Class action: what a deal! They give you a buck for knocking a weenie on his butt!

Sporting News, The, Nov 29, 2004 by Tricia Garner

I'm about to tell you something that might come as a shock.

Ready? Here goes: Some women actually like football. Some women actually want to learn more about it. And--here's where everything you believe in might suddenly seem like a lie---it's not always about the tight pants.

I know--crazy, huh? But it's for that reason many NFL teams sponsor classes for women to learn more about the game. I decide to attend one of these: Colts Women's 201, which consists of actual football drills, unlike the more classroom-oriented 101 class. The four-hour session at the team's practice facility draws about 260 women for 70 bucks each. One fluffy blonde is decked from head to toe in pink, from her hat to her lipstick to her pants; another girl has her hair slicked back in a ponytail and the sleeves on her Edgerrin James jersey rolled up to expose her upper arms. One woman can't stop talking about Monday Night Football the night before; another admits she is here only because her husband won't stop bugging her to watch games with him.

We start off with dinner ("To build up your strength," they tell us). Before long, the emcee steps to the microphone. "Are you ready for some football?" he booms. "Get ready to sweat, to cuss, to scratch!" Some of the women trade wary glances. "There are no children here tonight," he continues, and draws a chorus of cheers. "There are no husbands" (wooo!), "no boyfriends, no significant others" (wooo!) "and there will be NO DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES here tonight!" (WOOOOOOO!!!!!) The nondesperate housewives are going nuts, and I'm right there with them.

We're divided into groups and sent to our first station on the field. There are six interactive stations in all, covering everything from passing to receiving to defense. The second station is a goal-line situation. The quarterback (in this case, former Colts tight end Geneo Riley) hands off to you, and you must get past two guys armed with pads to score a touchdown. One girl takes the ball and screams the entire 10 yards. Geneo shakes his head and calls a timeout. "Ladies," he says, "screaming is a sure sign that you're scared." Apparently, letting the opponent know you're about to wet yourself is a no-no in the NFL.

It's almost my turn. My pride is enough motivation, but then another incentive manifests itself. A man walks over and announces, "The first person who knocks over the little guy gets a dollar"--the little guy being one of the men (5-8 on a good day) holding the pads. He waves Mr. Washington in the air, and my eyes light up. Are you kidding me? Blindside a nice guy? That's what I DO.

I cross my fingers and hope the two girls in front of me don't knock him over first. They don't.

I don't want to embarrass the poor man by sharing all the sordid details, but suffice it to say, I'm a dollar richer.

Next up is the field-goal station, manned by hottie of the night Justin Snow, the Colts' long snapper. (Hey, it's not me calling him the hottie of the night. The emcee introduces him as "the most handsome man in the NFL," and someone actually takes a picture of his butt when his back is turned.) After a short tutorial, we get to try to hit a 10-yard field goal. Ten yards? I'm not worried. I stride to the tee and take three paces back and two steps to the side. I get a running start, the ball goes sailing off my foot, through the air ... right under the crossbar. Two yards closer, and I would have been money. I want a do-over but realize it's not worth it. No one likes kickers, anyway.

At the receiving station, Colts wideout Aaron Moorehead offers us some advice. "Keep your hands away from your body," he says. "If you catch it with your chest, it's going to hurt." A woman in the back of the group pipes up. "You gonna give us a rubdown if we do?" Aaron either doesn't hear her or pretends not to. I snicker, and she high-fives me. There is no snickering, though, when one woman takes a hard pass right on the letters of her Colts T-shirt. A collective, empathetic "Owww" goes through the group. Sadly, there is no rubdown. Just a sore chest.

By the end of the night, I've caught three over-the-shoulder, 20-yard passes, nearly knocked some poor girl on her keister with my relentless blocking and almost--almost--hit a target from 15 yards away. And did I mention that I've got an extra 100 cents burning a hole in my pocket? I think I'll go buy a soda now.