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November 10, 2009 2:56 AM

Lambert plays like guy, gets noticed

lambert.jpgHey, did you see that Elizabeth Lambert video?!

Whoa! Before you go googling off to some porn site or something, stop!
I'm not talking about a blond, bikini-clad sex-kitten here, I'm talking about a blond clad in spikes and a scarlet jersey who plays sports like so many genetically challenged men.

Go here, and then come back so we can talk about this some more.

So, what did you think? That's something, eh?
If you found this video disgusted you, or hard to watch, then get out of here, you are lost. Google Martha Stewart or Al Roker or something. You are obviously not a sports fan.

If your reaction was close to mine, as in, "Wow! That girl plays like a guy!" I think we can discuss this rationally.

Face it, most of the shock value here isn't derived from all the awful, sneaky things Lambert did to her unwitting opponents on the field. No, what strikes that curious nerve is the fact a girl marauded the field like some awful, sneaky guy.  

Now I realize that my caveman-like thinking will probably land me in some trouble from the angry sorts who play to win the game of political correctness.
Lucky, that game never interested me. I have always lived in the comfortable camp that says guys and gals are just different, and that is a wonderful thing.

Any sports fan knows that the crap (and hair) Lambert pulled happens almost hourly on some sporting venue somewhere -- and almost always is done by some idiot guy.

These cheap-shot artists more than likely were dropped on the floor when they were babies or have issues because their mothers always forgot their names when they were growing up.
They are just plain angry, and like the negative attention that being a two-bit goon brings them.

And they are part of so many of our games.

The sad -- maybe even shocking -- part of the Lambert episode is that apparently there are gals out there armed and able to lower themselves into the dumpster with these guys.

Back when I dabbled in high school football, a play had just ended, and as I got up off the turf after helping with a tackle, some meaty elbow came crashing though my helmet and knocked me into another, more peaceful world.

I have no idea why what's-his-name did that, or how many floors he hit as a baby, but it did occur to me that I was going to be on guard for what's-his-name for the rest of the game, and be thankful jails were built to capture his kind at some point in their miserable lives.

Then again, maybe he went on to play hockey.

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