From Rayhawk To Vajay-hawk, With Some Denver Broncos Underwear Thrown InOnce upon a time, a site called The Black Table had a regular feature entitled Waxing Off, in which women gathered in an online roundtable to discuss issues of the day, and also to make fun of Will Leitch's shoes. And so we got to thinking: With so many great female sports bloggers out there, why not import the idea here? It's just crazy enough to work. So behold: The latest edition of Deadspin's Waxing Off. We found seven terrific female writers who were willing to pen short pieces on this week's topic: Bikini Waxing, And Other Great Gestures For The Home Team. First Tampa Bay Rays fans invented the Rayhawk, which is a Mohawk haircut, usually dyed blue. Feeling left out, some women got Rayhawks, um, down there; a rather elaborate bikini waxing procedure which was covered by all the major Florida news outlets. We asked our team of experts if they would ever consider doing such a thing, and if so, how much did it cost? To what other lengths have you gone to support your team? The shocking results below. Caution: Not for the meek. By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off writing staff, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.J-Money: Yeah, I'm a Red Sox fan but I have no desire to prove it by carving my naughty bits into elaborate topiary. While it's delightful that Tampa's women want to style their vajays to look like Joe Maddon's skull, I'll be damned if I'm sculpting my personal area into the shape of a sock. I'm not thatching it so it looks like the infield grass and I'm definitely not letting it grow into a playoff beard. It's my crotch, not Kevin Youkilis' chin. Waxing aside, I have considered sacrificing more visible sections of my epidermis for the cause. In 2004, my then-boyfriend surprised me with tickets to the World Series, the most memorable thing he ever gave me besides a mountain bike and a lingering sense of bitterness. After their Game 4 win, I was in St. Louis standing in the lobby of the team hotel, watching champagne drenched players stream off the bus and contemplating the promise I'd made to myself that if the Sox ever took a Series, I'd have their secondary two-socks logo inked somewhere on my skin. I high-fived Bill Mueller as he stepped onto the elevator and was inspired enough to approach the front desk to ask for a phone book. Flipping through the yellow pages, I found a 24 hour tattoo parlor whose logo was a stoned-looking pit bull. I tore the ad out and was halfway through the revolving door when reality tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me that any tattoo I got at 2 a.m. in downtown St. Louis would probably come with a side order of Hepatitis C, violating the other personal promise I'd made which was to never have anything in common with Pamela Anderson. So I didn't do it. It's not because I'm afraid of the pain - up until that point, Sox fandom included a seasonal dose of cosmic sodomy - and my dignity disappeared ten years ago when I started following Wake Forest football, back when the WF on their helmets stood for "We're Fucked." I guess I'm just secure enough in my Sawx love to know I don't need to put myself through any additional misery to commemorate either that series or this year's ALCS. Besides, there's nothing I could do with needles or wax that could possibly be more painful than sitting through a season's worth of Frank TV commercials. — J-Money is a writer and comedian who has learned a lot about life by fucking up her own. She writes much longer at The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy and at Playing the Field and would consider waxing herself for Dustin Pedroia. ————- Melanie Greenberg: Call me a misanthropic, grinchy party pooper - most people do - but I don't subscribe to the theory that a willingness to degrade yourself is necessarily indicative of your level of team spirit. Bear in mind that this is coming from a person who thinks that people degrade themselves when they dress up on Halloween. But I actually think it's more detrimental than beneficial to your team to make a spectacle of yourself on their behalf. Not to mention the fact that when I see a Bombers fan in a ridiculous outfit or-worse-covered in face paint, I feel like they're making the rest of us look bad. As for the waxing, while it's embarrassing conceptually, if you have at least a reasonable amount of self-respect, then presumably not that many people are going to see it. This begs the question: Why fucking bother? I'm sorry, but things that goes on South of the border involving hot wax? Painful. So even if you are under the misguided perception that the junkhawk is a good idea, it only seems worth enduring if lots of people are going to see it. And, as established, if you have any self-respect, then they won't. All I'm saying is that if you're worried that all the cool kids are getting the Rayhawk and they'll judge you if they find out you didn't, lie. Ain't no shame. But maybe you'll think I'm a hypocrite when I tell you that I have a Yankee tattoo, which some could argue is a gaudy display of my team loyalty. But I don't really think so. It's on an unassuming place on my arm, it doesn't in any way compromise my dignity, and it's more a part of me than it is an effort to display my fanmanship. When I really want to show