Eimear Ryan: Skort the final frontier in Irish women’s sportswear
Germany’s Pauline Schäfer wears a unitard in the Women’s All-Around Final of the Artistic Gymnastics ‘Die Finals 2021’ in Dortmund. Schäfer had a hand designing the garment, in a world where women’s sportswear still tends to prioritise aesthetics over utility.
Now that we’re allowed out again, it’s time for the resumption of my favourite social phenomenon: the Ladies’ Compliment Exchange. In the queue for the loo, women out for the night will often pass the time by praising each other’s outfits. There are two common responses to such a compliment: “Penneys, hon” or “Thanks, it has pockets!”
This is because — tragically — the presence of pockets in women’s clothing is far from a given. Instead of expecting them as a baseline, we feel privileged to have them. Dig into the history of pockets, and you’ll uncover a fascinating gender politics. While pockets became standard in men’s clothing in the 17th century, the same didn’t happen for womenswear. Depending on who you ask, there are different reasons for this: women had no independent access to money or property, so weren’t regarded as needing a facility for carrying coins or keys; bulgy pockets would interfere with a woman’s silhouette; women were assumed to carry a purse or bag; putting one’s hands in one’s pockets is unladylike.
As recently as 1954, Christian Dior was quoted as saying: “Men have pockets to keep things in, women for decoration.” In other words, men’s clothing is designed for utility, women’s clothing for aesthetics. Women have understood this intuitively for years (case in point: the existence of high heels). Even clothing that should be entirely geared towards performance — women’s sportswear — still tends to prioritise aesthetics over utility.
Last weekend, Germany’s Pauline Schäfer won a silver medal on the beam at the World Gymnastics Championships in Japan. Schäfer is a beam specialist; she even has a move named after her in the Code of Points (‘the Schäfer’ is a side somersault with a half-twist). It wasn’t just her near-perfect routine that turned heads, however; it was her outfit that made the headlines. She competed in a unitard, a garment rarely seen on the global gymnastics stage; it’s basically like the standard leotard but with long sleeves and legs.
The unitard is part of a movement against sexualisation in gymnastics. Schäfer even had a hand in designing the unitard in her national colours, which was also worn by the German team in Tokyo last summer.
By rights, gymnasts having the option to wear a leotard with slightly more coverage should not be news, but it speaks to the fact that we’re still only starting to have conversations about the comfort of sportswomen — both physical and psychological.
Tradition is a difficult thing to grapple with. In gymnastics, the leotard has become the norm; it might not even occur to young women in the sport that there could be an alternative. The leotard allows for freedom of movement, but it’s also an exposing garment in a sport where you are filmed and photographed from all angles. The Germans are to be commended for providing their gymnasts with another option; hopefully more countries will incorporate it into their gear and it will become more widespread.
There is an onus on national teams, in particular, to ensure that their athletes feel good when togging out for their country. Holly Bradshaw, the British pole vaulter and Olympic bronze medallist, wrestled with such discomfort when she arrived in Tokyo last July. Normally for competitions she wore something similar to the unitard — an all-in-one with knee-length shorts — but the standard-issue Team GB gear she was given consisted of briefs and crop tops.
“In my head, I was panicking,” she told . “I didn’t want to go to the most important competition of my life and not feel comfortable because I was worried about what I would be wearing.”
The sexist double standard struck her, too. Male pole vaulters wear Lycra shorts and tank tops: sleek enough to get them cleanly over the bar, but with coverage, too. Why weren’t they expected to flash their stomachs and thighs, like their female counterparts? Early in her career, Bradshaw had been subject to social media abuse; strangers criticising her body and calling her out of shape, even as she represented her country at elite level. She felt that the bikini-style Olympics uniform invited this sort of scrutiny and criticism.
Bradshaw voiced her concerns, and Team GB compromised, allowing her to compete in a rowing uniform that was more along the lines of what she usually wore. But Bradshaw was a 29-year-old at her third Olympics; she felt confident, established, and secure enough to question the higher-ups. But would a young athlete, just coming into the sport, feel as capable of pushing back? Or would she just put up with it, telling herself that this is just the way things are?
And then there’s that overlap of sportswear and fashion, the hybrid category known as athleisure. writer Jia Tolentino has written brilliantly about the contradictions inherent in athleisure, and how it is packaged and commodified for women. It’s sold to us as being comfortable, stylish, wrinkle-proof, and easy to wash, enabling you to go seamlessly from school drop-off to a yoga class to doing the messages.
But leggings are also impractical (no pockets!), highlight every lump and bump, and look best on figures that are already slim. As Tolentino puts it: “Athleisure broadcasts your commitment to controlling your body through working out … self-exposure and self-policing meet in a feedback loop.”
In Irish sport, perhaps the final frontier in terms of women’s sportswear is the skort. I’ll never know how this skirt-shorts combo has survived until 2021 in camogie and hockey, having no obvious function other than making us look feminine and unthreatening as we charge around the pitch with our sticks.
To be fair, they’re not uncomfortable, but when given the choice — i.e. in training and practice matches — most camogie players will opt for togs. Our LGFA sisters can wear shorts during matches, so why can’t we? If we can’t quite abolish the skort, then let’s make it optional — or at the very least, put pockets in them.
