Rugby League & Me

It's complicated.

It was whilst I was planning out all my transport that I thought: bugger. I’ve bought too many tickets. 

In my hand were a total of 9 tickets which, when including the double-header matches, totalled up to 13 matches. I’d be zig-zagging across the country on trains, eating up my disposable income, but, all things considered, I calculated it all as being worth the cost. The tickets were fairly cheap when compared to most prestigious sporting events, and with it being so close to home, I knew that this was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss out on – you don’t often get a Rugby League World Cup in your own backyard, after all. 

I want to spend this time explaining a bit of my background and relationship with Rugby League. It’s a complicated story. 

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to watch or play any sports. My dad hated all sports, and so it was never really a part of my life growing up. And whenever I see parents take their children to matches, or to their local club, I always feel a pang of sadness and jealousy, because that’s an experience that I was never allowed to have. 

It wasn’t until I started University at Bradford, in 2017, that I finally got the freedom to explore sports. I knew I wanted to get into something; I just didn’t know what. I tried to get into football, I really did; but it just didn’t do anything for me. So, recalling that time in primary school when Ronnie the Rhino came to visit, I thought I’d try Rugby League. 

It was a fairly swift and intense love affair. There was something about the combination of agility and strength; how nimble footwork would intertwine with a deeply gratifying, physical clash of bodies. My first match was at Headingly Stadium, and for that period of my life, I utterly consumed anything I could find on this new obsession of mine. I made a video on the history of it for my YouTube channel which, though not up to my current standard of quality, I look back on with a certain fondness. 

In my second year of Uni I joined the women’s rugby team. They only played Union, but that was fine by me; I was just glad for the opportunity to play. It quickly awakened something inside of me; I was fast and fearless, totally unafraid to tackle girls who were two, sometime three, times bigger than me, and I relished those moments when an opponent would break through the line and I would race after them and bring them down, even when it was clear they were going to score. We weren’t a great rugby team, but at that level it didn’t really matter; it was all about having fun, that consensual arena of aggression and violence, and then coming back to relish in all your bruises. Naturally, I was scrum-half, a shouty, nippy, snappy little chihuahua.  

Of course, my dad really didn’t like it, although he never openly said anything. I’d excitedly text mum that we’d won a match, and her rather muted response would always disappoint me. (If you’re reading this; I’m sorry that I have to bring it up, but I’m speaking my truth). It always felt like the praise and gratification I desired I could never really get, and I soon realised it was better to just not mention it at all and stay in my own little world. 

During this time I had a casual waitressing job at Headingley Stadium, and I would spend a few hours before kick off, and through the first half, waitressing in the private dining suites, and then we’d all be sent home at half-time, at which point I could go into the stands with my season ticket and watch the second half. In all honesty, I usually left before the match ended, and after this time I stopped attending matches altogether. 

The simple reason was that I had nobody to go with. None of my friends or family were into it, so I’d stand, totally alone, surrounded by people who were with their friends and family, trying to enjoy something which is best enjoyed as part of a collective, corporate experience. I would still enjoy the match; but I’d feel this lingering sadness at how it was a totally solitary experience for me. I couldn’t come home and talk about it, nor could I talk about it with my friends or then-boyfriend, because I knew they weren’t really interested in it. I’m a fairly solitary person anyway, and I’m used to gallivanting off to places by myself, but I guess I just grew a bit bored and wanted someone I could share the enjoyment with. I think also that some of the early magic I felt was missing, and I was beginning to grow – dare I say it – bored of watching. 

So I didn’t really do anything rugby-related for a few years after that. In my head, I had this pipe-dream that, had I been allowed to play rugby league, I might have actually done something with it, and, who knows, even joined the Leeds Rhinos Women’s team. I wasn’t a brilliant player, but I had my speed and fearlessness going for me.  

In 2020, when I struggled with depression and couldn’t for the life of me get a job, I was sick of the rejection and just didn’t have anything left in me. Remembering how the referees at the Uni matches would be paid, I had a light-bulb moment: what if I did some refereeing? 

To cut a long story short, it was probably a mistake. Part of the trouble is, in the eyes of the RFL, as long as you passed this four-hour Zoom lecture, you were technically a referee, and they didn’t have to train you any further. And so I remember being sent into my first junior match – probably Under 12s, or something – not even knowing all the rules, because nobody had checked that I did!  

Reader, I wasn’t very good. I packed it in after a few months because I couldn’t deal with the abuse from players and parents, and I was sick of running around in the sweltering heat and pouring rain, only to get shouted at because I’d missed a knock-on and forgot what to do next. There was also a moment of shame when I missed the bus to one of my matches and had to get a lift from dad, and though he never said anything, I could just feel what he was thinking, and I hated the feeling that someone was annoyed at or disappointed in me. So I packed that all in, but the money did keep me afloat for a few months, living off £15 or sometimes £30 a week. 

So as I write this – less than a month away from the start of the World Cup – I have a few thoughts rattling around in my head. How will I mask this to my parents, who I still live with? It feels a lot like being in the closet; going places but not telling the truth about where you’re going, frightened that they might discover what you’re really up to. Will I even enjoy the games? I’ve got nobody to go with, I’m by myself again. I don’t necessarily feel as captivated by matches as I used to. Will I grow to loathe the experience? Or will I find some friends among the crowds? Let’s hope so. It’ll make for an interesting series of blog posts, at least.