Cora Staunton included in 2021 AFLW Team of the Year

CORA STAUNTON HAS been included in the 2021 AFLW Team of the year after another impressive campaign with the Greater Western Sydney [GWS] Giants.

The four-time All-Ireland winner is named among the forwards who made the shortlist, averaging 10.3 disposals, and kicking 10 goals for her club this year.

Staunton, 39, who first joined the Giants in 2017, has consistently been a standout performer since her move Down Under. She capped off her debut season by picking up the Giants’ Goal of the Year award.

She then suffered a career-threatening triple-leg-break injury in 2019 but managed to make a full recovery the following season and has continued to make a vital contribution for the Giants.

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The https://t.co/FJ7UMYhaFF Team of the Year has been settled 👏#AFLW

— AFL Women's (@aflwomens) April 6, 2021

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Ireland rugby star Hannah Tyrrell shines on return to football as Dublin hammer Waterford

Dublin 6-15
Waterford 2-12

HANNAH TYRRELL MARKED her return to inter-county football in style this afternoon as the Irish rugby international hit 1-5, as reigning All-Ireland champions Dublin convincingly defeated Waterford in Parnell Park.

In a game that was dubbed a dress rehearsal for the championship, Dublin welcomed back Olwen Carey, Siobhan Killeen, and fresh from their endeavours in Australia, Lauren Magee and Niamh McEvoy.

Waterford did get off to a quicker start and dominated early possession, Maria Delahunty hit one from play and converted a free. Early Dublin efforts skimmed wide of the post but they opened their account for 2021 with a Sinead Aherne free after Niamh Hetherton was fouled. 

As Dublin upped the intensity, Tyrrell proved her worth hitting four first-half points. The first was a beautiful effort after a long range exchange with Niamh Hetherton, and Tyrrell was again on the scoresheet twice more minutes later.

Aherne converted her second free from 30 yards before Lyndsey Davey opened up a six-point gap when she found the net after a sweeping team move involved Hetherton and Siobhan Killeen.

Hetherton’s first-half efforts were rewarded with with a point of her own, while returning Killeen and Tyrrell also pointed leaving nine points between the teams at the water break, 1-8 to 0-2. 

Michelle Davoren of Dublin in action against Laura Mulcahy, left, and Rebecca Casey of Waterford.

Making her senior debut, Abby Shiels was comfortable in goals while Orlagh Nolan and Leah Caffrey bolstered a Dublin defence that proved difficult to break. 

Dublin’s second goal began as a sweeping team move down field and with Aherne in an inch of space, the captain offloaded to Hetherton, the Clontarf player made no mistake finishing to the net to open up a 12-point lead. 

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Waterford steadied their ship and Eimear Fennell (2) and Delahunty brought the Munster side back into contention. The teams traded scores before the break, with Aileen Wall finding space and Delahunty firing over from short range. However, a brace of Aherne frees ensured Dublin took a nine-point lead into half time, 2-10 to 0-7.

The third quarter was a tighter affair, although Dublin did have to cope with two separate yellow cards, Aoife Kane just before half-time and Caoimhe O’Connor before the second water break but it had little impact on the champions.

Aherne raised a green flag of her own when Hetherton found her in space and as the substitutions rolled in, the scoreboard continued to tick over. Aherne (3) and Tyrrell raised white flags while Delahunty and Kellyann Hogan converted for Waterford.

The game finished in a goal frenzy with five goals inside eight minutes. Orlagh Nolan and Tyrrell found the net for Dublin inside a minute, Aileen Wall and substitute Kate McGrath raised green flags for the visitors. Caoimhe O’Connor signed off on the win for Dublin when she converted from the penalty spot.

Scorers for Dublin: S Aherne 1-7 (0-5f), H Tyrrell 1-5, N Hetherton 1-1, O Nolan 1-0, L Davey 1-0, C O’Connor 1-0 (1-0 pen), L Collins 0-1, S Killeen 0-1.

Scorers for Waterford: M Delahunty 0-7 (0-4f), A Wall 1-1, K McGrath 1-0, E Fennell 0-2, C Fennell 0-1, K Hogan 0-1.

DUBLIN: A Shiels; O Nolan, L Caffrey, O Carey; M Byrne, A Kane, L Collins; L McGinley, H Tyrrell; C O’Connor, S McGrath, L Davey; N Hetherton, S Killeen, S Aherne (captain).

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Subs: H Leahy for M Byrne (28), M Davoren for N Hetherton (42), L Magee for S McGrath (45), H O’Neill for S Killeen (45), J Egan for S Aherne (48), N McEvoy for H Tyrell (52), L Kane for O Nolan (55), C McGuigan for L McGinley (55), S Loughran for L Davey (55).

WATERFORD: M Foran; A Mullaney, L Mulcahy, R Casey; C Fennell, K McGrath, M Wall (captain); C McGrath, M Dunford; R Tobin, A Wall, K Hogan; E Fennell, M Delahunty, K Murray.

Subs: K McGrath for R Tobin (39), A Murray for E Fennell (46), L Cusack for A Mullaney (49), B McMaugh for K Hogan (49), N Power for M Wall (56), C McCarthy for C Fennell (56), R Dunphy for A Wall (56). 

Referee: Kevin Phelan (Laois) 

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‘It’s an amazing story’ – A first senior championship start for Clare hurlers at the age of 30

IN THE 50th minute of Sunday afternoon’s game, Páidí Fitzpatrick was summoned to the sideline at Semple Stadium.

The Clare defender gestured with his fist as he ran off, saluting David McInerney who was coming on as a replacement. The message was clear.

He had put in a huge shift to help establish a winning platform for his team as they were nine points clear.

Now the focus shifted to supporting the rest of the team as they attempted to finish the job.

