“Happy birthday!” “Thanks!” Suddenly all I can see is the ceiling, and flashes of blurred movement. Is that wrapping paper? “Thanks mum!” “You’re welcome!” I have no idea what my 10-year-old son is thanking me for. Tournament football can be tough. Is it worth it? Is seven weeks away from your kid really worth it? How many birthdays can I miss?
No matter the joy, the adrenaline, the rush, the guilt over feeling guilty when you’re doing a job you love and that others would give up a limb for, those questions still hit you. Regularly. In many ways, doing the job I do allows me to spend time with my kid in ways that those working nine to five can’t. I’m here, I’m there, from matches to training grounds, but I’m able to help do the school runs, to be present day-to-day, but the tournaments take an emotional and physical toll. It is long days, late nights, thousands of words, mistimed video calls home, unhealthy eating, lots of travel, late-night podcast records, tempered only by the football, the players and the camaraderie between journalists.
At heart, it’s the stories that keep you going, the stories of the teams and players who have spent their lives dreaming of pulling on the shirt and stepping out on to the grass in a World Cup, who have sacrificed everything for the chance of having that moment.
It’s a job, but it’s more than a job. Because the still fledgling nature of the sport means that every bit of coverage matters. Coverage helps grow the game. The more coverage there is the more girls see the sport and want to play (you can’t be it if you can’t see it, right?), the greater the investments and the more attitudes towards women in sport are changed. The coverage can shape the developing game too. I care about good coverage of the game. Coverage that pushes it forward and that demands better for and from it. If I didn’t? Well, I wouldn’t walk out of the door while my son – who understands why I have to go – wavers, begs me to stay and grips my arm for as long as possible, forcing me to pull it free. It wouldn’t be worth it.
Covering the Lionesses’ journey has brought me a heap of personal joy on top of professional fulfilment. You’re not supposed to care, it’s unprofessional to, but it’s impossible not to. We see players walk through interview areas with tear-stained faces, we talk to them after their dreams have been shattered by injuries, we ask them about their fears, we delve into their minds more than we do our own families’. You are partial because of your proximity to the team but you are also impartial because you have concurrently followed the journeys of so many of those playing for other national teams, be it their international or club sides. Did I feel differently seeing England’s post-final heartbreak to when I watched Sweden’s in Tokyo in 2021, or the Netherlands’ at the World Cup final in 2019? No, the compassion is the same, just slightly more acute from having been focused so closely on the journey of one side, but that could be any side.
Sarina Wiegman said in the buildup to the final that she is a people person and that is what drives her. I am a people person too; that is what is most rewarding about this work, being able to connect with people: players, staff, volunteers, fans and so many more working in and around the game in different capacities. Using journalism to improve the experience of people, to highlight the rich narratives of people, to bring people together, to uplift the voices of people less heard, that is where this job gets really rewarding.
As I sit in Sydney airport, waiting for my close-to-24-hour flight home to my kid, you could be forgiven for thinking England’s defeat in the final would make me regret the trip, regret leaving home for so long. Yet I feel the opposite. It’s cliched, but the lows make the highs that much sweeter. Experiencing the collective pain of the team and fans matters as much as experiencing the highs. The beauty of football is in the range of collective emotions you share with those around you.
Yes, I feel down, deflated, sad for the players who feel the weight of silver rather than gold around their necks after the work they’d put in to get there. But I also feel happy. Happy to have been along for the ride, telling the story of their journey to a World Cup final in an instinctive way that hopefully does it justice.
Now, home. Home to make up for seven lost weeks – lost weeks that the suitcase stuffed with gifts doesn’t really make up for. Hopefully, though, he’ll reach a point where he really gets it, gets the travel, gets the passion, gets the desire to uplift women’s sport and wider impact that can have, and is a well-rounded socially conscious boy because of it.
