It’s time for Friday night’s football game, and the boys are packed in the car ready to cheer for their team. Yet, much to the displeasure of mothers around the nation, this game is unlike any other football game seen before.
This game features stunningly attractive, young women fiercely battling to full intensity, wrestling each other to the ground, all the while sporting nothing more than a skimpy, two piece, sweat-drenched lingerie uniform, miniscule shoulder pads and a small helmet with a thin clear visor across the face.
No readers, I speak not of bikini mud wrestling, but of a sport of almost the same caliber—the women’s professional Lingerie Football League (LFL), which, to quote the league’s slogan, is nothing short of a “true glimpse at fantasy football.”
The sport had its inaugural season in 2009 and features teams such as the Baltimore Charm, the San Diego Seduction, the Los Angeles Temptation and my personal favorite, the Miami Caliente.
After first catching my attention in a September 2010 article in the Washington Post, the thought of watching an LFL game never left my mind.
I knew I had to attend the next Baltimore Charm home game, so I proceeded to look up the schedule for the team of athletic babes. After checking the schedule Sept. 30, I saw that the next game was Oct. 1. I took this as nothing short than a sign from the lingerie gods.
That Friday, the Baltimore Charm (0-1) were to take on the Tampa Bay Breeze (1-0)—a faceoff that would surely prove to hold nothing less than the intensity level of the World Series. I then assembled a crew of comrades to attend this “fantasy” of a football game.
As I arrived at the game in Baltimore at 1st Mariner Arena, I was pulled into a mild state of confusion, due to the fact that outside the arena, the game was not advertised whatsoever. Upon my arrival, I expected to see a massive banner ad displaying a scantily clad young, powerful machine of a woman in a Heisman trophy pose. Much to my discontent, nothing to this degree was displayed to appeal to the visual pleasure of passersby.
Nonetheless, this lack exited my mind the second I stepped through those doors. I approached the ticket booth and purchased my fairly priced $19.99 ticket. As soon as I passed those gates, I was overcome with vendors selling Baltimore Charm t-shirts. One shirt even went so far as to include a young man, with a grin larger than the ego of Observer columnist Ben Hollander, referred to as “equipment manager,” holding a Charm color scheme thong, stretching it across his chest. I overlooked purchasing this shirt, seeing as how wearing the shirt at school would have most likely deeply violated the school dress code. I opted to buy a plain white t-shirt with the words: Lingerie Football League written across the chest. The word “lingerie” was written in a skimpy, cursive-like font, and “Football League” was transcribed in a bold, tremendously discerning font, both perfectly fitting for the delicacy of lingerie and the ruthlessness of football, respectively. Along with the ability to purchase a t-shirt, Charm fans were granted a complimentary poster with the words “Baltimore Get Up” posted on the front, and “Game Time” on the back.
While navigating my way through a sea of young men eager to see this woman-on-woman action, I was overcome with the distinct scent of Budweiser and chicken wings. And soon, I had made my way to my seat at row K, seat 12. As I lifted my virgin daiquiri to my lips, I realized that the sight in front of me was simply heaven on Astroturf. As the players warmed up without the safety of pads, they ran routes and plays, with the concentration level of an airborne hawk circling its innocent prey. I had no doubt in my mind: the Charm were ready to run all over the Breeze.
Much to my surprise, many women were in attendance. After further analysis, I concluded that this was due to pathetic middle-aged men needing an excuse to view other young beautiful women, while still spending time with their own, and most likely physically inferior, spouses and girlfriends.
As the women returned to the locker rooms, the arena grew dark, and the “jumbo”-tron (I utilize quotations due to that fact that the screen hovering above the middle screen was surely no larger than the television in my basement) began to play a beautifully crafted pump-up video, and the young ladies began to pour out of the locker room to the well-selected anthem of the league, “Bodies”(the chorus of the song repeating, “Let the bodies hit the floor”). I was overcome with Charm spirit and I immediately threw my hands in the air, screaming the Charm slogan written on my poster, “Baltimore, get up!”
The players took their place, and ball was in the air, approaching the receiving Charm team. As the Charm receiver caught the ball, she put down a few jukes, and was promptly brought down by the Breeze at around the 10-yard line. Although she was not in the best field position, my hopes still soared high that the Charm would settle for nothing less than sheer victory. The first play was lined up, the Charm quarterback took the hike, and then threw an incomplete pass, yet fans were still eager to see a Charm offense looking like a well-oiled machine.
The second play approached, yielding yet another incomplete pass. And then came the play that set the crowd on fire; a 50 yard bomb pass to a downfield open Charm receiver, who was brought down in the redzone. A first down was gained, yet sadly the offensive babes were unable to complete the play for a touchdown. I was feeling more depressed than a Boston Red Sox fan.
The game simply went downhill from there. The crowd grew silent, and the lack of intensity that the Charm showed was more of a buzz kill than the last scene of the series finale of The Sopranos. Halftime approached, and I was ready to leave, the score reading 23-0 in the lead, the Breeze. I was, however, deeply inclined to stay due to the halftime show featuring a dance competition of overweight young men sweating profusely. The winning prize: the chance for a contestant to tackle a charm player.
The halftime entertainment proved to indeed be quite amusing, yet not enough to reignite the extinguished flame that was my home team spirit. My spirits were crushed and my team had let me down.
After being disgusted by my home team I was ready to call it quits. I kissed each player goodbye (in my imagination, of course), and left after the obese man failed to tackle the charm player. I was forced by those of a higher authority (Mom and Dad) to be home by 11:30, in order to meet curfew, of course.
Once I arrived home, I checked the final score of the game, which ended up being 33-0, in favor of the Breeze. Although it is never fun to see your home team lose, I can fully and honestly say I will be attending the next home Charm game, Nov. 6. With few exceptions, who would pass up the opportunity to catch another view of this event? The sport is simply nothing less than a scene straight out of the dream of a post-pubescent teenager.