Ultimately Clare were successful by four points. It was a victory to savour for their team to kick-start the 2021 ambitions but for Fitzpatrick it held a deeper meaning, this was an experience that he had waited some time to share in.

A first senior championship start for Clare at 30 years of age, seven weeks shy from his 31st birthday.

It was almost 13 years exactly, since he had previously started a championship game of any description for a Clare team.

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On 25 June 2008 he featured in a Munster minor semi-final against Tipperary.

On 27 June 2021 he featured in a Munster senior quarter-final against Waterford.

It was a notable journey from one point to the other. His maiden competitive senior appearance for Clare arrived on Sunday 1 March last year. He acquitted himself well in a nine-point league win over Dublin in Ennis but any aspirations for channelling that momentum were soon wrecked. The country shut down 11 days later and the pandemic ripped up everyone’s plans.

Source: Bryan Keane/INPHO

Well done to Paidi Fitzpatrick who made his competitive debut for Clare in the National Hurling league versus Dublin in Ennis at the weekend. Joined by club mate Cathal Malone as the other wing back. #clareseniors #paidifitz #sixmilebridgegaa https://t.co/J9WwzPxMYT pic.twitter.com/CRAwWBSiRE

— Sixmilebridge (@SMBClare) March 2, 2020

When the 2020 inter-county programme of games resumed, Fitzpatrick made the bench for Clare’s four winter outings. He got pushed into the action in Portlaoise last November, a championship milestone arriving in the 60th minute of their triumph over Wexford.

2021 brought league starts against Wexford and Dublin before the big chance arrived on Sunday. He seized it, blotting out the threat of Waterford’s Jack Fagan to announce himself on the senior stage.

“It’s an amazing story,” admits Syl O’Connor, the Clare FM GAA commentator and Sixmilebridge club-mate of Fitzpatrick.

“Páidí would have been looked upon as one of the best man-markers in the county at club level. No question about that.

“Some of his greatest battles were marking Conor McGrath, when he was in his prime. The ‘Bridge and Cratloe were very prominent for a period, playing each other. Conor was one of the top players, Páidí always got the task of marking Conor.

“He probably has a unique style as well, he’s a real man-marker. He’d probably never run 100 yards and pop it over the bar. But the man that’s on him, won’t do that easily either.

“He’s a massive player from the ‘Bridge point of view. Very influential and very well got with the team.”

Back in 2008 he moved from club underage ranks to fill the centre-back spot for the Clare minor hurlers in a team powered by the inside attacking duo of McGrath and Darach Honan. It was a campaign where they made a rousing start by beating Cork but were then knocked out by Tipperary.

Fitzpatrick was on the fringes of the county U21 squad in 2010 and 2011 without ever managing to break into the first fifteen.

Then followed a long spell away from the inter-county game yet his hurling never declined. He focused on his work with the club and prospered.

When Sixmilebridge lifted the Canon Hamilton Cup last September, it ensured Fitzpatrick would pick up his fifth Clare senior hurling medal since 2013. He had started in all five final wins, captaining them in 2017, while covering a range of positions including full-back, wing-back, midfield and centre-forward.

Source: Lorraine O’Sullivan/INPHO

In his homeplace they appreciated his worth as a golden age for the club was enjoyed.

“I’d often think of the example of Shane Prendergast in Kilkenny,” says O’Connor.

“Came in the first year and won the All-Ireland (in 2015), he was captain the next year for the All-Ireland and was gone the following year. He was 29 when he came in.

“Look, everybody would be surprised to see you make your senior championship debut at 30 years of age. There’s no doubt about that. But you’d have to look at it and say, how did that happen?

“I think he’s come into the scene now, based on the type of player that I believe Brian Lohan looks for. Big men and trying to get power into the team. Páidí has fallen into the category then of making his championship debut at 30 years of age.

“That half-back line is a massive unit with himself, John Conlon and Diarmuid Ryan. The size of Páidí is a big plus and his man-marking ability.”

Playing club hurling at an elite level gave him a strong grounding, to the fore for a dominant side in Clare, then testing himself in Munster against heavyweights like Na Piarsaigh and Ballygunner.

His older brother Stiofan was midfield on the Clare minor team that lifted the All-Ireland crown at the expense of Clare in 1997. His father PJ has been a club coach of renown in the county, a long-serving principal in Clonlara National School where he was one of the early influences in the hurling careers of current Clare stalwarts Colm Galvin and John Conlon.

Cathal McInerney and Páidí Fitzpatrick in the 2019 Clare county senior final.

Source: Lorraine O’Sullivan/INPHO

Fitzpatrick spent some time travelling as well, switching careers around 2016 from chartered accountancy to mobile and web development.

On the day of the 2019 All-Ireland hurling final, he was lining out at Treasure Island in San Francisco to help Na Fianna win the senior hurling final against the Tipperary club. Wolfe Tones player Rory Hayes was a team-mate that day, now they are both part of the Clare defensive unit.

And this week they’ve a Munster semi-final to prepare for.

Back in 2006, Munster’s U16 inter-divisional hurling tournament culminated with East Clare pipping Mid Tipperary by a point in the final. Páidí Fitzpatrick was on the winning side, Noel McGrath on the losing team. Given their general positioning, they’re likely to renew acquaintances on the pitch next Sunday.

McGrath’s inter-county career exploded to life after that game 15 years ago, Fitzpatrick’s has taken a bit longer to take flight.

“It’s unusual nowadays to be starting so late,” admits O’Connor.

“But then again there’s nothing unusual nowadays about a fella blazing a trail of glory at 18 or 19 and then he’s gone. Maybe for a change, it’ll go the other way for a while.

