26 HARPER’S MAGAZINE / SEPTEMBER 2009

clothes to mimic Rafa on any tennis course? Nike turned him into a clown. Yuck.

I found that if I stared at his face long enough, I could make the sleeves disappear, and I could see him sleeveless in my brain.

Maybe it’s a good thing his clothes are so ugly. I’m not sure how I’d react seeing Rafa in a new outfi t that included piratas, a beautiful sleeveless shirt, and a dashing, well-colored bandanna—I might just have a heart attack!

It took me such a long time to like Rafa. He was too colorful, too shirtless, too tan, too apache. Now that I’ve gotten to like him, Nike presents me with the black socks. Well, I’m not going to get used to that! I cross my arms and refuse to look at him. You lost me, Nike.

I was appalled by this look. With his arms covered up, it’s hard to see how fi t he still is. Only during the shirt change (which I replayed three times) did I see that he still has his phenomenal phy-sique. I feel like a two-year-old having a tantrum, but I want to stomp my feet and bang my fi sts and scream, “Give me back the sleeveless Rafa!”

Nike=evil. Nike=greed. Nike=really, really, really poor taste.

I want reporters to ask Nike what the hell hap-pened to their good sense. And why do they want the number-one player in the world to look like his mother dressed him in Osh-Kosh B’Gosh?

Ladies, do you think that the left sleeve of the hideous new garb is too restricting and sort of travels up his arm? Chafi ng his delicate skin will be his punishment for infl icting the bad look on us. Why can’t Nike custom-make Rafa’s shirt? Even untrained eyes can see his left arm is stronger than the right. Make the left sleeve more roomy. Basic dressmaker intelligence.

I have a compromise: please have one sleeveless shirtsleeve. Preferably the left!

I am becoming convinced that Rafa’s new ap-parel is a student design project.

You know what bothers me more than anything else about this entire situation? I have this hor-rible suspicion that the guys in the locker room are making fun of Rafa. I can’t help but think that everyone is wondering why he let his spon-sor do this to him.

I hate Nike for destroying the illusion of Rafa’s autonomy.

Looking at Rafa is no longer a joy. I cannot divorce my sensory input into two parts; as much as Rafa himself may want to deny it, clothes do make a large part of the man. Our warrior looks like a damned gaudy refugee from a Third World nation.

I am never going to get used to the new outfi ts. They’re atrocious and have nothing to do with the young man who is Rafa Nadal. Nike has destroyed its own icon.

[Manifesto]

LOSING IS FOR LOSERS

From a March email by Michael Kinahan, coach of a soccer team for girls aged seven and under in Scituate, Massachusetts, to the children’s parents. After parents complained to league offi cials, Kina-han resigned, saying in his resignation letter that the email was meant to be “a satire of those who take youth sports too seriously for the wrong reasons.” The email was obtained by the Patriot Ledger.

Congratulations on being selected for Team 7 (forest-green shirts) of the Scituate Soccer Club! My name is Michael, and I have been for-tunate enough to be selected to coach what I know will be a wonderful group of young ladies.

Okay, here’s the real deal: Team 7 will be called Green Death. We will only acknowledge “Team 7” for scheduling and disciplinary pur-poses. Green Death is not a team but a family (some say cult) that you belong to forever. We play fair at all times, but we play tough and physical soccer. We have some returning players who know the deal; for the others, I only expect 110 percent at every game and practice. We do not cater to superstars but prefer the gritty deter-mination of journeymen who bring their lunch pail to work every week, chase every ball, and dig in corners like a Michael Vick pit bull.

Some say soccer at this age is about fun, and I completely agree. I believe, however, that winning is fun and losing is for losers. Ergo, we will strive for the W in each game. Although we may not win every game (excuse me, I just got a little nauseous), I expect us to fi ght for every loose ball and play every shift as if it were the fi nals of the World Cup. As I spent a good Saturday morning listening to the legal-liability BS, which included a thirty-minute dissertation on how we need to baby the kids and especially the refs, I was dis-gusted. The kids will run, they will fall, get bumps and bruises, even bleed a little. Big deal; it’s good for them (but I do hope the other team is the one bleeding). If the refs can’t handle a little criticism, then they should turn in their whistles. My heck-ling of the refs actually helps them develop as people. The political-correctness police are not welcome on my sidelines. America’s youth are becoming fat, lazy, and noncompetitive because competition is viewed as “bad.” I argue that com-petition is crucial to the evolution of our species and our survival in what has become an increas-ingly competitive global economy and dangerous world. Second-place trophies are nothing to be proud of. They serve only as a reminder that you

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28 HARPER’S MAGAZINE / SEPTEMBER 2009

missed your goal; their only purpose is as an in-spiration to do that next set of reps. Don’t animals eat what they kill? (And yes, someone actually kills the meat we eat—it isn’t grown in plastic wrap.) And speaking of meat, I expect that the ladies be put on a diet of fi sh, undercooked red meat, and lots of veggies. No junk food. Protein shakes are encouraged, and while blood doping and HGH use is frowned upon, there is no testing policy. And at the risk of stating the obvious, blue slushies are for winners.

These are my views and not necessarily the views of the league (but they should be). I recog-nize that my school of thought may be an ideo-logical shift from conventional norms. But it is imperative that we all fi ght the good fi ght, get involved now, and resist the urge to become

sweatxedo-wearing yuppies who sit on the side-lines in L.L. Bean chairs sipping mocha-latte-half-caf-accinos while discussing reality TV and home decorating with other feeble-minded folks. I want to hear cheering, I want to hear encour-agement, I want to get the team pumped up and know they are playing for something.

We are all cognizant of the soft bigotry that ex-pects women, and especially little girls, to be dainty and submissive; I wholeheartedly reject such drivel. My overarching goal is to develop ladies who are confi dent and fearless, who will stand up for their beliefs and challenge the status quo. Girls who will kick ass and take names on the fi eld, off the fi eld, and throughout their lives. I want these girls to be winners in the game of life. Who’s with me?

Go Green Death!

Count to Ten, by Elizabeth Neel, was displayed last fall at Deitch Projects, in New York City.

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