the world my love for the boys in the Bronx, I break out my Yankees bling. A gold necklace with the Yankees logo inside a heart - inspired by the one Ron Guidry wore during the press conference when he announced his retirement. Again, when I wear my necklace, I'm not drawing undue attention to myself, I'm not inviting screams from people on the street. I'm just representing. Quietly. And without hot wax. — Melanie Greenberg is a freelance writer in New York. If you want to read her thoughts on sports, the Bombers, and why Brett Favre should change either the spelling or pronunciation of his last name, go to www.yousuckcococrisp.blogspot.com. ————- Bay Area Claire: Mohawk? Eh, not for me. I'm enamored with my wavy hair. Brazilian? Already part of my beauty regimen. Not a big deal and not a way to show support for a team - unless that fan is willing to flaunt their formerly-hirsute, presently naked lady parts. My love for my teams is at an unhealthy level, but my body will never be painted with any Bay Area team or Phillies colors. My loyalty doesn't need to be publicly expressed, although cheers of joy and four-letter expressions of frustration will fly out of my mouth at any given moment. My team obsession takes different forms: my appointments are scheduled around games, every sick day I've taken was for baseball games, there's a distinct correlation between my sleeping habits and my favorite team's performance, and a good game turns me on (just ask the boyfriend). Admittedly, I do have more than my fair share of team clothing, but I don't overdo it. If a fan wants to dress entirely in their team's paraphernalia, that's their prerogative. Fans have their own way of expressing dedication. Hey, if a guy wants to wear the full authentic 1980s baseball uniform - pants, socks, jersey, everything - go ahead! I'll be staring and pointing, but it doesn't matter, his love for the team will lift him above the taunts and snickers. When it comes to sports, I believe in freedom of expression. However, when bandwagon girls wear newly purchase sports jerseys all in the spirit of impressing the menfolk, it makes me want to choke a bitch. I'm tired of seeing women with a fan façade, texting during the entire game, trying to be one of the guys. These "bro-hoes" use their false devotion to divert attention from the real action on the field. While in the midst of their deceptive fandom, they create a blanket of fog filled of questions of fan authenticity that covers women fans - even the true diehards. These women are like fake purses; they make spotting the real thing a true accomplishment. If you are a true fan, more power to you. Wear it, say it, paint it, do it, wax it - just be real. — Bay Area Claire has been known to cut her Phillies shirseys to create a better, more feminine fit. She believes her various actions have slightly shifted the universe and somehow nudged the Phillies toward the World Series. Follow her playoff coverage on BleacherReport.com and her Bay Area ramblings on examiner.com. ————- Jenn Bowen: "Are you wearing your underwear?" My 12 year old son turns to me and asks as I'm racing across town on Sunday to get home in time for the Denver Broncos game. "What!? Of course I am." "No, I mean your Broncos underwear," he says. Oh damn, I forgot to put them on this morning. "I'll put ‘em on right when we get home," I tell him. Unfortunately, I didn't get around to it until halftime and by then my husband grudgingly told me it was too late, I'd already jinxed the game. You see, I'm one of those superstitious outrageous fans. I have 4 males in my house who believe the Broncos season rides on my underwear, and since I wasn't wearing it both times they've lost there must be some merit to this. When I was a kid, stadium security came and visited my family during a Mariners-Yankees game because we were being too obnoxious, and my husband is continually embarrassed at our kids' sporting events by my big mouth and loud cheering. I say the more outrageous you are the better, teams feed off this energy and support. When a player looks to the stands and sees painted bodies, wigs, jerseys and banners their chests puff up and they play with a greater intensity and a desire give the fans something more to cheer for. But, as far as the female Tampa Bay Rayhawk and Red Sox Brazilian landscaping, I don't get it. How will the team know you've done it? You can't "show" your support (as much as all the men would appreciate it) because you'd go to jail. Ladies, let's be a bit more creative here. How about pasties of the team logo? I'm in. — Jenn Bowen is a sassy redhead who blogs about sports at SaltyMilk.com under the name Milk Money. ————- Holly Anderson: Pubes grow back. Body paint washes away. Willfully endured emotional trauma? There's the mark of a true diehard. In September I broke up with my boyfriend of six months over a college football game. He tossed out an ill-advised ultimatum as I was preparing to leave town for the third or fourth straight weekend to watch my beloved Tennessee Vols play Auburn with an out-of-state alumni group, and I walked. Without a second thought, I walked out on regular sex for the foreseeable future, because from September to December my life belongs to those boys in orange and white. And how'd that work out? Auburn, 14-12. I drove eight hours into a hundred-degree