“He stuck at it. The worst thing you can do is stand beside Páid Fitzpatrick, you’d only be looking up at him. He’s a massive lad.

“And if there’s a job to be done on the hurling pitch, he’ll do it.”

– First published 06.00, 29 June

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Mayo duo and Cavan star the latest of Irish contingent to have new AFLW deals confirmed

MORE IRISH PLAYERS have earned new Australian Football League Women’s [AFLW] contracts as the focus switches to next season.

Mayo and Cavan stars Sarah Rowe and Aishling Sheridan have committed their immediate future to Collingwood, putting pen to paper in recent days.

Yesterday, Rowe was one of six players to have a new deal announced, signing on until 2023. The 25-year-old recently completed her third AFLW campaign, playing seven goals across an injury-hampered season, while kicking one goal.

Having undergone shoulder surgery as the curtain came down on the 2021 season, Rowe stayed on in Australia to rehabilitate, missing the Green and Red’s league campaign. The Kilmoremoy forward returned to home soil in recent days, though, so the race is now on for her championship involvement.

Her immediate focus will be on Gaelic games matters, though her new two-year deal will see her head back Down Under afterwards to continue to “live the best of both worlds,” as she so often says.

Sheridan’s status of being on a two-year deal was also confirmed this morning, as she officially penned a contract extension until 2023.

The Mullahoran ace lit up the AFLW last season, enjoying a stunning individual campaign with goals almost every week as she established herself as one of the Pies’ main forwards in her second year at the club.

24-year-old Sheridan has been back in Ireland for some time now, returning to inter-county duty with Cavan through their Division 2 league campaign, as they now prepare for an Ulster championship meeting with Donegal.

Elsewhere, Rowe’s Mayo countywoman Aileen Gilroy has re-signed for North Melbourne.

Gilroy in action for North Melbourne.

Source: AAP/PA Images

One of 24 players retained from the Kangaroos 30-strong 2021 AFLW list, Gilroy sparkled once again in her second season and has subsequently been rewarded with a longer stay.

The 28-year-old has excelled in Australia of late and has been touted as “one of the most exciting Irish talents” over there, though has opted out of the Mayo ladies football set-up for 2021. 

A former underage soccer international with Ireland, the Killala native missed most of the 2019 ladies football season with a devastating cruciate injury, before announcing her comeback with a stellar debut season Down Under.

She returned to line out in the Green and Red’s midfield last autumn, but has decided against it this time around.

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“Aileen’s not one to half-arse anything,” as manager Michael Moyles recently said. “The last year or two, she’s struggled with it so she needs to take a year to get things around her. And that’s fine, no problem.”

  • Tipp’s Premiership champion O’Dwyer among Irish stars returning to AFLW next season 

Tipperary’s Premiership champion Orla O’Dwyer, Melbourne’s Dublin duo Sinéad Goldrick and Lauren Magee, and Adelaide Crows’ Ailish Considine have all had their respective returns for the 2021/22 season confirmed in recent days, with further announcements expected.

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The42 understands that several other Irish players — 14 were involved in the 2021 season — are on two-year contracts, and will return for another campaign. 

The league is set to expand over the coming seasons, with the 2022 edition — season six –  due to begin in December 2021 and the Grand Final to be held in mid-March, before the men’s season begins. The competition will increase from nine rounds to 10, plus three weeks of finals.

Over the past few years, the AFLW campaign opened in late January and ran until mid-April, allowing for the Irish contingent — much of whom play inter-county ladies football — to return to these shores for the tail end of the league and for the entire TG4 All-Ireland championship.

Covid-hit 2020 aside, they normally travelled Down Under in October/November for pre-season, so it’s expected that will be earlier this coming autumn, throwing up the potential of code clashes.

Here are the 2021 Cork senior club football and hurling championship draws

REIGNING CORK SENIOR hurling kingpins Blackrock will take on last year’s semi-finalists Erins Own after this evening’s draw for the 2021 club championships in the county.

On the day that adult club players received the green light to resume training in pods of 15 from Monday 10 May and can play games from Monday 7 June, the championship draws for the year ahead took place in Cork.

In the hurling Blackrock, who ended an 18-year wait last October for senior hurling glory, will meet Erins Own along with city rivals St Finbarr’s and last year’s senior A winners Charleville in their group.

Last year’s beaten finalists Glen Rovers will take on Douglas, Newtownshandrum, Bishopstown.

The remaining group will feature the East Cork trio of Sarsfields, Midleton and Carrigtwohill – who won five counties between them in the 2010-2014 period – and city team Na Piarsaigh.

In the football, last year’s premier senior final is still to be played but the two sides in contention, Castlehaven and Nemo Rangers, do know who they will take on in the group stages this year.

Castlehaven will meet fellow West Cork teams Carbery Rangers and Newcestown, along with the winners of the senior A final involving Éire Óg and Mallow, that is still an outstanding fixture.

Nemo Rangers will face Valley Rovers, Douglas and Carrigaline. Then it’s 2018 champions St Finbarr’s up against Ballincollig, Clonakilty and Ilen Rovers in the remaining group.

2021 Cork Championship Draws

Premier Senior Football

  • Group A – Nemo Rangers, Valley Rovers, Douglas, Carrigaline.
  • Group B – Castlehaven, Newcestown, Carbery Rangers, Mallow/Éire Óg.
  • Group C – St Finbarr’s, Ballincollig, Clonakilty, Ilen Rovers.

