Call Me Shallow — Liah Argiropoulos

Call Me Shallow

Liah Argiropoulos

I always feel like one of the boys until one day a boy explains to me that I’m just shallow, and I like players for their looks, or personality, or whatever, and that I don’t look enough at stats, and baby, it’s not worth it to stan someone who can’t drop 25 on a bad night.

And somewhere deep down there, I don’t feel equal anymore. It hits me that I’ve realized how they see me, and suddenly, I’m looking up into a blinding light, somewhere 30,000 feet underwater, wondering why I could have ever been so stupid and naive and let myself get played.

But my sweet, sweet darling angel, I really am shallow.

Baby, I’ve been through the Process. I know who TJ McConnell is. I’m jealous of the way his teammates use him as an armrest when he does something good, looping an arm around his neck like he’s a trophy. I want to be just one of the boys — loved, equal, worthy — but there’s something about gender that separates.

Darling, I always root against the Celtics, because I’ve talked to four guys over the past year and each one has rejected me and each one has told me that Jayson Tatum is the future of the league. Each one of them has gotten smashed up at TD Garden on a Wednesday while I wonder why they won’t text me back. Is it because I’m a Sixers fan? Is it because I hated Al Horford? Is it because the thought of them frowning at a statline on their phone makes me crack the tiniest smile? Is it because…

Honey, my friends and I want to figure out where Rui Hachimura gets his coffee when we’re back in Editor’s Choice

DC for school next semester. We play fuck, marry, kill with the pretty boys of basketball and dream of glitzy dates and luxury lives we’ll never live. We’re not Instagram models or children of nepotism, nor do we want to be. It kills me that even just for fun, there is no other option than to be a walking, talking, breathing stereotype of the women who came before you. Men do this to us all they want, so why can’t we do it back?

Sweetheart, I was raised on this shit. My favorite NBA player as a kid was Andre Iguodala because my mom told me he was out with a broken arm, just like how I had to sit out of my swim season that summer with a fractured elbow. He had a torn Achilles that season, actually, but it made me feel better when I saw his shooting sleeve and assumed it was for my mom’s made-up arm injury. After him, I entered my freshman year of high school as Dario Saric came over and graduated as Kyle O’Quinn went to the Euroleague, and now, I smile every time I see the number nine.

I turn career arcs into storylines and citywide heroes into best friends. My non-sports-fan friends know my favorite players as the one with gifted kid burnout, the one with the pet snakes, the activist who stars in Goldfish commercials, and so on. I imagine myself to be a foot taller than I really am and built like a basketballer, passively, envisioning myself in my head as one of the boys. I calculate every move of those around me like one might calculate a player’s RAPTOR or LEBRON. My eyes flick from face to face as I consider the way I’m being perceived. I’m 30,000 feet underwater.

If I’m shallow, meet me in the deep end. I’d like to see you swim.