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Previously...

“Mr Ferris, I didn’t expect to see you here because you had been banned and I also did not expect to be questioned like this to prove who I am, so there wouldn’t be any reason for me to need to prove things. I am very upset though because this lovely dress has been stained–look.”

I stood up and although I was a bit tearful by now, I managed to smile as Ferris stared, with horror, on the now somewhat larger patch of red blood on my otherwise very clean dress.

He took one look at it–nearly said something–and then, pushing past the other members of the press, left the room in a hurry. Before he got very far I called out to him.

“Oh, Mr Ferris?”

He looked back just as he got to the door.

“Just one thing. My name is not Mark, it’s Susan.”

He gave me one more look of pure hatred and slammed out.

A few seconds later, pandemonium broke out as half the people rushed out of the room to file their stories and I left the scene with Daddy on one side of me and Mummy on the other. I was upset, but not–I think–as upset as Ferris was. It didn’t stop me though, from falling into my mother’s arms and bursting into tears.

And now the story continues…

Two weeks later, I awoke in the morning and before I even opened my eyes, I was smiling. You see, today was the day that I was to go back and begin training with the club again and it was also my birthday, I was now officially sixteen.

As I lay there, I cast my mind back to the dramatic press conference and the inevitable fallout.

After Bob Farris’s dramatic verbal attack on me and his subsequent storming out of the room, I fell into Mummy’s arms and was so upset that I didn’t quite know what was going on for a while. It must have been shock and the reaction to the events, but I only have a dim recollection of the next few hours. The strength that I had shown in front of all the press and in particular, The Ferret, had left me as soon as the conference had finished; in short, I was an emotional wreck. Somehow I was hustled out of the building and eventually found myself back home.

For two days I declined to leave my room and refused to eat. I wondered what Ferris had written about me and whether the whole world was against me. I slept fitfully and had vivid dreams of going out on the pitch in a short skirt and top and everyone laughing at me as I kept falling over whenever the ball was near me.

My parents were so concerned about me that they called in a doctor. After examining me and asking a lot of stupid questions about how I felt, she came to the blinding conclusion that I was in an emotional state because of a combination of factors. Firstly, the accident and resultant operation, secondly, the fact that my period was heavy and that I was being hormonal–whatever that means and thirdly, I was insecure in as much as I didn’t really believe that I could make it as a football player, a girl football player that is, in a man’s game.

She gave me some pills, said that the mind was a funny thing and that I would get used to things soon and that I should let my mind heal as well as my body.

At the time I thought that she was talking nonsense and I am ashamed to say I told her so. I was like a bear with a sore head and snapped at everyone. I wouldn’t listen to everyone saying that I was being dealt with sympathetically by the media and that the staff, players and supporters of my club and they were right behind me. I had just got it into my head that I was no good and that was that. That’s a lot of that’s, but that’s how I felt!

It was my second evening of myself imposed bedroom confinement and I was just lying on my bed in my nightie watching a cartoon, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Go away,’ I shouted.

There was another knock on the door.

‘I said, go away!’

‘Susan, open the door this instant!’

‘Oh blimey,’ I thought, ‘Auntie Chris!’

I got out of bed, went to the door, unlocked it and then opened it.

‘H–hello, Auntie Chris.’

She looked me up and down, with a frown on her face.

‘You have precicely twenty minutes to make yourself presentable and then you will come down and talk to me in your sitting room. We are alone; everyone has gone out. Twenty minutes––’

She glared at me again, obviously not liking what she saw, sniffed, shook her head and went off down the corridor.

I shut the door quietly and sat down on the bed. I felt a bit resentful that Mummy and Daddy had brought in the big guns in the shape of Auntie Chris. She wasn’t like my mum. She was strong and had very strict ideas as to how girls or boys for that matter behaved. Normally, she was a sweet lovely lady, but when she felt in the mood, she was more frightening than Mr McPherson!

I went over and looked at my reflection. I wasn’t a very pretty sight in my crumpled pink cotton nightie. My hair looked awful and my eyes had black smudges under them. I fleetingly thought of just locking my door again, telling Auntie Chris and anyone else to go to hell and diving under the covers. Then I sighed. It didn’t come natural to me to be a rebel. I suppose I was just beginning to feel a bit guilty. They had brought my auntie all the way down from sunny Haggisland to come and tell me off. At least I should let her rant and rave at me before I retracted back in to my shell.

I had a very quick shower, using a shower hat to keep my hair dry. It needed a wash, but I just didn’t have the time.

