I’m not going to pretend I suddenly “get” rugby. I don’t. But this weekend I found myself at my second-ever match. Scotland vs. Argentina, sitting the closest I’ve ever been to any sport that wasn’t just happening in a school gym, and honestly, it felt a bit like sneaking into a world I had no business being in but was very happy to explore.
There were five of us packed together by the aisle: two friends on my left, two on my right, and me in the middle. On either side were rugby mega-fans, the kind of people who know every tactic, every rule, and can spot a “high tackle” before I’ve even figured out who actually has the ball. And because that apparently wasn’t enough immersion, we had the referee radios too. So not only was I seeing the action up close, I could hear the refs narrating their thoughts like some sort of audiobook, laughing every time the ref says something unexpected.
Scotland came out strong in the first half. It took me a while to understand the point system, but after countless careful explanations from my friends, I was fully able to sit back and understand the players decisions, even suggesting my own tactic eventually. There’s something infectious about being surrounded by people who care so intensely.
But of course, in true “welcome to live sports” fashion, the second half happened. Scotland slipped behind, Argentina surged, and by the end, the scoreboard confirmed what my rugby-fluent friends had already sighed about fifteen minutes earlier. We’d lost it.
Here’s the thing: I didn’t mind (don’t let my friends know I said that). I know that’s practically sacrilegious in a stadium full of committed fans, but I never set out to watch Scotland win, I had come to the game to learn, to experience and to laugh. It was in the whole atmosphere: the noise, the slightly overwhelming energy, the running commentary from my friends, even the freezing cold Scottish air, and the sense that even if I didn’t understand the finer points, I belonged there anyway.
That’s the part I think I’ll remember. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with people I care about, trying something I’m yet to fully understand, letting myself be pulled into their world for a couple of hours. I realised rugby, at least for me, isn’t about the rules or the scoreline: it’s about socialising, laughing over poor players choices with friends, and collecting little pockets of memories I’ll carry with me wherever I go.
Will I go to a third game? Honestly, yes. Will I know what’s going on? I will do my best. But I’ll be there, headset on after buying my own, finally starting to understand why everyone keeps piling on top of each other, and enjoying every minute of it anyway.
I can’t help but reflect on all of that — my own experience learning, fumbling, growing as a new fan, against the backdrop of the recent Sky Sports “Halo” TikTok controversy. The dedicated channel explicitly “for female sports fans” seemed genuine on paper: “to build a welcoming community … whether casual or committed” just like I was at that rugby match, someone new, maybe naive, but eager to learn.
But the way they tried to do it misfired badly. The branding leaned into clichés: pink hearts, “lil sis” messaging, pastel fonts, love-heart filters. Many of their first videos focused more on matcha lattes, “hot girl walks,” and even “shipping” athletes, rather than real, technical sports commentary.
As a newcomer to sport, that whole saga resonated with me deeply, because it felt like Sky was implying that women like me need things simplified, sugar-coated, or “made cute” for us to engage. But here’s my truth: I’m new, yes, but not stupid. I don’t need my sport feed wrapped in pink glitter. I don’t need everything turned into internet meme culture to understand or enjoy what’s happening on the field. I can understand the rules after some explaining, I can follow tactics, I can care about player performance. This all comes from the atmosphere of the game and community attached to the sports. I don’t need condescension to make me feel welcome.
What bugs me most is the assumption that a female sports fan is somehow only interested in a superficial, trendy version of sport. Women have been fans, analysts, and experts for decades, and it does a disservice to suggest we need a “little sister” channel to understand real sport. If anything, it divides rather than includes. By segregating us with stereotyped content, it undermines the real progress that women’s sports coverage has made.
That said, I don’t hate the idea behind Halo. I love the intent: wanting a space where women feel seen, heard, and encouraged in sport. But good intent isn’t enough, execution matters. If you’re going to build something for a community, involve them. Don’t just dress up what you already have in pink and call it a day.
Representation is vital, but it should be real: meaningful discussions, real analysis, women’s voices speaking about women’s sport, not just pink graphics.
