Before we go any further, I confess: I know very little about women’s football. However, the news over the summer that Vivianne Miedema, the Dutch footballing ace, was to leave Arsenal after seven years at the club did manage to enter my orbit. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, letting it hover on the periphery of my brain, along with a lifetime’s worth of useless but amusing factoids. But I knew enough about very little to know it was a big deal. Or, rather, no deal: to the total bewilderment of all Women’s Super League (WSL) fans, Miedema was to be let go on a free transfer. Her contract was up and she was to sling her boots.
This, I heard on the grapevine, was bad business. Miedema is a club legend. To not renew her contract was unsavoury at best; at worst – and I quote a friend who is an Arsenal Women’s supporter – “a f***ing joke”. Quite. At 28, Miedema is the WSL’s all-time top scorer, a feat she achieved in 2020 after three years in the league and a record she has held since, despite an almost 18-month absence becauseof a pretty gnarly ACL injury. In 172 appearances in the WSL for the Gunners, she racked up 125 goals, 50 assists and two Golden Boots. Internationally, she is the Netherlands’ top scorer, having netted 95 goals – 45 more than Robin van Persie – in 115 appearances, and has been shortlisted for the Ballon d’Or three times.
Even someone like me – a schmuck with limited financial acumen – knows that if you want to let star talent go (which obviously you shouldn’t), you should at least get some decent money for them. But then again, I am just a schmuck with limited acumen. Maybe you should let talent go, for free, to Man City.
After a string of lucky chances in which Fortuna put me on an upward trajectory, I found myself on Sunday 22 September at Arsenal’s Emirates stadium watching the opening game of the WSL, which was against Man City. It was a tough fixture. Obviously, Miedema scored, much to the aggrievement of the home crowd. There were moments of hope; there were moments of despair.
In the end, the game came, the game went; 2-2 read the final result. “Well, I call that a win,” my friend A— declared as the match concluded. I’m sorry, dear girl, but when the scoreline stands at a draw after the final whistle blows, that is simply an untruth. The arm was chanced, but Lady Luck said no dice. The rigmarole was complete…
Or was it? Two hours later, Arsenal and Man City began again, this time the men’s teams, up the road at the latter’s Etihad stadium. Now, when it comes to the men’s game, I am not a mere boneheaded fool. I know a thing or two: I know that Man City away is a tough fixture.
In much the same vein, the game came, and the game went. Engrossed in my writings, and with the deadline for this very column looming over me, it mostly went. Oh, sweet Fortuna, a gloriously capricious minx! As 90 minutes were closing in, Arsenal were down to ten men, but up 2-1. Victory seemed all but sealed, when, in the 98th minute, City’s John Stones dinked it in: 2-2. Pure elation for some; suffering of the greatest kind for others.
A moment of clarity was offered in the post-match stillness: there are no winners or losers in this land. Just those willing to brush up against the maiden of life. She strikes harshly, but, as it transpires, equally, playing fairly and without prejudice or bias. She takes an egalitarian approach in how she dispenses cruelty and pleasure.
The beautiful game is the game of life writ large: sometimes you think you’re damned to lose, sometimes you think you’ve clinched it. Usually, you’re battling it out for some ungodly reason, making marginal gains on something you have absolutely no influence on. But the game can only be played when you roll the dice and push Lady Luck.
[See also: The hostile takeover of English football]
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This article appears in the 25 Sep 2024 issue of the New Statesman, All-out war