Despite my deep love for football, I must confess that I almost overlooked the 2022 Women’s Euros. As a devoted follower of the beautiful game, it might seem strange that the record-breaking TV audiences tuning into the tournament passed me by initially. It was only a BBC notification that alerted me to England’s “brilliant” team reaching the final this Sunday. While I could offer excuses like being busy, the truth is a bit more complex. For a men’s Euros, especially involving England, virtually nothing would have kept me away – as evidenced by my dedicated viewing of every England game during the delayed Euro 2020, culminating in their historic final appearance.
Last summer’s men’s Euros was an explosion of national passion. I vividly recall the scenes at my local pub after the last-16 victory against Germany: pure, unadulterated euphoria. One overzealous fan even launched his pint of Guinness into the ceiling in celebration, a testament to the collective emotional investment. That night, a blur of joy and smashed glass, now exists as a hazy, dreamlike memory of collective ecstasy, perhaps only replicable with artificial stimulants. The sheer intensity of feeling, the national unity – it was unforgettable, even in its fading recollection.
My initial hesitation towards the Women’s Euros wasn’t rooted in any doubt about the quality of women’s football. In fact, “hesitation” might be too strong a word. Even with significant media coverage, the Lionesses’ incredible success, sold-out stadiums, and fan zones, it was surprisingly easy to remain detached. It felt like the path of least resistance. However, upon reflection, I believe my reluctance stemmed from a deeper, more personal place: envy, a lingering sentiment from a childhood dream deferred. As I’ve previously written, football was my childhood passion. Like most boys but few girls at the time, my ambition was to play professionally until the age of 12, when the harsh reality of gender segregation in sports became apparent. Suddenly, the path diverged. No longer permitted to play with boys, the options were stark: intensely competitive, almost professional-level girls’ football, or a significantly less developed game that had lost its joy. Decades of societal discouragement and underinvestment meant girls simply hadn’t had the opportunity to develop the intuitive skills boys acquired almost effortlessly.
It became an all-or-nothing choice, and after a brief foray into the “all” – trials, intense training in London suburbs, club football – I ultimately chose “nothing.” My decision was undoubtedly influenced by various factors – fear of injury, academic pursuits, etc. – but the unappealing, almost invisible nature of women’s football in the mid-2000s in South London undoubtedly played a role. The women’s game in the UK was barely professional, certainly not televised, lacking the glamour and visibility that might have sustained my dream. The film Bend It Like Beckham, which I watched religiously, depicted Jess Bhamra leaving for the US to pursue her footballing dreams – a poignant reflection of the limited opportunities available in the UK at the time.
My professional football dream might have only lasted five years, but for a child, five years is an eternity. If John Berger’s assertion that childhood lasts as long as the rest of your life in lived experience holds true, then that pre-adolescent juncture was arguably my mid-life crisis. It’s also entirely possible, given the current high standard of women’s football, that I simply wasn’t good enough to make it professionally. While encouragement was plentiful, perhaps it was just the standard praise given to a girl who could keep up with the boys in a time when such a sight was rare.
Now, I happily play amateur football once or twice a week in a predominantly male league (I’m the only woman). However, this weekly reminder of my technical development being stunted at age 12 still stings. Such losses – of childhood aspirations, talents, and paths not taken – are, of course, commonplace, perhaps universal. Yet, witnessing the remarkable growth of women’s football – a development I rationally applaud as a triumph, but one that arrived so soon after I abandoned my own footballing aspirations – stirs up lingering bitterness. And that, I suspect, is why I initially found myself not fully engaging with the Women’s Euros.
Lionesses celebrate during the Women's Euros
Image: The England Lionesses celebrate a goal during the Women’s Euros tournament, showcasing the excitement and skill of the modern women’s game.
Cycling home from a pub showing the Women’s Euros – where, admittedly, few seemed to be truly watching – I pondered the electrifying atmosphere that would have enveloped the nation had it been the men’s team reaching a final. It would be a moment to savor, to dissect with elation for weeks, a memory etched (and simultaneously romanticized) forever. The everyday worries, disappointments, and anxieties of life would momentarily fade, dwarfed by the sheer exhilaration of the upcoming final. How fantastic, I thought, if the Women’s Euros and World Cups could generate the same fervent anticipation, the same cultural significance, the same summer-dominating fervor as the men’s tournaments.
Such profound cultural shifts are not instantaneous; they are gradual processes. While progress is undeniable, achieving complete parity in cultural significance might be a long journey, perhaps never fully realized. And these changes cannot be forced into existence. However, I am evolving towards a more generous perspective. It’s time to set aside childish resentments and, even if it requires conscious effort, transform my lukewarm indifference into genuine enthusiasm. It’s time to actively support this spectacle, to contribute to the momentum that I believe will, inevitably, captivate us all. The Women’s Euros isn’t just a football tournament; it’s a cultural movement, and it deserves our full attention and passionate support.
