This is something I added to my old blog over a year and a half ago, and since I save plenty of the things I write and today is Sunday so I’m lazy, I’m reusing it.

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I think most of us like sports, whether we play or watch them, or both. Years ago I was watching a game between the Packers and some other team. I was rooting for the Packers, my allegiance won out of friendship with fans and an enjoyment of cheese hats, and not at all rooted in understanding or appreciation of the game. The ball looks deformed, and the players are far too large. If anybody needs a good shrinking, it’s a football player. Anyway, I was watching the game, following it after a fashion, and began to think, What if a giantess were the only player on an opposing team? How much fun would that be to watch?

Those little bodies would scurry and rush and try to pry that abomination of a ball from between her gigantic toes. Good luck with that! And when she’d flick it off, send it like a bullet to singe the air between those two posts, may there be mercy for whoever catches it at the other side. The same goes for fútbol, the sport that raised me as it mingled with my childhood and consciousness as iron does with blood. During the last World Cup, I wanted to create an image I could use as an avatar at that would communicate my feelings about it, so I came up with this:

Not perfect. The lighting is all wrong, as he comes from a sunny image, and she doesn’t. His face looks at the camera when he should be craning his neck and gazing up. Those were things I wanted to fix at some point, and a few weeks ago I tweaked it a bit and ended up with this.

My kind of fútbol.
My kind of fútbol.

Still not perfect, but closer to what I prefer. If a woman in my invented world of dimorphic sexes is halfway smart, she knows how important it is for her health to keep active and exercise her body. If she’s halfway decent, she knows the same holds true for her pets and has little balls and toy mice and trinkets she tosses their way. If she’s lucky the way I am, her pets will toss back. If she’s anything like me, she will combine both pieces of information and know that she should play with her shrunken man as often as possible in order to keep him healthy. Entropy is the enemy.

Fútbol my way is played on rich, green, velvety grass, while wearing high heels (yes, the feminist in me knows that high heels are an oppressive invention of The Man, but I still love them :) ). A lacy dress is optional, but helpful. I personally skirt the pants, although shorts are nice. Anything to distract him into playing very poorly. Never mind that my size is already extremely advantageous, and that I have all the cards up my sleeve. Yellow and red ones, that is.

He’s very small, but I don’t miss a detail of scissoring legs and straining muscles as he scampers and zig-zags on the field, trying to keep his footing on unfriendly terrain, each step getting lost in shin-high blades of grass as thick as butcher knives. If that was all he had to contend with, the game would be easy… but there’s that gargantuan sphere the size of a mountain boulder, thick rounded leather he wants to kick, remembers how to kick, but is reduced to pushing at his infinitesimal size, until I steal it from him the moment he makes the strategic mistake of trying to lift it, and falls on his back, the ball a heavy weight on his chest.

Foul! I card him as I giggle when I see those tiny arms and legs flail and whip the air underneath that ball. “Get this thing off me!” he pleads. He’s so adorable… but not so much that I let him win. We don’t keep that kind of score anyway.

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