Why Female Fans Can’t Win

Title IX was half a century away when Margaret Pratt Allen penned her article for The Atlantic in 1928, pondering the question of women's sports fandom. The New York World had granted Allen complimentary tickets to major sporting events over two years, so she could observe and document the reactions and interests of women in attendance.

She bore witness to the Yankees and Giants battling for the pennant, witnessing epic moments like the clash between Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, as well as less thrilling games. The ticket prices of those days would be worth more than $500 in today's money. Sports enthusiasm was surging in America during the 1920s, with star athletes such as Babe Ruth captivating crowds of tens of thousands across various sports.

Pratt Allen, though self-identifying as a "pretty good baseball fan," recognized the gendered assumptions of her era. Title IX had yet to be enacted, and women only began participating in modern Olympic Games around the turn of the century, initially restricted to "refined" pursuits like tennis, croquet, and golf. When women did exhibit fervent engagement while watching games, they faced criticism for their conduct.

Some baseball teams, recognizing women's desire to spectate and spend money at games, started hosting "Ladies' Days," offering discounted or free admission (though some required female attendees to be accompanied by a man). Despite these promotions, complaints about female fans persisted, claiming they cheered "at the wrong times" and caused more disruption than they deterred.

Pratt Allen disagreed, but her observations took the form of a backhanded compliment. She remarked that "the stuff that fans are made of—frenzied, hysterical, pleading, shouting, swearing fans—is not of the same piece as the pattern from which women are cut." At the Dempsey-Firpo boxing match, women were "conspicuous by their absence or their uncomprehending blankness in the face of the mob frenzy which gripped the male fans."

Women would never become so engrossed in the game as to throw objects from the stands, Pratt Allen explained, noting that while men might sacrifice new headgear in the heat of the moment, "can you imagine a ball game meaning more to a woman than a hat?" Although they attended games out of a sense of tradition, the headline concluded that "Women Aren't Fans."

Pratt Allen's essay alludes to the ongoing struggle women face in sports fandom: if they cheer, they're criticized; if they don't, they're deemed disinterested. Even if a female spectator expressed joy in a victory, her inner self would temper her enthusiasm, as Pratt Allen explained. As female fans have occasionally displayed unrestrained enthusiasm, they have been mocked and ridiculed for their joy.

In the 1960s, a writer labeled Beatles fans "the least fortunate of their generation" for their hysterical screaming. In 2012, a critic described a One Direction album as a "reliable shriek inducer" targeting girls who hadn't yet decided that shrieking didn't suit them. Today's modern fandom, in particular, has turned Pratt Allen's observation about "the stuff that fans are made of" on its head.

The fangirl archetype familiar to us—shouting wildly for pop idols like Taylor Swift or BTS—might indeed be "frenzied, hysterical, pleading," as Pratt Allen perceived. So, what is a woman to do? The question is not whether women can be fans, but whether they are recognized as the right kind of fan. The behavior of female spectators, whether in the stands, courtside, or the gallery, has long perplexed observers.

And this brings me, as a self-proclaimed fangirl, to admit that I have screamed uncontrollably at concerts, yet I have also restrained myself, questioning whether such fervor befits a professional woman in her 30s with a mortgage and a baby. The reality is, women have always been fans, but the dilemma remains: how can a woman be a fan in the way she desires without facing judgment from others or herself?