As a nine-year-old girl in the 1970s I stood on the side line daily, watching a group of excited boys chasing a ball around the tarmacked playground. There were no systems at play, in fact the main two tactics seemed to be: chase the ball as a one rowdy rabble and if it lands at your feet, boot it in the general direction of the goal. I was mesmerised by the bond these boys had and the language that they shared, expressions like “Man on” and “Square it” seemed familiar and comfortable to them. I wanted to experience this alliance, this band of comradery. In my innocence I couldn’t see the barriers. I thought this was a world that I could just walk into and fully participate in.
When I nominated myself, the hapless, skinny red head in goal said I could take his place. Delighted to be on the pitch, I threw myself into my new role. Despite my best efforts I only kept the ball out once and actually spent most of the remaining game running down the field to retrieve it after it had flown straight past me, but I was happy and confident and most importantly, included. Then something happened that was to change my naïve view of the world forever. As far as anyone knew we were currently drawing when I clocked Gary Sweeney lumbering towards me with the ball at his feet, his teammates shouting “Shoot!” and my team frozen in the inevitability that we were about to lose. I decided to come out of my ‘net’ (two school jumpers a few feet apart) and attempted my best Ray Clemence slide tackle. Gary kept going, the ball bounced over me and into the net as I felt the tarmac sheer the skin off my left knee.
The winners piled onto Gary in celebration and my teammates shouted mildly abusive comments about their terrible goalie. “Ok” I thought, “I’ll do better next time”. But there never was a next time. The duty teacher rang his hand bell to signal the end of the fun and our reluctant return to the classroom. I limped towards him to declare that I might need some medical intervention and he said, “Well, it serves you right for teasing the boys”. Teasing the boys? What did he mean? For those brief moments, little ‘Tom Boy’ me was one of the boys, being myself and feeling part of something that I loved. His dismissal transferred to little gay me that I could not be myself, that myself was something shameful and all of the expectations of society came crashing down as it dawned on me that football was not mine and never could be. That I would be assigned again to French Skipping and bouncing tennis balls against the wall whilst chanting inane rhymes about Mickey Mouse. That to be acceptable I couldn’t play or love football.
This month as we celebrate Football V Homophobia, I welcome the changes brought about to challenge discrimination and to move football towards being a safe and inclusive place for all. As I sit in amongst my friends from Rainbow Blades, I am no longer side lined or hidden but visible, embraced and part of a movement for positive change.
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