Premier Senior Hurling

  • Group A – Glen Rovers, Douglas, Newtownshandrum, Bishopstown.
  • Group B – Sarsfields, Na Piarsaigh, Midleton, Carrigtwohill.
  • Group C – Blackrock, Erins Own, St Finbarr’s, Charleville.
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Senior A Football

  • Group A – O’Donovan Rossa, Bandon, Béal Áth An Ghaorthaidh, Dohenys.
  • Group B – Bishopstown, St Michael’s, Kiskeam, Winner Knocknagree/Kanturk. 
  • Group C – Fermoy, Loser Mallow/Éire Óg, Clyda Rovers, Bantry Blues.

Senior A Hurling

  • Group A – Kanturk, Bandon, Fermoy, Blarney. 
  • Group B – Ballyhea, Bride Rovers, Ballymartle, Mallow. 
  • Group C – Fr O’Neill’s, Newcestown, Cloyne, Killeagh. 

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How to become an Olympic sport

An amazing six new sports will be contested at the Tokyo Olympics. That’s the most new additions to an Olympics since 1920, when 11 sports entered the mix.

The “new” label Is a bit elastic. Two of the sports added to the Tokyo Games — the closely related baseball and softball — were featured at the Olympics as recently as 2008, before being dropped in 2012 and 2016. But the other four are complete newcomers: karate, skateboarding, sport climbing, and surfing. All six will join Olympic favorites like track and field, swimming, and gymnastics.

For the incoming sports, inclusion in the Olympics offers an important global spotlight — and crucially, the opportunity to grow.

“The Olympics are the highest, largest, most visible stage for any sport. Surfing being in the Olympic Games will be great for surfing. We’ll be allowed to communicate our message and our lifestyle to billions of people,” said Fernando Aguerre, president of the International Surfing Association. “It’s developing surfing, taking it to Africa, to Asia, to Latin America — to areas where there are incredible waves,” but there aren’t as many surfers.

There’s just one catch: These six new-for-Tokyo sports won’t all be part of the Paris Summer Games in 2024. Skateboarding, sport climbing, and surfing will be featured in 2024, with the surfing competition located in Tahiti, nearly 10,000 miles away from Paris. The Paris Games will also add breakdancing for the first time ever. But baseball, softball, and karate will be left out.

Yet come 2028 in Los Angeles, the Summer Games will likely re-expand to incorporate baseball and softball again. Whether breakdancing will survive to 2028 is anyone’s guess.

This endless shuffling of events all stems from an initiative designed to update and revamp the Olympics. Called “Agenda 2020,” the program was adopted by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) in 2014. It aims to give individual host cities more control over which events are medal sports. The goal, overall, is to make the Olympics less of a behemoth and an economic boondoggle.

Unfortunately, the shuffling also leads to uncertainty for a number of sports, which might be included for one Olympics and then cut from the next. The variety of events on offer will perhaps provide more adventurous choices for Olympics viewers who like watching sports they might not be able to see easily. (When was the last time you saw competitive karate broadcast in the US?) Yet, given how much stability and economic freedom is granted by a sport becoming a permanent part of the Olympics, that uncertainty can be devastating.

The divide between “core sports” and everything else at the Olympics

The Summer Games will always feature a number of “core sports.” These sports have long histories within the Olympics, and they are so closely associated with the event that the Olympics would feel weird without, say, gymnastics or track and field or swimming.

An IOC working group suggested that the number of core sports be set at 25 in 2013, with weightlifting, wrestling, and modern pentathlon competing for slots 24 and 25 in that number.

At the time, the group initially recommended that wrestling be dropped from the program. It was seen as a sport prone to doping scandals, with ineffectual leadership failing to keep corruption in check. Yet just a few weeks later, the threat against wrestling petered out as the IOC’s full voting membership opted to keep the sport in the games. Wrestling has been part of the roster at every Olympics since and has yet to be dropped from the core sports program. In addition, golf and rugby sevens, first presented at Rio in 2016, have continued to make the cut for inclusion at subsequent Olympics. Thus, the Summer Games sure seem like they have 28 core sports, not 25. But the IOC keeps feinting toward bumping that number back to 25, presumably to keep everybody on their best behavior.

The threats against wrestling are a good example of how that IOC pressure works to externally police the sports federations that it recognizes.

“When wrestling was potentially going to be dropped from the Olympics, it was a huge shock. The wrestling federation [United World Wrestling, which oversees the sport at the games] got rid of its leadership and got new people in,” said Sydney Bauer, a freelance journalist who has covered the Olympics for nine years. “And the IOC had a vote at its [main] session, and then just put wrestling back in the core sports. So nothing changed. This was an excuse for the IOC to use its political pressure to change the Wrestling Federation.”

At any rate, if you’re a core sport, you’re theoretically always in the Olympics. (The IOC can change whatever it wants whenever it wants via a vote, but let’s assume for a second that that isn’t true.) What if you’re not a core sport, though? How do you get onto the program?

Before each Olympics, the organizing committee from each host city narrows down a list of proposals from IOC-recognized sports (more on this in a second) to a shortlist of events it thinks it has capacity to host. The host city then further narrows down that list to a bid that it submits to the IOC for approval. Tokyo initially considered nine sports — the six already mentioned (baseball, karate, skateboarding, softball, sport climbing, and surfing), plus squash, wushu, and roller sports — before narrowing that list to the six that will be featured in the Tokyo Games.

(Perhaps confusing matters: Baseball and softball have consolidated their organizing bodies into one group since the 2008 Olympics, so while the IOC counts baseball-softball as one sport, “the Tokyo Olympics considered eight sports for inclusion, including baseball-softball” doesn’t make a ton of sense, which is why I’m referring to the two as separate sports.)

By the way, pour one out for squash, a constant also-ran at the Olympics despite the sport having grown over decades so that it has a robust international presence. “Squash missed out again, which was a huge shock,” said Bauer. “They’ve been doing everything right but can’t get on the program.”

