Read Online You Let Some Girl Beat You? by Ann Meyers Drysdale - Free Book Online

Olympic women’s basketball game when she refereed at the ’84 Olympics in Los Angeles. Dar not only extended the invitation to me, but convinced another girl, Nancy Dunkle, to transfer along with me. Nancy and I had known each other from junior high where we’d both played on the same sports teams. She had the prettiest skyhook you’ve ever seen, very akin to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s hook shot, and eventually made a name for herself in the world of women’s basketball. Nancy and I were like two peas in a pod in that we both played every sport available, though Nancy towered over me at about 6’1”.
    â€œNow we’ve got the makings for a basketball dynasty,” Dar said once we both transferred. Sure enough, the Connelly Cadettes quickly dominated the high school girls’ basketball landscape, raking up the honors. Suddenly female cagers weren’t unusual at all.
    Suddenly we were cool.
    â€œWomen’s lib being what it is, it should be noted that the most successful high school basketball team in CIF was an all-girl school from Orange County,” the Los Angeles Times wrote about us in April of ’72. Of course, Nancy and I didn’t even know what women’s lib meant, we were just happy every time our names were mentioned in the newspapers. We were the two star players and thick as thieves—thieves who could steal the ball as well as any guy we knew, and better than some.
    I should have been over the moon. Yet every day, after carpooling to and from Connelly in my twice handed-down ’66 VW Bug that sputtered like a cranky mule, I’d cry once I got home. But it wasn’t because of basketball, or Nancy, or my car. I loved that car. It was because I was also on the Volleyball team at Connelly where the coach just happened to be my sister, Patty.
    â€œDon’t feel well? Too bad. Sprained ankle? Go tell someone who cares.” Patty was like Vince Lombardi; she only knew one way to get things done, and that was to play all-out, or go home. She seemed especially tough where I was concerned, maybe so no one could accuse her of favoritism. I’d end up crying to my mom daily (something I rarely did when my brothers were rough on me), and then she would come down hard on Patty, calling her up on the phone, yelling, “Why are you picking on Annie?”
    Eight years older than I, Patty was the firstborn, and she’d always been stubborn and strong as a bull. But that was because she had to be tough. It was women like Patty who laid the groundwork for me and others like me. Patty knew what she wanted and went after it from the get-go, and made things happen through sheer will. If Patty said she was going to play pro softball some day, you knew she’d do it. Patty could do everything.
    Later, in college and AAU ball, she’d come home after playing twenty-inning games in shorts, sporting huge raw raspberries on her thighs and calves from sliding into bases. She’d crawl into bed, exhausted. The next morning, the sheets and mattress were covered with blood and puss, but she never complained. She saw how quickly labels were affixed to women who complained: moody, crybaby, can’t handle the heat, just not cut out for the task. Not Patty. There were no excuses with her. One time she came home from a game with one of her eyes popped out of its socket and my mom had to pop it back in. All Patty could say was “Hurry up, I gotta go play.”
    I admired her—how could I not? She was the kind of woman who could change her own tire and believed that other women should be able to do the same in case something happened. In fact, while Patty was coaching volleyball at Connelly, she was also teaching Driver’s Ed, so she would have her students go out to the parking lot and change the tires of her car. Darlene, my basketball coach and Patty’s good friend, thought it was kind of silly, but Patty wanted them to be