desert to watch the Vols lose on the road to the #15 team in the country by a mere two points. It wasn't a pretty loss. Tennessee had the Tigers pinned behind the 50 for the entire second half and came away with only seven fourth-quarter points to show for it. 67 passing yards, 191 yards of total offense. Just humiliating Here's the thing, though: It was still worth it. It's been about three weeks now, and reaction to this story has been divided solidly along geographic lines. From my Yankee friends, a weak smile that's half bewilderment, half polite sympathy. From anyone born and raised in the SEC, a reply of, "Well, what the hell'd he expect you to do? It's a conference game!", and an offer to introduce me to a cute cousin of theirs who graduated from Alabama/Vanderbilt/Ole Miss and knows how to treat a Southern girl right. Ask me again in January, I tell them. The Vols were a part of my life years before what's-his-name entered the scene. They'll be the center of my autumn universe long after I've forgotten his face. (And they'll probably still be throwing on third and short, but whatever. Love is blind.) — Holly is the associate editor of EDSBS, a contributing writer to Yahoo's new college football blog Dr. Saturday, and 1/15 of the PtF roster. ————- Jen Aniano: I have gone pretty far for sports teams since I was in high school. Being a crazy fan is half the fun of the game. But, I must admit, if I had a son and he had a Mohawk my first instinct when looking at him would not be to think of giving my crotch one. Does anyone else think the inspiration for the down there Tampa Bay Mohawk is sickeningly creepy? I mean do not get me wrong, if getting a bikini wax was going to get me free seats to a Tigers' game I would be there. I guess I would be willing to do anything, short of sleeping with a hobo, for the Tigers or the Yankees. The most fun I ever had at a high school football game was my senior year homecoming five or six years ago. I threw on my wrestling singlet, a pair of my Nike soccer socks and made a cape out of a pillow case. I "flew" into the game and everyone got a laugh. But I did not sacrifice my dignity. I mean I wore the singlet a few times a week at wrestling meets and everyone saw me in it anyway, so no big deal … right? I do not correlate being a crazy hardcore fan with sacrificing your dignity. Look, we all live vicariously through athletes because lets face it only one percent of the US population actually gets to play sports for a living. In essence the longing we feel to be that professional athlete depletes our dignity anyway. So, if the only way a fan can be an actual part of the game is to cut their hair or get a bikini wax then why not? I give credit to those hardcore fans who get involved in the game because in the world of the downed economy and HD and satellite TV who really needs to pay a bunch of money to get into the game? And if you not going to the game dying your hair and painting your face becomes pretty useless. So today I salute you "Mr. crazy hardcore sports fan" willing to pay a buck or two to yell your head off with a Mohawk and newly minted team tattoo. — Jen is currently contemplating a Mohawk of her own ————- Ace: When I received this week's topic, I told my roommate Liz about it. The following conversation ensued: (Disclaimer: Liz is a graphic design major and admits that she is ignorant when it comes to anything involving balls.) Me- "So I'm supposed to explore how far people go to support their teams. Like women getting bikini waxes." Liz- "Well if you're going to get a bikini wax, you might as well get one for the Red Sox. It just makes sense. You should write about like how you would give yourself a breast exam everyday until the Phillies win the World Series. But make it sexy." Me- "That makes no sense. I don't really think that's what they're looking for. And plus, my brother reads Deadspin." Liz- "Well would you be willing to get kicked in the face for tickets?" Me- "Depends on the tickets." Liz- "For the best seats in the whole place?" Me- "Of course." Liz- "Well not so fast. What if it was with cleats?" Me- "Metal or rubber?" Liz- "Both would ruin your face." Me- "Maybe, but as long as I had my eyes, I'd still go to the game." Liz- "It's not even punched though. It's kicked. The face is delicate; that would kill you." Me- "Okay fine, maybe I wouldn't if it were a man with metal cleats right in the middle of my face. What about a woman?" Liz- "Well I certainly don't think Mia Hamm could kick you as hard as any Joe Schmo on the street could. And she's a woman, she'd go easy on you. A man would try to kick your face off." Me- "That's impressively sexist." Liz- "This is why I don't get involved with sports. My team is America. Go vote!" Me- "I'll make sure I get this word for word." The point is, whether you rip off your pubic hair, paint yourself head to toe, or risk serious bodily harm, you do it for your team. It's the best way fans can contribute. We may not be able to score the winning run, but we can do our best to prove our dedication. It's been 28 years. I don't know many Phillies fans who wouldn't take a foot to the face for the World Series. Am I right, A.J.? — Ace is a journalism student in Boston with a severe inferiority complex that she suspects only an Eagles Super Bowl could cure. And that is her real name.