Playing For the Other Team: Adrian Peterson Makes Me a Lesbian Stereotype
I apologize if I sound like a man-hating, angsty lesbian with penis envy. I’m trying to pay attention to Monday Night Football to see if Andrew Luck will play well enough to give me a win over my brother in our fantasy football matchup this week, and I’m distracted. In fact, it seems quite a few teams this week have players that have become “distractions” and none of them are Michael Sam. Don’t even get me started.
Tonight’s interruptions? My iPhone notifications.
“Report: Peterson investigated over injuries to another 4-year-old son”
“NFL: Adrian Peterson Was Investigated for Abuse of Another of His Sons in June: No Charges Filed”
By now, the fact the Vikings star running back has been indicted on charges of injury to his child is old news, but here’s a brief recap for those of you that have been taking one last off-the-grid trip to the Boundary Waters to end the summer. Peterson was indicted in Montgomery County, TX for hitting his 4-year-old son with a “switch,” a tree branch with the leaves removed, while the child was visiting, so much that when the child was returned to his mother in Minnesota a week later, the wounds were still bleeding. The wounds allegedly included bruises and cuts to the 4-year-old’s back, butt, legs, and scrotum. Peterson was benched by the Vikings for their game versus New England, turned himself in to Texas authorities, and admitted he “whooped” the boy for pushing another child off a video game.
As of press time, and while charges are pending, the Vikings first chose to reactivate Peterson for Week 3, because, well, he’s Adrian Peterson and they gave him a timeout. Which is what he should have given his kid. And now, these iPhone notifications are alerting me to the possibility of a similar situation with another of his sons. Public outcry seemed to change the direction taken by the Vikings and he is now deactivated indefinitely.
A few weeks ago, Michael Sam not making a team annoyed me. Last week, the Ray Rice situation infuriated me. This week I’m just plain disgusted. Maybe it’s because the thought of anyone repeatedly hitting my toddler-age nieces until they bleed makes my hair stand on end. An obvious reaction, right? No one wants their children being injured.
Well, I don’t have any children. And I can’t help the fact that my wife and I being so far unsuccessful in our attempts to conceive has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth against those who take their privilege of raising children for granted. Of course, for us, getting pregnant requires more than a bottle of wine and a tumble in the hay. Unless if, in said hay bale, there’s a sperm donor, various medical supplies, and a whole lotta cash. Point is, my wife and I have to be damn sure we’re ready for a child, and we aren’t just going to “find out” we have one already when one passes away from child abuse by the mother’s new boyfriend.
I don’t know how many kids Adrian Peterson has. I wonder if he knows. He’s consistently evaded those questions from the media, and yeah, it really isn’t any of our business. Do you think he considers himself “lucky” to have them? Do you think he understands what a privilege it is to be a parent, and that being completely responsible for the shaping and upbringing of a child is one of life’s greatest gifts and challenges? Do you think he knows that just because your parents did doesn’t mean that you have to?
I know he doesn’t know that there are countless other couples out there, like my wife and myself, who would give anything to be tasked with the responsibility he’s abusing. To have the creation of life be so easy. And I’m sure he never thinks about the fact that my wife and I can’t even legally adopt a child together in half of the United States, but he can legally beat the crap out of the result (really, a gift) of his one-night stands.
So yeah, maybe this week I’m a man-hating, angsty lesbian with penis envy. The news is filled with superstar athletes treating their loved ones worse than I’d ever consider treating my dog. Cut me some slack.