When I was six, my family’s tin of felt tips began to deplete. I don’t know whether anyone noticed, or how many disappeared. Memory is fickle like that: it doesn’t care for the whole story. What I do remember is that, nights in a row, I would carefully select my least favourite colour before sequestering the pen in my school bag like a top-secret agent. The pens were for a boy in my class who had set me an entry fee. If I wanted to play football at break, then there was a cost. I knew it was because I was a girl, and that it was unfair, but still I handed over my felt tips. The only thing that really mattered was the football.
I never expected that my love of football and my life as a writer would have much overlap, but they do. The space for imagination – for what your mind can build – is vast in football. The experience of being a football supporter is complicated and dramatic, and that’s what I love about it. I love the emotions, the bias, the narrative built into watching a game.
