season for the ages. There was the poignancy of the players' dedicating the season to their fallen comrade, Kim Perrot, who succumbed to cancer. There was the steadily improving quality of the opposition. There was the drama of the playoffs, during which the Comets, who had marched to the first two championships with relative ease, had to summon all their skill and character to win the prize for a third time. Surely, surely, the sporting-goods industry wouldn't stiff the Comets this time . . . would they?
So much for innocent, childlike idealism. As I dialed my way through all the sporting-goods stores I could find, the response was as uniform, and as dreary, as it was the previous year: Uh, no, actually . . . no Comets gear . . . could we interest you in a Spurs jersey?
At one establishment, however, a staffer said they had a few Comets T-shirts. After work, I cut in the afterburners and made it over there just before closing time.
Oops. Sorry . . . We do have these nice Rockets items, though . . . ?
I am beyond disappointed. I am beyond indignant. I am somewhere between aghast and livid. This not only reflects a gross lapse of sensitivity and equity; it represents a conspicuous failure of American capitalism - or at least the South Texas variant thereof.
People, people: There are serious bucks to be turned here. My daughter, after all, is not the only young woman in these parts seriously involved in Dr. Naismith's game. I can just about guarantee that a respectable offering of Comets togs would sell out in a matter of days, if not hours.
Meanwhile, let's hear from the feminists who have remained so bafflingly silent thus far. Sisterhood is powerful. You are woman: Let's hear you roar.
A word about last week's experiment in audience participation. Some of you readers aren't doing your part.
On the red ant issue, two gentlemen were kind enough to phone: Bill Harrell (not sure of the spelling), who lives on the Island, reported that red ants are definitely not endangered in his neighborhood; and Frank Crawford, a Lake Corpus Christi resident, said much the same. They added that red-ant bites sting like the dickens . . . and generously offered to give me as many of the creatures as I'd like. Can't beat that South Texas hospitality.
As for the wine cooler perplexity . . . silence. Somebody out there needs to get with the program.
Brooks Peterson
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