About four years ago, as the 2017-18 Ashes reached Perth, someone organised a game of football between the travelling English media and their West Australian counterparts. We assembled on some nondescript piece of suburban scrubland, the standard was extremely mixed and after Michael Vaughan slotted home the winning penalty we all retired to the bar for the most important business of the day.
As we sat there with our schooners, a local women’s team was heading out to train on the pitch we had just vacated. One of them was incredible. She had feet like hands. She had a head like a foot. She had a shot like the lash of a velociraptor’s tail. Clearly, I extrapolated, this woman was destined for bigger things. Bigger stages. Someone needed to discover her, find her an agent, get her a trial and a boot deal. I hastily made inquiries behind the bar.
