In the countryside of northern NSW in the late 1980s, there was a quiet uprising. Girls were pulling on their brothers’ boots to have a crack at soccer. We were led by enlightened coaches such as Liz Hoy at Dorrigo High. Bigger towns such as Grafton, Tamworth and Port Macquarie were building strong women’s teams, boosted by larger populations of girls and women.
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Back in the day, girls had to borrow their brothers’ boots. Not any more.Credit:
But in Dorrigo – population just shy of 1200 – our tiny state high school scrabbled together a team comprised of hockey players, horse riders, shot putters and cross-country runners that went on beyond our wildest dreams to win round after round of knockout football. Ultimately, we competed at the state finals of the NSW Combined High Schools Soccer competition after just two years in the game.
Girls in our team had no famous role models in soccer. Football for women was but a glimmer of a flame, waiting for full ignition. Over the past few weeks, we have witnessed rocket fuel for the fire of women’s sport – in the form of the mighty Matildas.
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Back in Dorrigo in 1988, we’d only watched men’s soccer on TV and on Saturdays down at the oval. Even then, rugby was the universal language of North Coast kids. Yet our indomitable coach Liz pioneered a group of bush girls to come together in a rag-tag team to dribble, shoot and slide-tackle their way to play with the state’s best, and to beat girls with stadiums, coaching teams and fancy equipment.
As a striker, I had to learn to be braver. To run faster for the ball, tackle hard, face up to the goalie, jump higher for a header. To take the shot. Take the shot! To look up, not down. To overcome the nerves, the unknowns of the game, and boys on the sideline sniggering about girls playing soccer. I remember my first season, the giddying whiff of wet turf and Dencorub before a game. A quiet momentum was building.
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It was a game that built my mind, body, muscles. My self-esteem. Friendships. It occupied country weekends with sporting trips, travelling long distances for a game. Ubiquitous damp Dorrigo nights, training under lights in sleet and frost. The muddy joy of it. Playing with mean girls, awkward girls, clever girls, all girls. And some boys. It built trust and laughter and understanding. On the field we were friends and allies. There were so few of us in the school, we had to step up, have a go, make a side and play. A quiet passion was building.
This was a game I carried with me to ANU in the early ’90s. At university, we played with seasoned footballers, women who knew what they were doing. Drilled more, playing hard, fast football. Football was a key opening my social world in new places. I met my closest friends playing for my college. I’ve kicked a ball with local kids while hiking in Nepal, travelling across Europe and Vietnam, with workmates in Sydney, and with kids who grew up on the streets in South America who told me football was their first love. You could say it’s a game that saved them and made them.
And now, at 50, I’m still kicking it with twenty-somethings. That’s the life-joy that the beautiful, barrier-breaking game brings.