Women are not innocent, though we try to act like it sometimes. As a matter of fact we can be down-right vicious.

In high school, powder puff football was the display of all evils. At my school in the cornfields, the seniors played the juniors. It was common for the seniors to win every year. My senior year was no different. The juniors cut us close but couldn’t prevail.

After practicing with the male football players for weeks, we were all set.

The game took place one night after school. All the girls gathered together to get ready. We put on our uniforms and smeared black paint under our eyes. Many of us wore bandanas on our heads.

Before that game I had not been much of a violent person. I did not feel the need to push people around or pull hair. Before that game I had only put my hands on one person .

As I lined up on the offensive line across from a girl whom no one else would take on, I felt the need to take the game to a more physical level. Granted, football is supposed to be physical, but in powder puff it is supposed to be flag football.

We weren’t supposed to tackle, and we weren’t supposed to hit. That defensive lineman and I didn’t follow the rules though. Every time the ball was snapped, we pushed each other around and eventually ended up on the ground.

We got into the typical girl fights – hair pulling, kicking and pushing. At one point the play was whistled dead, and she and I were rolling along the ground pulling out each other’s locks.

It didn’t go beyond that until the third quarter.

On a specific play, I lined up across from the junior as I had done on every other of my team’s offensive plays. The ball was snapped, and I expected the same disgruntled pushing, but I got a mouth full of something else.

That something else was the other girl’s fist. I was fine with the hair pulling and kicking, but the punch was unnecessary.

Filled with anger, the tears started to roll.

My coaches immediately pulled me from the game and made me sit out the next snap. It was the first offensive play that I wasn’t in the game.

No one else could take on the cheap shooter. I knew this and so did the rest of my teammates. So I, of course, stood on the sideline yelling and cussing. I threatened to kill the girl when I returned to the game. I was so hysterical that my boyfriend had to come on the field and calm me down. He brought ibuprofen with him.

There was someone else who had words to say to me as I ranted and raved. That person was my mother. Here I was, her daughter, getting socked in the jaw, and here she was getting mad at me.

She told me to calm down and stop throwing words around. And her advice hit me when I returned to the field for the next offensive drive.

My team was only winning by three points, and it was at that point that I knew I had to take things seriously. I calmed down and played smart. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to beat that girl down, I wanted to help my team win more.

Every time the ball was snapped I did what I was supposed to do. I executed my blocking at the line for as long as the quarterback needed. Once the ball was past the line of scrimmage, I discarded of the defensive lineman and protected the ball carrier.

It worked. Our team scored on that drive and held them off for the rest of the game.

Of course I still felt embarrassed for not getting the girl back for the punch, In the end, I did get her back though. I got her back on the field and beat her mentally.

Melanie Watkins is a senior in journalism and the sports editor of the Lantern. She can be reached for comment at [email protected].