An excerpt of Bobbie Rosenfeld's column in Toronto's Globe and Mail, in the January 10, 1941 edition, on page 16.
Feminine Sports Reel by Bobbie Rosenfield
One of those periodic diatribes against Eve has burst into print again. Its author is Jack Miley, chivalrous two-fisted scribbler with the New York Post, who once earned himself a black eye from the fist of Dizzy Dean in an encounter in Florida.
It's the same old malarkey flavoring most all misogynistic articles levelled [sic] at women athletes. Just in case you're not familiar with the trend of thought, we print typical paragraphs:
"A female's flushed face over a hot stove is not only prettier but more practical than a purple face produced by puffing and panting from participation in some masculine sport for which nature never intended her.
"Women's place is in the home, and I never saw a girl yet who didn't look a sight better with a frying pan than a tennis racquet."
And more about girl athletes' legs looking like turkey gobblers' and the fact that girls in sport never get any place.
Why these gentlemen of the press insist on taking a few cobwebby tales about women competitors, giving them new twists and endowing them with universality and delivering them as proof that women are physically, mentally and morally unfit to traverse the field of sport with their boy scout brothers beats us.
What is more beautiful in sport than this: Colored ice surface, a blazing beam of light spotlighting the whirling figure of a human doll, spinning in rhythmic perfection, effortless, without strain, a symphony of graces.
What is more beautiful in sport than a graceful figure poised atop a high diving board, leaning forward, arms arched, and floating off into spaces, coming down into the water like a great sea bird, a thing of infinite grace, striking smoothly, without a splash, and streaking into the depths, leaving hardly a ripple?
Or watching Alice Marble gliding over tennis courts, or the sight of some graceful girl golfer swing with precise rhythm and a certain power one a teed-up ball.
Having offered, the the umteenth time, our defense of women athletes, to Jack Miley we say: "Aw, nerts!" (This or the want of something more expressive.)