Football is fucking relentless. In four weeks in Australia, I went to ten World Cup games. For six of those I was rooting for England, who came from behind to win twice. At three matches I was hounded by the wild noise of Colombian supporters witnessing the rise and rise of eighteen-year-old Ballon D’Or nominee Linda Caicedo. I spent two nights watching eleven Australian women shoulder the hopes of a host nation, one willing Katie McCabe’s efforts to single-handedly manufacture Ireland’s destiny to work, and saw another national heroine cause her country’s downfall as Megan Rapinoe’s penalty miss decided ninety tortuous minutes of Sweden parking the bus against the holders USA. It’s exhausting remembering it — and those were just the games I went to.

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