If, like me, you know nothing about women’s football, you have to be really careful to emphasise that you also know nothing about men’s football, otherwise you move from the crowd of cheery bystanders, willing on a victory that will bring gaiety to the nation, into the crowd of the patriarchy, which has ground the women’s game down with a drone of contempt, only to – bad luck, patriarchy – make it stronger. As England v Spain drew near on Sunday, my 15-year-old wondered whether I had to emphasise anything – had I tried simply not talking?
An hour before kick-off, she tried to give me a crash course in staying silent. She wasn’t even intending to watch the match with me, just selflessly worrying about how it would affect other people’s vibe if I entered a fan environment without this life skill. It was too late for backstories, or a 30-second, “previously, in women’s football”, or even a quick refresh on the rules. The best thing would be if I didn’t talk at all. And that, sadly, was never going to happen.