After drying myself with a towel, I put on my panties and bra–funny that I was now able to put on my bra without thinking. When I first started wearing one, I had a devil of a job putting it on, but now it was just second nature. Staring at my face, I was a bit pale and there were those dark circles under my eyes too, I nearly cried at the sight. After fighting back the tears, I put on some foundation to cover up my most obvious defects, then some blusher to put some colour into my cheeks. I didn’t bother with eye liner or mascara, in the mood I was in I would poke out my eye and anyway I wasn’t exactly going clubbing. I just finished off with some strawberry flavoured pink lippy and then, looking at the clock, I slipped on a white tank top and black skirt, then some black sandals. Brushing my hair as best as I could, took a few minutes though, as the tangles were vile.

Checking myself in the mirror, I noted that I wasn’t exactly a beauty queen, but at least I looked slightly more presentable.

I went downstairs and into the sitting room. Auntie Chris was standing by the window gazing out on the manicured garden outside. She was so like my poor dead mum that my heart nearly stopped as I caught her profile. As I walked up she turned around and looked at me.

‘Well, Susan, so what’s all this about, girl?’

I could feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks.

‘Oh, Auntie–’

Her face softened and she opened her arms and I flew into them.

After a while, I calmed down slightly. It had been like a dam bursting or something. Other than just after the press conference, this was the only time I had cried. I had bottled everything up and now had I just let everything go.

Auntie had gone to brew us each a cup of tea, while I repaired my ravaged face. After a short while, she returned with the drink that is supposed to make you feel better–no matter what. Funnily enough, as I sipped it, the tea did help me somewhat.

As we sat on the sofa, I told Auntie all that had happened to me over the last few days and before that. The accident and operation, the fallout of my enforced change of gender–well not enforced, that was the wrong word–I suppose the shock of discovering I was intersexed and all that meant to me, I suppose.

As I explained to Auntie Chris, I had wanted to be Susan full time eventually, but I wanted to do it on my own terms and at my own pace. Suddenly, when that ball hit me, the choice was taken out of my hands. I couldn’t just play football for a while and gradually out myself as and when I wanted to. It was a bit like being on a rollercoaster, I had been placed on it through no fault of my own and had not had a chance to get off until the ride was finished. I know that the explanation sounds silly, but I think Auntie Chris understood what I was saying.

She looked at me kindly; ‘So you feel that you don’t have any control over things?’

‘That’s right and I’m so worried about what everyone thinks of me.’

‘Even though your parents have told you that everyone is being supportive?’

‘I—I just thought that they were trying to be kind to me and not wanting me to feel hurt.’

‘They didn’t lie to you, and I don’t think that they ever would, and certainly not over something as important as this.’

She stood up and went to a table in the corner. ‘Come over here, Susan.’

I got to my feet and joined her. On the table were a number of newspapers.

She pointed to one. ‘Look.’

I stared at the headline.

 
 

PLUCKY SUSAN HURST THE DARLING OF MELCHESTER

This seasoned and perhaps cynical reporter turned up at the Melchester United press briefing expecting a run of the mill interview with possibly the most exciting new talent in British football–but nothing out of the ordinary. To say I was surprised by what I heard in that packed room, would, I think be an understatement–writes our football correspondent, Hamish Chisholm.

We learned that young Mark Hurst had recovered from his accident–that was fair enough–and we were informed that he would soon resume training once again. These are things that we have heard on countless occasions at such press conferences. I was a bit concerned that Mark was not present, but we had been told that he would arrive shortly. I was sure that our photographer would at least be able to get a few decent shots of the lad and the day wouldn’t be totally wasted.      Then we all sat up when we were told something which I suppose is decidedly different to say the least. Mark, it turns out is in fact Susan. She had an underlying health issue that was only discovered after the accident. Beneath her apparent male genitalia, ‘he’ was in fact a ‘she’ and technically was what is known as intersexed. Mark’s male parts were damaged beyond repair in the accident and it was decided to remove those parts so that she could recover and become the girl that had been hidden inside her since she was born.      To be honest, I was somewhat cynical as I think most of the hardened reporters in the room were. I imagined that this was just some sort of publicity stunt and Mark would come out looking like a boy in a dress. When she arrived, looking shy and demure in an elegant white dress–every inch a girl–I could hear the gasps of my colleagues as we drank in the stunning feminine vision before us. She looked shy, slightly overawed at the reception and more than a little vulnerable.      She answered our questions quietly, with a hint of humour as she seemed to overcome her shyness and come out of her shell. Then, I regret to say, one reporter, Bob Ferris, stood up and began a verbal attack on her that made even the most hardened journalist in the room cringe and feel ashamed of our profession. You can read the full transcript of the exchange on page three, but for the present I can report that Susan acquitted herself with an assurance far exceeding her tender years.      After the exchanges, Mr Ferris left the room in disgrace and Susan left shortly afterwards.      I am able to report that Ferris was dismissed by his employer immediately and has, I understand, gone to ground. It seems unlikely that he will ever be able to find a job in our profession in the UK and is now the subject of an investigation by the Press Complaints Commission and also is being sued by Miss Hurst, Melchester United and other parties.      Judging by the reception of the vast majority of the press, players and fans, Susan Hurst need not worry about being a girl playing in a man’s world. She is there by right because of her exceptional skills and the game is the richer by her presence on the centre stage.

