Hartley Neita, Contributor
WOMEN ARE slowly losing their charm by trying to emulate men in everything.
I don't mind them playing cricket, lawn and table tennis, netball, hockey, track and field (but not the shot putt), and of course - bless their beautiful legs - swimming.
Football? Perhaps.
But to enter the world of boxing (as encouraged by Clint Eastwood) is a no-no for me. They are already pumping iron and wrestling. The next sport they will probably enter is American football. Oh Lord!
Women are now trying hard, not just to be equal to men in all things, but better than men in everything. Once upon a time they did not do the hurdles. There was no official reason, although I suspect it was because male spectators could see too much of their legs. Instead they competed against each other in sporting events such as needle and thread, three-legged race, rounders, chevy chase, egg and spoon race, sack race. When swimming they wore one-piece bath suits with the legs ending just above their knees. And cloth caps.
STAUNCH SUPPORTER
Now, let me make it clear that I am a staunch supporter of women in all their achievements. I shouted myself hoarse when Veronica Campbell ended the 200m race in the Olympics last year in triumph. Never-theless, old fogey that I am, I long for the day when women not bulge with muscles which distract from their femininity. Thank God our female athletes are beautifully tapered and glow with health, and are elegant, charming, and graceful - and are ladies.
CONFESSION
So, I read with delight Barbara Ellington's confession in last Tuesday's Lifestyle edition of this newspaper that she is not cut out for the job of cutting cane. I worry when I see a woman boxing, fearing that the beauty of their chests could be irrevocably damaged. My image of women is that they should be soft in flesh and not hard in muscle. I do not want my women to be "honourable men".
I learned the lesson very early in life not to try to be what I am not. During my first year at Jamaica College I understudied the school's jazz pianist, Neville Dawes. He was leaving at the end of the year and I expected I would succeed him.
The glory never came. Seymour "Foggy" Mullings came to the school and after hearing him strike the first chord on the piano, I decided to concentrate on cricket instead.
Both my grandfathers had farms in St. Catherine. And I remember only too well when I tried to cut a stalk of cane on my paternal father's farm, and ended with blistered palms and the cane still standing. During the rest of my stay, I picked coffee beans, dropping them into a straw basket.