The Paris Olympics, meanwhile, opted not to include baseball, softball, or karate from their shortlist of seven sports, ending up with the four previously mentioned: breakdancing, skateboarding, sport climbing, and surfing.

There’s also a historical precedent of introducing new sports at the Olympics based on what’s popular locally. From 1912 to 1992, events called “demonstration sports” were included in the Olympics as an opportunity to allow audiences to check out sports popular in the cities hosting the Games. Sometimes, those sports even went on to become full Olympic sports. In 1984, for instance, Los Angeles presented demonstrations of baseball and tennis, both of which were later added as medal events at future Games.

The big difference between the current system and the demonstration sports system is that demonstration sports weren’t full medal events. Now, every sport that makes it into the games sends its victors home with shiny new hardware. If you win a baseball gold medal in the 2020 Olympics, you’re a gold medalist, even if baseball is never played at the Games again.

Want to be included in the Olympics? Being popular with the kids will sure help you out.

Becoming an IOC-recognized sport is a long process crowded with bureaucracy, but in essence, it involves building out national, regional, and international organizations that can then be collected under the banner of “IOC-recognized sport.”

Essentially, lots of countries need to love your sport, which will give you an athlete base and an audience to hold regional events, which will then allow you to expand to international events, which will hopefully eventually land your event in the Olympics. The IOC has a list of criteria it checks off for inclusion, but those criteria are somewhat nebulous, as you can see discussed here by the international federation governing the sport of muaythai, which was granted provisional recognition by the IOC just this year.

There’s also a lot of glad-handing and politicking involved in this process. Building the right connections within the IOC is a must, as is navigating many other sports federations and competitions.

Yet you likely have a leg up once you’re a recognized sport if you either appeal to young people or to the citizens of the country hosting that current Olympic Games.

In particular, there’s been a pronounced focus in the events that have been added recently on finding sports that will appeal to “the youths.” The IOC has increasingly used the Youth Olympics, a perpetually beleaguered event for athletes between 14 and 18 years old, as a way to try out events that might merit Olympic inclusion. Breakdancing, for instance, will make its Olympics debut in 2024 after a successful trial run at the 2018 Youth Olympics in Buenos Aires. (The Youth Olympics are held every four years but on an alternating schedule, so the Winter Youth Olympics happen in years when there is a Summer Olympics and vice versa.)

The use of the Youth Olympics to try out new sports is a hallmark, Bauer said, of the IOC under current president Thomas Bach, who took office in 2013.

“It’s an ethos of, ‘Okay, we need to appeal to young people. We need young millennials and Gen Z to be interested in the Olympics, and they don’t care about wrestling. They don’t care about weightlifting. They don’t care about track and field. So how can we get young people interested, but also not change everything we’ve done with these core sports because they’re very old Federations and make a lot of money?’” she said.

Bach has kicked off numerous efforts to streamline the Games and make them more flexible. Even with four sports added to the 2024 Games, for instance, the overall number of events will decline from 339 to 329, with most of the cuts coming from the boxing and weightlifting programs.

What’s more, the IOC’s efforts to include events that will allow for full parity between men’s and women’s events have improved considerably under Bach. The number of women competing in Tokyo should be 48.8 percent of the total number of competing athletes, and the 2024 Games hope to hit 50 percent on the dot. That’s well up from 38.2 percent at the 2000 Olympics in Sydney.

The flexibility developed under Bach also allows individual sports to be tried out one Olympics at a time. If they prove wildly popular, they might be added in future Games — especially if they’re sports that don’t require building expensive facilities. (Surfing, for example, mostly just requires having an ocean.)

This approach also allows recognized sports an opportunity to compete to be included in Games hosted by countries where they are popular. Baseball, softball, surfing, and skateboarding seem like cinches to be added to the Los Angeles Games in 2028 because all four sports are wildly popular in the US and in California more specifically. (Aguerre points out that California is the home of surfing and skateboarding culture worldwide.)

Any sport that is popular in America (and some sports that are not but that are growing more popular around the world) might bid as well. Already, cricket (which is not super popular in the US but is growing in stature, especially in areas with large South Asian immigrant populations) and flag football(!!) are vying to be added to the 2028 Games. Other sports with a footprint in the US, such as ultimate Frisbee (known as “world flying disc” internationally) might have a shot as well, should they vie for inclusion.

Finally, these more recent reforms allow for shifts in the longtime stranglehold that events popular in Europe have had on the Olympics. Baseball fought for years and years to be included, and its struggles have been widely attributed to the fact that while the sport is incredibly popular in East Asia and the Americas, it’s not popular at all in Western Europe.

The case against baseball in the Olympics is slightly more nuanced than “people in Europe don’t like it.” Baseball is a sport played only by men, and its previous Olympics inclusions were not commercially successful. The consolidation of baseball and softball into one federation took care of the first problem; a successful event in Tokyo could take care of the second. Baseball is also making great strides internationally, with federations spinning up all over the globe in places like South Africa, Israel, and Brazil.

Still, the pro-Europe bias at the Olympics was real — and the IOC is taking steps to combat that problem too.

“The IOC has been on a big blitz to make its membership not just be Western European,” Bauer said. “The IOC is huge now. It’s up to around 105 members. There’s an IOC member now from Afghanistan. There’s one from Bhutan. There’s one from Palau. These are countries that are represented now because they’re trying to create geographic diversity, where in the past, if you weren’t from Western Europe, you were being held back because [the IOC is] based in Switzerland.”

In the end, even if your sport is selected for the Olympics, there’s no guarantee your event will be a success. That lies with forces beyond anyone’s control. But Aguerre, the ISA president, has high hopes for surfing in Tokyo.

