With my family and friends, I was ushered through a plain door and into some sort of lounge. It was, I suppose the equivalent of the BBC’s green room used for hospitality, where people could relax prior to broadcasts...     Football Girl Chapter 23 By Susan Brown

Previously...

A couple of hours later, we drove through the gates at the Melchester United ground. The press were out in force, but they didn't see me as we were in a people carrier that had blacked-out windows.

We carried on past the main entrance and entered by way of a side one. The security guard looked a bit puzzled at the sight of me when the window was lowered, as if he thought he recognised me, but wasn't quite sure. He did recognise Daddy and John Prentiss though and we were all ushered through the gates without any more ado. I looked at Andrew and he squeezed my hand.

Claire looked a bit intimidated but smiled bravely at my glance. Mummy–well she was my rock. Every time I looked at her she had that strong determined expression that no one was going to mess with her daughter. I wondered if she was missing the twins–now in the capable hands of Mrs Moon. Daddy and John Prentiss were in the front and when we stopped, Daddy turned to me and smiled.

‘Are you ready for this, love?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

And now the story continues…

With my family and friends, I was ushered through a plain door and into some sort of lounge. It was, I suppose the equivalent of the BBC’s green room used for hospitality, where people could relax prior to broadcasts. There was a drinks bar in the corner where there were some coffee and other pots. I had a coffee; goodness knows why, because I was hyper enough as it was. I sat next to Andrew as Mummy and Daddy fussed around making noises about what we would be doing and how it was going to be done. I became aware that my hands were shaking slightly and was glad that Andrew was there for me and giving me some sort of physical support.

I removed my coat and cardigan–the room was very hot. I wondered whether it was a wise choice to wear a white dress. It was a pretty broderie anglaise number made by Clockhouse; just above the knee, with a rounded neckline that showed off my slightly developing bust to advantage. The colour signified something to me though but I couldn’t quite get a grip on it. To me I suppose white meant new, weddings, confirmation and suchlike. It was probably a mistake wearing white, and Mummy had been a bit anxious about it, but what the hell, I looked pretty in it and I wanted to impress my femininity on people. My makeup was understated; I didn’t want to show that I was trying too hard, but my two tone blue eye shadow, plumped up lashes and pink glossy lips emphasised my features quite agreeably. I reckoned I looked okay and Andrew, judging by his pained expression and preoccupation with trying to sit comfortably, seemed to have the same view.

I was very tense and uneasy about the forthcoming press briefing. I wasn’t sure what had been said to the media beforehand and I hoped that I wouldn’t be given a hard time. After all, it wasn’t my fault that I was a girl and anyway, it should not be held against me as all I wanted to do was play football to the best of my ability.

“This is like, well cool,” Claire said enthusiastically looking around. It was alright for her, she wasn’t going to face a media frenzy!

“…Susan, are you paying attention?”

“Sorry, Daddy,” I said.

“Right, they’re going to start without you and read a statement regarding what you have been through. Some questions will be answered by the Media Director, Trevor Withers and Sandy McPherson and your mother and I will be there to answer any questions that we can. We felt it best that you didn’t go in initially as we wanted to make sure that the ground is prepared first; is that all right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I answered in a small voice.

“Are you sure, honey?” Mummy asked. “We can still call this off if you’re unhappy about it.”

I took a deep breath. “No, I want to get it over and on my terms. I don’t want any more rubbish like that story in The Globe. People will see me and then all the questions will be over–I hope.”

Just then Mr McPherson walked in and looking around saw me and smiled. I stood up as he approached. “There ye are lassie. Well looking at ye, there’s no anyone there thas’ gonna think ye’re a man. Are ye up tae this?”

“Yes, boss. Well, I hope so.”

“Richt then, I’ll gang and start things aff. Good luck, and if ye don’t mind me saying, ye’re a bonny wee lassie. But if ye quote me, I’ll kick ye frae here tae eter-r-rnity!” He smiled when he said that, so I don’t think he would, but nobody messes with Sandy McPherson!

Daddy and Mummy left with him after a swift hug and that meant just Claire, Andrew and I remained in the room. I drank some more coffee–as if my heart wasn’t thumping hard enough, already. We didn’t say much and only heard the murmur of voices from the other side of the door. Not hearing any screaming, I took this as a good sign.

I sat beside Andrew again and clutched his hand, wondering how things were going. Daddy had asked me if I wanted to listen in to the start of the proceedings, but I didn’t want to hear. The club doctor was going to explain the medical facts, Mr McPherson was then going to talk about how my being a girl might or might not impact on the club, players, supporters and, of course, the opposition and then Trevor would lay down the ground rules for when I came out.

Watching the clock, I wondered if it was working okay, because the hands seemed to be going round awfully slowly; I jumped as Trevor came in and looked straight at me.

“Show time,” he smiled.

“H…how are they out there?”

“Surprised by the bombshell but being members of the media, nothing much really fazes them. Anyway, are you ready, young lady?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

I gave Andrew and Claire a hug and they wished me good luck as Trevor, still smiling, said, “We have to go.”

