When you see a person wear a football shirt, what’s the first thing that comes to mind? Probably, something along the lines of, “That must be their favourite team” or “They must really like that shirt.” However, these are hardly the first things a woman wearing a football shirt is likely to hear.
Instead, she is unknowingly signing herself up for an unofficial fan entrance exam, where any man who feels qualified to administer it can demand that she name three players and their current football boot sponsors before she’s granted admission into the super-secret underground society of Chelsea supporters.
A man wearing a football jersey is generally presumed to be a supporter, whereas a woman might be expected to demonstrate her knowledge. Because, apparently, women cannot, and dare I say, should not be able to watch guys kick a ball around. That’s a man’s job.
Duh!
But since when did being a sports fan require passing a test? And why does that test seem to only apply to women?
For years, women have battled gender stereotypes across society, and the sports fandom is no exception. From having their sporting knowledge questioned to being accused of watching matches purely for the attractive athletes, female fans often find themselves having to defend their place in sporting spaces. But as more women become visible in sports fandoms, maybe it’s time to question not their legitimacy as supporters, but the very definition of what makes someone a “real fan”.
When attractiveness overshadows sporting interest
“Think you know sports? Prove it.”
These were the words spoken by Sydney Sweeney in her recent sports advertisement. For many female sports fans, however, it isn’t simply a catchy slogan. It’s a challenge they’ve been facing for years, ironically, delivered by someone who might have been expected to challenge that very notion.
Sweeney’s “Just Sports” commercial for the sports predication app Novig sparked worldwide controversy over its provocative presentation, which featured the actress appearing nude. But it isn’t “just sports” and this isn’t “just an ad.” It raises questions about the longstanding tendency to associate women’s involvement in sport with their physical appearance rather than their sporting interests or abilities.
By placing a conventionally attractive celebrity at the centre of a sports advertisement that relies heavily on her sex appeal, the campaign risks reinforcing the idea that women’s value in sport lies in their attractiveness. Rather than challenging the stereotypes female sports fans regularly encounter, the advertisement arguably plays into them.
Moreover, the most telling part, despite featuring a woman, the advertisement appears primarily designed to appeal to a male audience. Once again, a woman’s appearance takes centre stage in a sporting conversation, while women’s genuine interest in sport remains an afterthought.
How “inclusion” can turn into segregation
And if women aren’t being used to sell sport to men, apparently sport needs to be repackaged entirely to appeal to women. Because how could they possibly understand sport without pink text, glitter, and unwarranted matcha references?
The Sky Sports Halo TikTok channel was a cautionary tale – the perfect case study – demonstrating how attempts at inclusion can easily turn into separation. Created in an effort to make sports welcoming to female sports fans, Halo was presented as the “lil sis” of Sky Sports – a condescending and frankly patronising description that unfortunately positioned female sports and the female sports fandom as secondary. Halo became the less serious sidekick to the main, traditionally male-dominated brand.
The channel received immediate widespread online backlash, rightfully so, with critics labelling it “patronising” and “unbelievably sexist.” Its pastel-pink aesthetic and pop-culture references appeared to operate on the assumption that women could only digest the supposedly difficult and intricate concept of sport if it were presented in pink and sparkles.
The intention may have been to include women, but the execution risked reinforcing the very stereotypes it sought to challenge. Rather than treating female fans as an integral part of the existing sporting community, Halo created a separate space built around assumptions about what women supposedly enjoy.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying pink aesthetics, pop culture, or matcha alongside sport. The problem arises when those interests are treated as prerequisites for appealing to an entire gender.
Ultimately, female sports fans don’t need a watered-down version of sport to feel included. They need their enthusiasm to be taken as seriously as anyone else’s.
Because a fan is a fan, regardless of gender.
Who decides what makes someone a “real” sports fan?
Even if a woman started watching football because she found a player attractive, why should that automatically disqualify her from being a fan?
It shouldn’t matter how someone becomes a fan. What matters is that they are one. Being a fan shouldn’t require an unofficial entrance exam for women and a simple dab up for men.
Being a fan has one prerequisite: being a devoted admirer of a team, person, or activity. Whether someone has supported a team their entire life or only started watching last week, their enthusiasm shouldn’t be measured against somebody else’s expectations.
If they love the sport, watch the sport, and show interest in a sport, then they are a fan. And as part of that fandom, they deserve to be treated with the same respect as everybody else.
At the end of the day, sport has the unique ability to bring people together. Instead of obsessing over what differentiates us, we should celebrate what unites us despite those differences.
And what better way to celebrate that than in cute matching football shirts?
Visual: Daniel Green