“The biggest thing that made me so happy was realizing that there are going to be waves [in Tokyo], plenty of waves,” he said, citing local forecasts. “The only uncertainty is: Are there going to be waves? And we’re gonna have a week of waves. It’s nice.”

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On being “ethnically ambiguous”

This is part two of Vox First Person’s exploration of multiracial identity in America. Read part one here and part three here.

I often joke that one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received was that I look like Apollonia from Purple Rain. I am both vain and a Prince fan; it’s an honor to have any tie to the musical genius, or a woman who is inarguably stunning. But also wrapped up in her appearance (dark hair, light brown skin) and status as a Prince protege (oozing sexual energy with the musician) is a descriptor that I have worn as both a point of pride and a reluctant wound: ambiguously ethnic.

I grew up in Hawaii, surrounded by people who, to outsiders, may be described with such mystique and confusion but, to us, are simply “mixed” or hapa, half-and-half. More than 40 percent of marriages in the islands are interracial or -ethnic. Most of my friends could rattle off two to 10 ethnicities. The norm is to be mixed. The beauty and cultural ideal is a blended one.

In the islands, we talk less about race, a division of people based on physical characteristics, and more about ethnicity, where our ancestors are from. You aren’t any less Kanaka Maoli, or Native Hawaiian, if you have light skin; no one questions if you’re “Korean enough” if you have green eyes. You are the complex mixture that you say you are.

In a place where the land, or ‘āina, is deeply important to our cultural history, we also describe ourselves, and others, in our relationship to it: locals (Hawaii born and bred, aloha spirit in our soul) versus haoles (foreign, white, perhaps less integrated). My mother was haole from Louisiana, of English descent. My father was local, a mix of Portuguese from the Azores and Kanaka Maoli. I am a mishmash of my father’s dark curly hair and deep-set eyes and my mother’s fair complexion, just as much as I hold both a deep respect for where I came from and a curiosity for what lies beyond it.

But when I moved to the Mainland in my 20s, what it meant to be mixed — and my relationship with it — shifted. On a continent so consumed with categorization, it’s an identity not often recognized, at best watered down to “ambiguously ethnic.” An indictment of “I don’t know how to classify you, so I am going to put you in this other group until I feel comfortable deciding if you are like me or them.” It was no longer the default. I had to figure out a way to explain myself.

When I told people I was from Hawaii or part Native Hawaiian, I was placed into the exotic box. A trope much lovelier than one that, like many Black and Latinx Americans, marks me as dangerous and leaves me dead, but still a space where nefarious women, with their sexual lures, often reside. The number of times I’ve been asked if I know the hula or have been looked at with seductive intrigue are too many to count. And, in some ways, that was fine — as much as I am foreign to them, the Mainland can feel alien to me too.

To accept othering, however, is to accept loneliness. A psychologist once told me that when you enter a room, you always look for your people; there is safety in numbers. It makes sense that when I lived in LA, Latinos often thought I was part Latina, or in a group of Black peers, I am simply white. But when I walk into a party or a new job or my neighborhood bodega, I can spot a mixed person a mile away. These are my people. These are the ones who are not sure where they fit in either.


It can be annoying, to say the least, to have others want to figure and sort you out. But there is a strange power in ambiguity, too. For those seconds that someone is eying you, confused and unsure, you have defied their parameters of race.

“Anything that we can do to reinforce the fact that race is a social category is important,” Jennifer Ho, author of Racial Ambiguity in Asian American Culture and an ethnic studies professor at the University of Colorado Boulder, told Vox. “And I think that racially ambiguous people force others to look at their assumptions.”

It’s important to remember that race was born out of racism, she says; the broad racial categories Americans know today (Black, white, Latinx, Asian) were created to essentially justify slavery and to excuse treating people terribly. While skin color is inheritable, the social connotations are not, so “if people can understand the kind of socialization of it,” Ho says, “then they can start to understand the power dynamics, they can understand the underlying racism that undergirds this whole concept of racial categorization.”

In this way, ambiguity is often touted as the future we all want, where lines are blurred and everyone has coffee-milk skin and racism is solved. But it’s not that easy — we must understand the function of race and categorization first.

Even in the great big melting pot of Hawaii, where we ask each other “what are you?” in casual conversation and joke about stereotypes, we are by no means post-racial. In fact, buying into this idyllic narrative may have led us to gloss over some of our histories and not recognize the hierarchies that Westernization hath wrought. We might be generally aware of how we became so mixed — our ancestors working together on sugar plantations, swapping food and tales — but what’s often missing, at least in lessons I was taught in school and many conversations I had growing up, is the emphasis that this mixing was a result of colonialism.

“When teaching Ethnic Studies at the college level, we still have students who say they didn’t know their history,” University of Hawaii Mānoa ethnic studies professor Davianna Pōmaikaʻi McGregor told Vox. “Of course, with Native Hawaiians, there is a lot more consciousness in information and conversation and in the public discussions about the injustices to Native Hawaiians. But I think for other ethnic groups, it’s not as much discussed.”

These “plantation days” were not so hunky-dory. They came about after a group of haole elites — colonizers and missionaries from England and America’s New England — began to have influence among the Kanaka ali’i, or ruling class, convincing the king to lease land to them to cultivate sugar. Plantation owners assumed that the general Kanaka population, the makaʻāinana, would be willing laborers, but the Kanaka were already suspicious of haoles who had destroyed their forests and killed them with disease; they also did not want to labor for coupons when their reciprocal relationship with the ‘āina provided them sustenance.

Finding the Kanaka insubordinate and ungrateful, plantation owners imported laborers first from China, Japan, Korea, the Azores (where some of my father’s ancestors were from), Puerto Rico, and the Philippines; by 1910, about 43,000 immigrants, making up more than half of the islands’ population, would be working on plantations. Owners and managers often pitted ethnic groups against each other (differing wages, nationalist incentives) as a way to get more work out of them. It wasn’t until the groups realized they had more power if they went on strike together and merged unions did they unify, eventually becoming Hawaii’s working class.