How could he smile at a time like this? I went to the long mirror in the corner and checked how I looked. After removing a small speck from my dress and brushing the hair out of my eyes, I smiled weakly at my reflection. I felt like Daniel or should that be Daniela, going to the lions as I turned and followed the media man out to the bright lights, flashes and media buzz.

I was very conscious of being the centre of attention. I blinked constantly at the flashes of the cameras, very aware of my mascara coated eyelashes and my white dress. As I was led to my seat in the centre, I felt that the whole world was staring at me, which was very true if you considered the number of TV cameras and the huge number of microphones just in front of me.

Trevor Withers was talking. “Can we have some quiet please? All right, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Susan has kindly agreed to answer some questions but I would ask you to be brief and to the point.” He scanned the audience; “Right, Adrian Smith, you have a question?”

I looked up as he began his question. I was surprised at the sea of faces. Surely this wasn’t all for me?

“Susan; Adrian Smith, BBC. How are you coping with all this?”

It was strange–like when I go on the football pitch with forty thousand eyes plus the cameras on me. Before I touch the ball, I am as nervous as a kitten, but once I get a touch of the ball, all thoughts of nerves fly away and I concentrate on the task in hand. It was just the same now as I answered the first question.

“W…well, it’s hard to think that a few months ago I was just some anonymous kid playing park football. Now people want my autograph and hang on every word I say. Then the accident happened and I am even more in the limelight. I suppose if I want to do the best I can in football, I have to expect to it being like this.”

I answered several questions and then I saw him on the front row over to far left. I kept ignoring him, not wishing to give the slime-ball any indication that I was upset at seeing him at the media briefing. How he had managed to get in, I would never know but I would find out afterwards. I understood that he was banned from the ground. Was there someone in the club who didn’t like me?

He kept raising his hand and the media guy kept ignoring him.

I scribbled a note to Daddy.

Why is he here?

The reply came back quickly.

He sneaked in. If he’s ejected it would give him more publicity. Just ignore him.

I was feeling decidedly nervous by then, wondering if he would be allowed to speak. It was all right trying to ignore him, but if looks could kill, I would have been six feet under by now!

I answered a question, almost distractedly from lady in the back row.

“Where did you get the dress? You look lovely.”

I felt myself go red then and spluttered my answer. “Cockhouse–I mean, Clockhouse.”

There was general laughter at that and in horror I saw that, rather than raise his hand again, Ferris stood up.

“A question.” he spat out loudly.

“Look here–” said Trevor.

I couldn’t avoid it. If I didn’t answer his question, no doubt he’d invent his own answers.

“No Trevor,” I sighed, “it’s all right I’ll answer his question. Mr Ferret is it?”

He looked annoyed and about to explode–unfortunately he didn’t. There was more than one titter coming from the floor and I had a feeling Ferris was not liked much–and this from members of the press who would sell their mothers for a headline.

“My name’s Ferris and you know that already. My question is a simple one, are you just a boy dressed as a girl or a real girl? Are you just trying to drum up sympathy or trying to get away from the fact that you think that cross dressers should be able to play in a men’s team. Do you think that the public should pay to see a girl–even a false one–playing in what is obviously a men’s game?”

There was uproar at that. Many of the other reporters started to have a go at Ferris and it was some minutes before things settled down again.

I was staring at Ferris: he wore a smug smile and was saying nothing–just glaring at me maliciously. What had I done to deserve this? Had I caused him any harm? I was getting decidedly annoyed. It was bad enough to be sitting here in front of the world’s media, my every word taken and dissected. It was hard enough that I felt my pad getting rather uncomfortable and damp. I actually looked down and to my horror, saw a small penny-sized patch of blood on my dress. That was all I needed. Now I understood why Mummy didn’t want me to wear a white dress–it should have been red! Then there was the hardest thing of all. I wanted to be accepted by everyone, but I knew as sure as eggs were eggs, that I would never truly be accepted by everyone, no matter how pretty I was or how good a footballer I was.

Things got quieter and Trevor was talking.

“Bob, I don’t know how you got in here as you are well aware that you and your paper are not welcome any more and I cannot allow personal attacks like this on Susan–”

I looked at Ferris, he was getting what he wanted. He had asked the questions and as I had not answered them he would use that against me in the poison that he was no doubt thinking about writing for the next morning’s edition. Despite protests from Daddy and the others next to me, I put my hand up

“Please,” I said looking directly at Ferris, “I’ll answer your questions, although I have been told that legal action is being taken against you personally, and your newspaper. You’ve heard that I am medically and legally female, you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

“All I know is that you pretended to be a girl when I went to your flat and then the restaurant and that turns out to be a lie. Then you have an accident which lands you in hospital. We printed an exposé and question whether you should be playing with men and or even women and we get all this about you now being a real girl. Our readers would like to know if you think they are stupid or something?”

There were angry murmurs around the room. It seemed that I was right about Bob Ferris not being popular amongst his own kind. I had to physically stop my father from getting up and laying him out and Mummy looked like she wanted to attack him with her handbag. Along the side, I saw, in passing, Andrew and Claire being physically held back by a shaven headed security guard.

