I am the first and only female trustee of my local football club. Going through the archived minutes from the 1950s and 60s with one of the other trustees, now in his 80s, I noted that there were no women’s names in the documents. “Are you mad? There wasn’t a woman within a hundred miles of us!”
For some reason in the last couple of months, I became acutely aware of my sex. Little comments over the years have nipped like paper cuts. Being called aside in a meeting to be asked if I can darn a hole in a jumper, or being asked to write up the minutes, because “women are better at typing than men”. When it’s questioned whether I can really appreciate the magnificence of the condition of the pitch, it doesn’t send me into a rage about the omnipresence of patriarchal oppression, but the implication lingers.
As the final whistle blows at matches, my offers to help fork the pitch and tidy away the goals are always politely declined. A couple of weeks ago, I caught the man turning me down and asked him if it was really difficult to take down the nets, or would he genuinely prefer to do it alone. Come on then, he gestured, and we ducked under the spectator rail as the sun sank over the pitch. He was deft with the clips and patiently showed me how to unhook the nets, telling me to be careful not to break a nail. We turned the goal on to its face, pulling off and folding the net before flipping the goal back up. I was happy enough with my first effort, ready to bring the rolled net over to the dressingroom, but my fellow volunteer was positioning himself at the goalpost, squatting slightly.
“Right, lift it up and we’ll move it up to the back fence,” he directed.
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I looked at the elevation of the 20 or so feet back to where he was pointing.
“Lift it up? Like, off the ground?” I asked.
“Yeah, don’t let it drag on the grass.”
“Eh, right, okay,” I trilled, but it was hopeless. He went back and forth from post to post, lifting and moving it back like a Benny Hill sketch, while I stood aside and sneakily checked if I had, in fact, broken a nail.
I decided the next morning to go to a strength class in the gym and was sent into a room of reformer Pilates machines. The trainer snapped instructions to put one foot on a stationary pad and to slide the other foot back and forth on a moving pad on rails elevated off the floor. I worried that should my gliding leg go flying, my body would be ripped clean in half. She stalked around the room, mocking our tentative lunges, slapping her backside, and shouting, “You want a sexy ass? Squat lower! My name is Emer, but you can call me a bitch if you want, because I know I’m a bitch!” Actually, Emer, I’d like a nice bum and the ability to lift a full-sized 100kg football goal, I thought, the room echoing with bleating and grunting as we followed her terrifying commands to hunker.
I am treated with something far beyond acceptance and respect by the men in the club,
Two weeks later, I was at a meeting for our juvenile football managers. The brightly lit room was full of men, bar one other woman. I was there to make a presentation as the club development officer. I tried to project my voice, to keep my shoulders back, to keep smiling, to exude professionalism and positivity. I ended by thanking everyone for all the time that they give to the club, and to explain how, sometimes, I stop and think about what all the people in the club are doing at that time. I scan through names, thinking about someone doing a training drill, another cutting the grass, someone fixing a fence, going to a league meeting, and how, together, we’re all working so hard to provide something good for our families and community. The word families cracked as it left my mouth, and when I heard the slight heave in my voice, I thought, oh no, here come the waterworks.
“Sorry! I’m not sure why I’m getting teary!” I shouted into the room.
“Jaysis, someone give her a hug,” one of the managers appealed to the others.
“I’m grand!” I screeched, covering my face, “Carry on!”
I glanced over at the one other woman in the room apologetically. I’d really let the side down. Between myself and Emer, the personal trainer, we had covered the spectrum of how women might be perceived – as a bitch if you’re bossy, as being emotionally unstable if you blub in public. Like Emer, I decided to get in front of it.
[ I spend a lot of time with men. It’s taught me to enjoy the silenceOpens in new window ]
I texted one of the men the next morning: Sorry for crying, I have my period. “I was wondering what the f**k was wrong with you,” he said when he called, and we both roared laughing. Some of the others texted to say it was a good thing to be able to show how passionate I am about the club, how much I care.
Between the weeping and glute-tightening, I’ve got over the worry that my femininity puts me on the back foot in football. Ultimately, I am treated with something far beyond acceptance and respect by the men in the club, and when I am vulnerable, they make me feel strong.