This solidarity helped form an identity — locals — leading to interethnic marriage and a larger sense of community. But this did not solve Hawaii’s inequities. While all this plantation stuff was going on, the haole elite, with the help of the US military, also overthrew the last reigning Kanaka monarch, Queen Liliʻuokalani; Hawaii was annexed to the US before the turn of the 20th century. The Kanaka, who had already dwindled in population by 84 percent before plantations took off, lost what little land they had left and hadn’t been able to purchase. This degradation continues to take a toll: Today, Kanaka suffer disproportionately from asthma, diabetes, obesity, and psychological distress, with more than 15 percent living in poverty. Our working-class status may have all once bonded us, but not all groups have had equal access to economic and educational mobility in the years since.

Poverty, and currently Covid-19 rates, are even worse for non-white groups who have emigrated to the islands post-plantation — the Pacific Islander communities of the Marshallese and Chuukese, in particular. And in fact, who gets to be local remains a thorny subject — it is not necessarily synonymous with people of color. Among older generations, there remains anti-Black sentiment, learned from Western influences; Micronesians, who have immigrated to Hawaii in the past few decades, also face racism and scapegoating over the scarcity of jobs.

This layered history is why — even though Hawaii may be the best example we have in America on how to be less racist because we acknowledge each other’s complex identities, and our interpersonal relationships span numerous communities — we’d do even better if our histories weren’t so “idealized,” as McGregor says. If we were more aware of how we were once thrown into an ethnic war for capitalist gain and understood how the generational trauma of colonization works, we’d be less doomed to repeat it.

In this way, multiracial people are asked to sit with their loaded histories tied to their makeup — whether it’s displacement or colonization or slavery — which is no small task. Especially when you live in a perpetually sunny place where the vibe is chill and the motto is “no make waves.”

Many of my multiracial friends, both inside and outside of Hawaii, say that they didn’t have any kind of sit-down with their parents about navigating being mixed. My parents’ identities may have been clear to me, joked about even — my mom, the Southern belle English teacher in her pressed blouses and pantyhose, my dad, the fireman bruddah who mumbled in pidgin under his mustache. But we didn’t talk about where their lineages converged: How if Hawaii wasn’t occupied by the military, then annexed to the US, my mother never would have been able to uproot her life and meet my father, who lived most of his childhood in the territory of Hawaii, not the state. As I’ve grown older, I often wondered what brought one of my Kanaka and Azorean ancestors together — was it love or was it land? But mostly, I contemplate what it means to hold both — to hurt for the ‘āina my people lost while also benefiting from perks of whiteness and Westernization.


Oftentimes, ethnic ambiguity is code for, if not white-passing or “spicy white,” then not dark enough to be clearly X or Y or Z. And there is great privilege there. I may have my father’s face, but I do not have his brown skin. I have never feared for my life at the hands of police or racist vigilantes. In fact, there may have been jobs where white bosses got to check a diversity box for hiring me because they felt more comfortable with my skin tone than someone darker. This same ambiguity lets me code switch when talking to locals so they know I am one of them, or even with people of color outside of Hawaii because I had no alliance with White America — whatever that is — growing up.

For a long time, being ethnically ambiguous allowed me not to put a label on my own identity, either. Letting people think, “What is she?” not only lets me off from having to answer to what my light skin has afforded me, but also from answering: If I live on the Mainland, which I do now, have I abandoned my home, my culture? Am I still local or Kanaka enough? What does it mean to love a place so much, perhaps more than a person, and not find a way back there?

And yet I’m not sure I would have thought much about what it meant to be mixed if I didn’t move away. In many ways, I feel more invested in my culture and the ‘āina than I did when I lived in Hawaii, when I could easily take it for granted — I read and research and write and donate to the kai’i protecting Mauna Kea, or the organizations helping my old neighborhood ravaged by Covid-19. My heart hurts thinking about how my friends, family, and small businesses are struggling because Hawaii’s economy is dependent on an industry that sells a stripped-down version of their culture to tourists.

But while “aloha” may sound like a marketing slogan, it is no joke. Despite its complications, Hawaii thrives on such an undercurrent of warmth and love, it is downright infectious. When I go home, I never feel unwelcome. I am smiled at, chatted up, taken in by ohana and strangers alike. Wading in the ocean, my body moving with the current, I am reconnected. It is my own guilt of leaving that I have to get over. I must remind myself that guilt and shame are holdover manipulations from the missionary days working as they are supposed to.

Hawaii, as both a local and a Native, is at the core of my identity, as much as are my mother’s whiteness and my ability to escape. As Maria P.P. Root explains in her 1993 text, “Bill of Rights for Racially Mixed People,” “I have the right not to justify my existence in this world. Not to keep the races separate within me.” Being mixed is to live a state of — and hopefully finding comfort in — ambiguity.

This brings me back to Apollonia and Prince, a man who in smoky eyeliner and tight bell-bottom jumpsuits, shredding solos tinged in funk, rock, and soul, was ambiguous on multiple fronts: race, gender, and genre. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to him — the boundaries were marvelously unclear. But he also simply identified as a Black man, a musician. Just like Apollonia Kotero was a Mexican-American singer and actress, often cast in his shadow. We could see what we wanted to see in them, but it wasn’t up to us to define who they were.

Jessica Machado is the identities editor at Vox. She is working on a memoir about growing up in Hawaii titled Local.

