I love that pre-match buzz, down the pub, pint in hand: the nerves, the anticipation, the team sheet debates. If I’m in a group, this is acceptable; I am generally ignored, because I am accompanied and accounted for. But when I go by myself, I know exactly what you’re thinking from the shuffles and glances. I must have not realised there’s football on. I must be waiting for my boyfriend. I make a blithe comment to no one in particular – for example, “I wouldn’t have started him up front” – and I scold myself for feeling that I have something to prove.
The match starts. I loudly despair at a botched set piece and feel as if I’m making some kind of statement, even though I’m doing exactly the same as everyone else in the pub. I have learned never to contest a decision, especially an offside flag. If you think I’m wrong, the consequences are humiliating and I feel as if I’ve let down my whole gender. Meanwhile, men get it wrong all the time, and no one cares.
Someone asks, “Who got the second goal?” and I chime in with the player’s name. You shift awkwardly, unsure why I’m talking to you. I’m not trying to show you up or chat you up, I just want to join in the banter. I’m jealous of your enjoyment, which seems so pure and easy, while mine must be explained. No, my dad didn’t really want a boy. Yes, I do have an older brother, but no, he’s not into sports. No, I don’t have a boyfriend who loves my team.
Why do I love it? I imagine for the same reason as you. I just do. My love for my team and the sport are immutable. I wish that was what you saw first.
• Tell us what you’re really thinking at mind@theguardian.com
