Is there an American female athlete today who could pose for Maxim magazine and hasn't? Not necessarily Maxim—Stuff, FHM, a boudoir calendar, or that great pipeline of softcore porn from my youth, the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, will suffice. As soon as they're legal, the clothes seemingly fly off. Danica Patrick: check. Natalie Gulbis: check. Et tu, Maria Sharapova?
Now, I'm no prude. I likes me some hot women. My objection has every bit as much to do with sports as it does with feminism. I'd understand if Jill Snowboarder cashed in—when else is she going to wring money out of her sport? But Danica, Maria, et.al.—these women are millionaires, among the best in the world at what they do. Unless eight year old girls endlessly smashing tennis balls against the wall are dreaming that one day, if only they practice hard enough, they might achieve enough stature in their sport that men will pay five bucks to see them in a baby-oil soaked thong, I don't get it. But I'm apparently alone, because it's nearly automatic. I suppose their managers steer their careers that way. "Congratulations on Wimbledon! As soon as you turn 18, you're guaranteed a Playboy pictorial!"
It's disappointing. It denigrates them, their sport, and the male fans who are assumed to objectify them. Well. Guess again. I might want to meet Maria Sharapova, maybe shake her hand, but I decidedly don't want to see her covered in sand, posing with her elbows back. I remember when she was a preteen up-and-comer and during an interview recoiled at the mention of Anna Kournakova doing the same. I liked that Maria. I miss her. I'm embarrassed for her.