All this went on at the back of my mind because as the horrible man spoke I was getting angrier and angrier, gripping the sides of my chair so tightly my knuckles were white. I had to stay in control. If I began shouting and screaming at him, he would have the upper hand. I took a deep breath.

“Mister Ferris, I don’t know why you don’t like me, but there will be people in this world who will never like me. But I’ll try to answer your questions truthfully. When you saw me outside my flat and at the restaurant I was dressed as a girl and thought I was transgendered. This means, to me anyway, that although I had the physical looks and equipment of the boy, inside, where it matters, I was a girl. As far as I am concerned I felt that I had been born in the wrong body. So when you saw me outside my flat, you saw the girl I am and not a boy you thought I was."

"Yes, but..."

"Please let me answer your questions Mr Ferris. Regarding your second question which was whether cross-dressers–and I assume you mean transgendered women by that–and even genetic girls should play football with men on equal terms. The answer to that is definitely yes. Why should women be held back by gender if they are able to play with men on equal terms? That’s prejudice, clear and simple. Genetic women are not second-class citizens and neither are people from the transgender community who are just struggling to be accepted. Your third question was; should fans pay to watch girls, even what you call false ones, playing in a man’s game. Well, Mr Ferris, you may not have noticed, but at least half the world’s population are female and by spouting that sort of garbage you are making us second class citizens. Fans will pay to watch a good football match, who cares whether they are men or women? It’s the game and how it’s played that matters, not what is between your legs. I’ll be sixteen in two weeks time. I want to grow older in a world that doesn’t have to listen to crap like the rubbish you are peddling––”

He was furious, I could see that, but I was bloody angry too. Perhaps it was the after effects of the PMT or that I was feeling defensive and antsy, but I wanted this man to be humiliated and that’s why my words had been so strong. He looked as if he was about to have a heart attack and to be honest, I would not have cried crocodile tears at that moment if he had keeled over and died on the spot. The world would be a better place without his brand of poison.

He stood up.

“You still haven’t proved that you are a girl,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What is your problem Mr Ferris, don’t you like women?”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“Or is it the transgendered that you hate? Why have you got a down on me?”

“The public have a right––”

“–Have they, have they really? Have they the right to listen to you? Perhaps they have, but when you write a story, you should base it on truth, not the lies and half-truths you peddle–” I thought he really was going to have a heart attack soon, as if anything, he went redder in the face. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but this press conference was going to have one of the highest hit rates that YouTube had ever had and footage would appear on televisions not only in this country but all over the world. Later, I asked Daddy why he didn’t deck the creep, but he just said that I was doing a pretty good job of it myself. Anyway, Ferris seemed to take several deep breaths and then tried to continue his attack on me.

“Well, Miss Hurst, you still haven’t proved to me that you are a woman. Doctors can be bought. Records can be changed–”

“So it matters then that I might be transgendered then? So, let’s see, you seem to hate the whole of the transgendered community who have to fight every day against people like you and genetic women too? I feel really sorry for you, Mr Ferris.”

He smiled, for some reason and said, “So, despite clever words for a fifteen year old you still can’t or won’t prove who or what you are – Mark.”

“Clever words for a fifteen year old? So you are against kids too? Who do you like, Mr Ferris, mad axe murderers? Rapists, perhaps?”

“How dare you!” He thundered.

“No–how dare you, Mr Ferris, try to put me down like this! I may only be fifteen, but I’m not thick. So I can put more than two words together, so what; are you surprised or are you one of those people that think kids have no brains and shouldn’t speak until they are spoken too? I have had a life that’s been hard. I had to grow up fast. I was beaten by my step father until he knocked me out. I have struggled with issues of my identity. My mother has been murdered by my step father who, rather than face justice, killed himself. I was given the opportunity of becoming a player for the best team in the world and now you want to try to put a stop to that–”

“PROVE THAT YOU ARE A GIRL…YOU CAN’T CAN YOU?”

I looked at him. We were both breathing hard. I fancy I could see some veins at the side of his head throbbing as I considered my answer. There was not sound in the room, if you discount the clicking and whirring of cameras and the flashes.

“You want proof?”

“Yes!”

“And you won’t be happy with medical evidence. The club doctor can confirm all this, you know that?”

“The public have––”

“–the right to know. So you keep saying. Well I can strip and you would see that I don’t have any male equipment, but no doubt that would not be good enough for you. I could have had the operation for sexual reassignment and then I still wouldn’t be a woman in your eyes. You want real proof, am I right?”

He just nodded, a sneer on his face, thinking that I had been cornered by his expert interrogation of me.

“A few days ago, I started having tummy cramps. My mood kept swinging from happy to downright nasty. Early this morning after my run, I felt really bad. Then I read the rubbish you printed in your sad excuse for a newspaper. Suddenly I was aware of some wetness in my panties. I rushed upstairs to the bathroom and noticed that I was bleeding. I thought that it might have been something to do with the stitches, but my mother confirmed that I had started my period. As far as I know, only genetic women have periods, but you, Mr Ferris as an obvious expert should know that?”

“Periods can be faked,” he growled, but I could see that he was beginning to doubt his own words now.

“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.

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.