 
I put the paper down and sat on a chair. Auntie Chris was talking to me––

‘–The papers are virtually unanimous in their praise of you. You won’t be laughed at and people really appreciate what you have been through. Oh, there are idiots who think you’re the Devil’s Spawn, but let’s face it you can’t please all of the people all of the time, so be thankful that you have a large number of devoted fans who are willing you to be the best footballer in the country. Your web page has had record hits on it and the membership of your fan club has now reached six figures. Your publicity man tells me that he has been able to get enough sponsorship to ensure that you need never lift your finger working ever again once you finally retire and he has lined up countless interviews for you as well. So what is all this about your being a failure or not good enough, for goodness sake?’

I looked at her and smiled sheepishly. ‘I—I’ve been a bit of an idiot, haven’t I, Auntie?’

‘Yes, my dear, you have, but an understandable idiot. The things that you’ve been through would have tried someone twice your age with ten times your experience, but as long as you believe in yourself, that’s all that matters.’

So here I was, sixteen years old with the world at my feet. A lot of people had invested a lot of time on me, emotionally and financially. Now it was up to me to do the best I could to repay their trust and that is what I intended to do. Last night, I had a lot of apologies to make for my behaviour and it was nice to make it up to everyone. Mummy took me aside before I went to bed and I said sorry to her once more.

‘Look, Susan, for goodness sake stop saying “sorry”. Everyone understands and you should just drop it. Between you and me, when I was your age I was a right little sod. A lot of girls go through some angst but get through it. Just remember to try to hold yourself back and bite your tongue next month when the dreaded curse returns.’

‘Can’t I just take a pill?’ I whined.

‘If only it was that simple!’ She laughed.

~ * ~

Returning to the present, I jumped out of bed smiling; I went into to the bathroom and did the necessary. My smile widened as I remembered that my little monthly friend (not) was still absent and, I hoped, would stay that way for at least a fortnight!

As I left my bathroom, Claire rushed in–without knocking, of course. She hadn’t dressed yet either.

‘Wow, Susan, who’s the birthday girl then? Like, it’s going to be fab, brill, great, smart, neat and well and truly wicked tonight. Make sure you don’t break anything in training as I do not, like want to spend your birthday party night in the Accident and Emergency. We have some serious, heavy shopping to do. I need a wicked dress and you need something new too, so get to training and I’ll like, meet you there. Your Dad’s gonna drive us and the security goons are going to protect us from your adoring public. Andrew wanted to go–I think he fancies wearing a frock tonight, but he won’t ’cos he doesn’t want to, like out himself, y’know and––’

‘Claire!’

‘Like, what?’

‘Please zip it for a minute, or you’ll give me a headache. Let me get this training session over first and then we can talk partay!’

An hour later, Daddy drove me to the training ground. I wondered what reception I would get and as I got out of the car, Daddy dug me in the ribs and pointed.

I went all gooey as I saw a big banner across the reception building, on it emblazoned in red was: WELCOME BACK SUSAN AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

‘Aaaw, that’s so sweet!’

I was wearing my Melchester track suit, unisex of course as I didn’t think that a mini skirt, fish net stockings and five inch heels would be very appropriate today.

As I walked into reception, it was nice to see everyone greet me with nice smiles and ‘hellos’. I made my way to the dressing room and there was no one there except the kit man, who looked up as I walked in.

‘Hi, Susan,’ said Big Bill as he came over.

‘Hello, Bill, nice to see you; the others out already?’

‘Yes, the boss said that they should go out a few minutes early for your first day back while you get yourself sorted out. He also said that this was a one off and it won’t happen again.’

‘He would,’ I said smiling, but thankful for the unasked-for help in settling me back in.

I went over to the changing cubicle and took my trackies off. My training kit was already waiting for me so I quickly changed. I was wearing my sports bra already and knew that it supported me fairly well in the breast department. The last thing I wanted was to injure a team mate with an eyeful of breast–mind you, knowing some of those lecherous so-an’-sos, they probably wouldn’t mind too much.

As I pulled up my football socks and slipped in the shin guards, I still wondered if I would be accepted as one of the lads.

After tying the laces of my football boots and putting on the training bib, red this time, I walked out and noticed that Bill had disappeared. Going over to the long mirror, I pulled my hair back and slipped on a scrunchie. Scanning my image, I smiled. It was still the old Mark–except it wasn’t–no tell-tell bulge in my shorts and of course I had the hard-to-miss breasts. I was wearing no makeup, but my lips appeared to be fuller and looking down at my body, my hips were certainly bigger. As for my bum, well, let’s put it this way, if I landed on it, at least I had some padding!