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The problem with “mom boss” culture

When I became a mother in 2015, my old life no longer felt relevant. I lost friends; I stepped back from work. I was consumed by the labor of taking care, and I found an odd solace online — a form of recognition — hanging out in mommy forums and on social media.

I lurked on TheBump’s breastfeeding boards and the ambivalently political content created by sites like Scary Mommy, which reflected the horror and delight of everything I was experiencing. I was taken by the illusion of sisterhood and commiseration online and, not incidentally, by the mothers who answered problems with product. When I dared leave the house for the park or rare mother’s group meetup, women peddled leggings, makeup, belly wraps, oils. Every mother seemed to be in a whole “find what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life” mood — a seamless integration between the domestic and the commercial that I found alarming and alluring.

A year later, former Ralph Lauren executive Nicole Feliciano articulated the underlying promise of saleswomanship for new mothers in her book Mom Boss: In the age of social media, she claimed, any woman can “learn how to be a super mom.” In her bio, Feliciano refers to her company Momtrends, which began as a blog in 2007 but now specializes in sponsored content and influencer outreach, as every mom’s business-savvy BFF.

The Momtrends website remains, today, similarly chummy: It’s the self-described “girlfriend you always look forward to bumping into at yoga class” (yes, the website is the girlfriend). By way of curated products and entrepreneurial opportunities, the website-friend provides “solutions for the challenges of modern motherhood” for women who want to “live with purpose and passion.” But what it really offers is something that has become central to the story of American motherhood — personal reinvention.

The website-girlfriend says, “Wasn’t it easy before the kids came along? We all managed to look pulled together, travel, stay fit and even entertain on occasion. Well, we don’t believe motherhood is an ending. We think of it as a beginning. A time to edit what you bring into your life.”

The notion that the ostensibly natural destruction of women under American capitalism is not an ending, but rather just the beginning, is one that has come to dominate the discourse of motherhood.

Late-2000s mommy bloggers brought an overdue, if disorganized, correction of the archive, with women sharing stories of maternal discontent all over the internet. For them, motherhood was often a disaster. They depicted everything from their negative feelings about their children to their discomfort with their postpartum bodies. Kathryn Jezer-Morton, a sociologist who has written about the rise of motherhood culture on social media, calls the early years of the mamasphere “the Confessional Age” and an “emancipation.”

As with all internet trends, there were issues. Heather Armstrong of Dooce, once named “queen of the mommy bloggers,” eventually found herself experiencing treatment-resistant depression. And Lacey Spears made the disturbing quest for public power online acute when she poisoned and eventually killed her son with toxic amounts of table salt, the result of what experts have called Munchausen syndrome by proxy (now listed in the DSM-5 as “factitious disorder imposed on another”). She had been chronicling her son’s false illness, and her sacrificial care work, on her blog.

Mothers quickly learned to monetize their stories, transforming their raw and real platforms into lifestyle brands. By 2015, Jezer-Morton says, following the success of bloggers like Ree Drummond, who became a Food Network brand, and Glennon Doyle, who leveraged her blog, Momastery, to publish her first memoir, we had entered the “Influencer Age,” with momfluencers like Oh Joy and Love Taza depicting “the Insta-perfect life that everyone knows is painstakingly staged, but that we love to follow — and critically dismantle — anyway.”

Multilevel marketing corporations, which have since the mid-20th century posed as a solution to the boredom and overwhelm of housewifery, also found new footing online in the 2010s. MLMs built their digital mythos around the prospect of power and community, appealing to ordinary mothers who felt alienated from public life by offering up a ready-made digital commons — online communities where new moms could connect, build a life around products, and feel like they belonged again. By 2017, more than half of Instagram’s 800 million users were women, and mommy publications were teeming with listicles, memes, and tips about moms gettin’ that side hustle, many of which referenced multilevel marketing schemes.

Large corporate MLMs have since faced lawsuits and backlash, making them less popular, though companies like Beachbody — a fitness and nutrition conglomerate that bills a monthly fee to “coaches” who in turn sell Beachbody shakes and workout products — have profited off pandemic life, targeting mothers in particular.

But moms who build businesses online have diversified. Now they helm bad mom and drunk mom empires on TikTok, create merch lines with cheeky phrases, “help families sleep better,” and become cleaning experts. As Jezer-Morton told me, while the lure of traditional MLMs may be waning, “the content production of motherhood is still a viable MLM” with moms “creating content and teaching each other to create content.” Moms now sell their ability to sell anything, and they adapt, constantly, to social media functionality. “Anytime that there’s a new platform, there’s going to be this little cottage industry of how-to that can also turn into a low-key MLM,” Jezer-Morton told me. It’s a trend that has led some to question whether American motherhood has itself become a multilevel marketing scheme.

The momtrepreneur, or mompreneur, or more all-encompassing momboss, relies on what Jezer-Morton calls the performance of “successful neoliberal selfhood.” These are the obstinate, media-savvy daughters of Lean In. They live by inspirational stories of women finding a community and a calling, of pushing through what’s tough about working motherhood, playing off the vague “moral therapeutic deism” of American capitalism and the larger gospel of Instagram. They also sell the prospect of beginning again by positioning free enterprise as a fantastical path toward femme freedom and promising an escape from the isolation and trauma of motherhood under patriarchal capitalism without ever having to speak its name, much less question it as an economic system.

Her neon, rainbow-colored memes bring surveillance culture to motherhood — one post reads, “Your Kids Are Watching” — and they have a dizzying economic logic. She quotes Fight Club but also embraces a merit-based pursuit of the dollar, as in, “Suffer the pain of discipline or suffer the pain of regret.” In another post, Moreno channels that popular phrase some mothers use with kids — “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit” — when addressing the gendered wage gap. “Throwing a fit,” she writes in her caption, “won’t help.”