Growing up, men’s football was all over the telly. My older brother was a massive Manchester United fan and would watch every game he could, sometimes I’d even watch with him.

I loved seeing the players beeline across the pitch, socks pulled up over their calves, sweat-soaked shirts hugging their chests. I would examine their bodies and think: “Why don’t football shirts look like that on me?” Gender isn’t easy to figure out. The world we live in primarily operates in a binary manner. Men, women. Straight, gay. They’re still very much considered the default – even more so in football, a sport that’s deeply rooted in old-school views of masculinity. So, it might seem odd that football shirts have provided me with an avenue to experiment with my own gender. Or is it? 

Back then, watching those games with my brother, I didn’t quite know how to describe the feelings I felt as I sat captivated by the slick movements of Louis Saha, Wayne Rooney and Paul Scholes. But now, I’d call it gender envy. There’s no right way when it comes to figuring out your identity and where you fit in a world obsessed with labelling people as simply one thing or another. But for some reason, football shirts have always helped me on my gender journey. 

Shirts have become a core part of my gender expression – I feel more at ease with who I am when I wear them. They provide me with a level of comfort and breathability, both literally and metaphorically. It might seem somewhat trivial, distilling something so big as gender into a brightly-coloured 80s-inspired football shirt. But often it’s the small, everyday things that help us to make sense of the emotions we’ve struggled for so long to engage with – let alone make sense of. 

There’s an unquestionable euphoria in football fashion. Whether you want to call it ‘blokecore’ or ‘ladcore’, the revival of retro kits undoubtedly pulls on iconic British fashion that flooded the streets and terraces throughout the 80s and 90s. Today, both football die-hards and casual matchgoers are experimenting with kits – something we’ve also seen bleed onto the catwalk in recent years (will there ever be a better collaboration than Wales Bonner x Jamaica?). And while the blokecore trend might feel gendered, the style isn’t. It’s a lens of fashion that has been an escape, a place where I can find synergy between my outward presentation and internal feelings. 

Finding sanctity in football shirts was an unexpected port of call, one that caught me by surprise, even as a long-time football fan. Yet I can’t shake the gender-affirming sense of self I find wearing my beige Barcelona 2004-05 shirt. As your identity shifts – whether it’s labels, pronouns, or something bigger – there’s a want to create cohesiveness in how you feel and fashion is the easiest way to signify who you are. From pairing oversized baggy blue-wash denim jeans with a bright yellow 2010-13 Arsenal away number, to matching chunky silver rings with my crisp white Real Madrid top. In football shirts, for me at least, there’s no immediate call to dress femme, instead, you can play around with presentation. This level of openness has given me the freedom to pick and choose what feels best. A feeling I’ve not always experienced in either my surroundings or myself. 

As a South Asian baby masc, I’m used to comments of all kinds: ones to do with race, gender, sexuality, you name it. You learn to acclimatise (not always quickly) to the soft racism or how your eyebrow slit, thin silver chain or vocal joy for Chappell Roan can make people feel a bit uncomfortable. “It’s a bit much”, I’ve been told. The level of prejudice – and sometimes even abuse – I’ve experienced over the years for trying to feel at home in my own skin, is perhaps why I’ve never watched a men’s football match in person. 

We’ve all seen and heard stories about how homophobic and racist the men’s game is. Watching Manchester United’s first team with my brother might have been my football entry point but it’s the women’s game that’s welcomed me for who I am. I’ve found women’s football to be a space that’s more inclusive of diverse identities than most – I’d even go so far as to say that I’ve found a community. Being queer in women’s football, both for the players and the fans, isn’t the exception; if anything it’s celebrated. The camaraderie of the women’s game feels more like home for me because I don’t experience the same level of interrogation for wearing my oversized “men’s” shirts and gender-fluid fits.

Many of us spend years following our favourite players from club to club as they evolve with their teams. And while I can’t pull off striking Ballon d'Or-worthy shots like Aitana Bonmatí, I can empathise with growing through motions of change. In a way, through shirts, I do the same. 

Each one brings a different feeling – a sense of home and comfort for a different reason. Sometimes it’s an affirming colour choice or even a modest boxy cut that brings an unexplained feeling of ease for me. Football traditionally hasn’t been a space welcoming of people like me – those who don’t conform to gender norms. So, perhaps there’s some irony in me gaining as much comfort in shirts as I do. But if they help me get to grips with this beast called gender, then it looks like I’ll need to make more space in my wardrobe.

Zoya Raza-Sheikh is a freelance journalist who regularly writes about queer culture, women’s football and music. They have previously written for The Independent, NME, Vogue India and more. Check out Zoya's piece via GAY TIMES here.