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“You can’t!” chorused my friends. “It’s boys only.”
“That’s a stupid rule,” I replied.
We cornered Mr Salvage, our teacher.
“We want to play football,” I blurted out, bluntly.
“M����….”
“We want a girls team” said Laura, my best friend.
“Very well. Find a few more girls and we’ll meet for training Friday”

Friday arrived quickly. It was a lovely, bright day and�� twelve girls gathered on the school field. Some were classmates,�� others I didn’t recognize. Mr Salvage divided us into teams. The�� bigger girls defending, me in midfield and Laura up front.

We played until exhausted; Mr Salvage was impressed. He now knew what he was dealing with. “Right girls,” he said. “That was great. You really enjoyed yourselves.” Friday training became a regular fixture.

West Ham under 12's

That half term, dad enrolled me on an intensive West��Ham training course. I was the only girl. At first I felt slightly��intimidated but soon started enjoying myself. I began training��regularly with the West Ham under 12’s. My developing skills were soon evident and Laura was quick to��join me on evening training sessions. Playing against nationwide�� teams was doing us the world of good; as was practising something�� until we got it right.

Our school team was soon ready for new challenges, but our��results showed, we just weren’t good enough, yet! It was around this time that my knees began to hurt. I would hobble home from training sessions and spend the night writhing about��in agony.

Days of pain

A consultant diagnosed Chondromalacia patella, very little cartilage left underneath my kneecaps. Under doctor’s orders I cut down my training. Next month we��lost again, our opponents were older and bigger.�� We tried hard and��played well, but I�� only lasted twenty minutes, I had let everybody down. Playing even a little was hard work, and there were always��days of pain to follow.

Three months later the doctor delivered a devastating blow.
“Stop playing football now, or you’ll be in a wheelchair by��your mid-twenties.”
I sat there dumbstruck.
“No football at all?” I mumbled in disbelief.
“That’s right, no physical activity whatsoever!” He stopped��for emphasis. “Light swimming should be ok, your knees need time to��recover.” With that last remark, he ushered us out of the door. So that’s that then. My football career was over and in its��
place, a great gaping hole