Growing up in a small Welsh village nestled at the foot of rolling green hills, the local football club was the heartbeat of our community. I can still feel the sting of grazed knees and the bite of early mornings spent chasing a ball across the frozen pitch, hardened by the unforgiving Welsh weather.

Grassroots football was woven into my childhood from the very beginning; I played for my school, my village, the local town and any other team that would have me. For nearly a decade, my weeks were filled with late-night training sessions, long car journeys across the county and weekend matches that saw medals stack high with pride on my bedroom shelf.

I loved everything about the game: the competitiveness, the community, my teammates and my coaches. But when I hit puberty and my body began to change, so did my relationship with football. Embarrassment crept in, the fear of judgement took hold, and the usual teenage doubts about how I looked, how I moved and how I would be perceived by others (especially the boys I fancied) began to cloud the joy football once gave me. For the first time, I started to wonder whether the sport I had devoted most of my childhood to truly had space for someone like me, for a girl.

Courtesy of Jess Davies

Courtesy of Jess Davies

Despite the sense of belonging I felt in team huddles, pep talks, and those euphoric post-match highs that occasionally landed our team photo in the local newspaper, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Beyond the warm and supportive cocoon of grassroots football, I never saw women in the professional game. Not on TV or magazines, there were no shirts with female players’ names in the shops, no women referees or coaches on the pitch and no visible pathway to a professional contract. Truthfully, I didn’t even know women could play football professionally until my adult years. The only time I’d see women involved in professional football was as ‘WAGs’ papped in the stands with curly blow-dries and skinny white jeans.

Meanwhile, my bedroom walls were plastered with posters of David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo, while the boys in my year were scouted for trials at professional clubs. My dad would take me to watch his team, Hereford FC, where I’d stand shoulder to shoulder with crowds of lairy men and on Saturday nights, BBC’s Match of the Day would light up our family living room. My brother and I would buy sticker packs of male players from the corner shop, and on special occasions, my school would wheel in the television so we could watch the Men’s World Cup during class.

Football was the root of so many of my happiest memories, but there was always a grumbling feeling that it belonged to the boys, and girls like me were simply borrowing it. Welcomed for a time, tolerated perhaps, but eventually nudged to the sidelines as we grew older and the game became more competitive. When I reached secondary school, football was no longer part of the girls’ P.E. curriculum. It was classed as a boys’ sport, reinforced by the kind of messaging that once powered Yorkie bars. Simply put, it’s not for girls.

One evening after training, our coach gathered us inside the men’s changing rooms (the only changing rooms) for an announcement. Our team captain was leaving for another club, which meant the coveted armband was up for grabs. My heart pounded in my chest as my cheeks flushed with anticipation. I tried not to get my hopes up, I wasn’t the star player by any means, but I was loyal, passionate and a team player – qualities that, in my humble opinion, made me a decent choice for captain.