No, come to think of it, this was definitely Susan staring back at me and I liked that a great deal.

I sighed and left the changing room. From the sound of the lads out on the pitch and some whistles blowing like mad, they were doing some intervals. I didn’t like that much and was glad that I had, at least, missed that bit of torture.

As I made my way up the slope and out to the training pitch, I could see that I was right; they were doing some interval training. I stood on the line and waited to be noticed. After a few minutes another whistle blew and the lads gratefully stopped for a breather.

Mike Thomas, the reserve team coach was taking the training session with the help of several of the assistant coaches. It was unbelievable that I didn’t know many names yet, but then I hadn’t really been with the club that long.

Mike saw me and called me over. As I ran up to him and the others, I got several ‘hi’s from the lads.

I sort of waved, still embarrassed at the situation. I wasn’t at all sure about myself, despite the pep talk that I had had with Auntie Chris and later my parents, but I had to just take a deep breath and pile in there.

‘Glad to see you, Sue. Right, lads; let’s get the training match started–

Soon I was running up and down the pitch as if I had never been away. But something was wrong, I wasn’t getting the ball much and nobody was tackling me. I called and called for the ball but it was as if I wasn’t on the pitch. I was getting a bit antsy at that, so I just stopped as the play went upfield and then walked off the pitch. I went and sat down on the benches and awaited developments.

It was only a few moments when it was noticed that I had left the field of play. Mike blew up and everything stopped. The lads all looked over at me and I could see more than a few frowns on their faces.

‘What’s wrong Sue? Are you in pain or something?’

I looked up at him.

‘No, I’m not in pain, but as no one wants me to join in with the game, this is all pretty pointless. If this is the way things are going to be, I had better find a team that does want to play with me.’

He sat down beside me.

‘Bugger, we’ve made things worse haven’t we?’

‘Yes you have. I either play with and for the team or I’m out. I’m not going to be some sort of token or mascot–I have a skill and I want to use it. It’s nearly half time, I’m going to powder my pretty nose and by the time I get back, if I don’t get what I want, then that’s it. I’m not being a prima donna, I just want to play.’

With that I went back down the tunnel and into the dressing room. Luckily the toilets were individual and I went into one and locked the door behind me. Sitting on the loo, I put my head in my hands. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. I thought that after all the support that the club and players had given me, I would be accepted. But I was being treated like a fragile and tender flower and I wasn’t going to accept that after all I had gone through.

Looking at the clock, I noticed that twenty minutes had passed. I reluctantly got up and went out again. I made sure that I wasn’t showing any signs of my despair, my eyes were a wee bit red, but I didn’t think that it would show.

As I walked out on the pitch, everyone was assuming their positions. I didn’t say anything and just went across to the right and waited for the game to restart.

The whistle blew and the game restarted in earnest. After a few moments, the ball came out to me and I slotted it out to the wing–I was back!

Judging by the bruises on my legs after the game, I think the lads took on board my feelings and let me play a normal game. It had been nil-nil at half time–the teams being roughly of equal strength–but as I was being carried in the first half, it was virtually ten against eleven, so it was surprising that no one on the opposition had scored.

Anyway, I soon got back into the swing of things and started spraying the ball, right, left and centre. I had to be careful as the other team were not holding back on the tackles any more. Daniel Schmitt just missed doing me an injury as I leapt over his flailing leg and ran upfield. It was only about ten minutes to go and you know me, I hate to lose. Anyway, then Arnold tried to tackle me and I just put the ball on one side of him and swerved around the other, picking up the ball as he tied himself in knots trying to turn two ways at once.

Obviously I hadn’t lost much speed, as I was streets ahead of my nearest team mate. Ivan Gloshter, the goalie, standing between the uprights, began moving towards me to reduce the angle. I was about ten yards from the penalty area and knew that if Ivan came any closer, there was no way that I would be able to get the ball past him easily. I took the decision to shoot, using my left rather than my–favoured–right foot. I thumped the ball with the outside of my foot and it swerved past the desperately diving Ivan as it bent like a banana into the corner of the net.

GOAL!

My team mates congratulated me like it was a premier league match and were all over me like a rash. I got kissed several times, but hey, boys even do that to each other after a goal, don’t they?

The match continued and we scored another one and I’m glad to say I made it because I went to the goal line near the corner flag and managed to cross for the ball to one of the up and coming youngsters–hark at me–to head it home.

All in all, after the faltering start, I had been treated as one of the team and that is exactly what I hoped for. The only fly in the ointment was how other teams and supporters would treat me, but I wasn’t worried about that as I went with Daddy, Claire and the ever present minders to the shopping centre. I was going to buy a drop dead gorgeous dress for my party and I was going to shop until I dropped!

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To Be Continued...

Please leave comments...thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, making suggestions that I hadn't even thought of and pulling the story into shape.