From At the Root of this Longing - Reconciling a Spiritual Hunger and a Feminist Thirst,
by Carol Lee Flinders 

And if nothing else in my life experience had made me consciously and explicitly feminist, having a son most certainly would have. To watch a boy you love move unsuspectingly from childhood into adolescence - flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone! - and then come up against the unbelievably arid and limiting version of manhood that this culture offers is to see at once the full extent of male privilege at its terrible, terrible cost. From the bleachers of Little League games, from sidelines of soccer matches, I've watched, mesmerized, as little boys practice guy-ness. As the mother of a good athlete - even, on occasion, a rather splendid one - I've had a ringside seat on what our culture does to bring a boy across the threshold of what it dares to call manhood. Over the course of a season I've seen some boys get it and seen, then, how obsessively the others watch them - the lordly bearing, the quietly masterful gesture - knowing they must get it, to, for it will precede them into classrooms, fraternities, boardrooms, and bars, and it will be worth far more there than talent, hard work, or honesty. I have heard more than one disgruntled coach, groping for the most stinging reprimand he could lay his hands on, say, "You guys played this game like a bunch of girls."

And whenever I heard that, it made me very, very angry.