I work across a range of sports and always do my homework, not least because I still have to prove I deserve my spot in front of the mic. This year, I did a couple of stints in the Middle East anchoring a sports programme. It wasn’t my “main” sport, but I had an analyst with me to do the deep dive into its intricacies and what was happening on the field. I needed to know enough to tee him up to get the best out of him, but crucially I can hold a broadcast together; following a running order, taking cues from the gallery and knowing what kind of questions to ask the analyst.
A couple of days before flying out, I had a call from the producer to talk through what would happen when I got out there. The producer and I had a chat about how the programmes would look and how much specialist knowledge I’d need. “Oh,” he said, dismissively, seemingly almost surprised by my question. “Don’t worry about that. The channel don’t care if you don’t know what you’re talking about, as long as you look glamorous.”
Excuse me?
While my petrostate paymasters might not have cared if I had a clue what was going on, I certainly did because I’m a journalist, not a beauty pageant contestant. This kind of thing, of course, is nothing new. But the fact it still happens in 2024 is exhaustingIn one of my other jobs, I present sports news at a well-known international broadcaster. At the start of one of my recent shifts, I was busy writing my scripts before going on air when someone from a different programme approached the bank of desks where I was working alongside a few others. He addressed the space generally. “Hello”, he said. “I’m looking for your sports presenter. I suppose he’s in the studio, is he?”I swivelled round in my chair. “No,” I said. “She is here.” It felt like a mic drop moment, and the guy was visibly embarrassed. His question as to the presenter’s whereabouts was innocuous, but it got my back up because these assumptions (even if they’re subconscious) that I’m taking a man’s job away from him are constant. All the while, we are told to buy into the narrative that sports broadcasting is changing.
It’s still, alas, no different in the UK. When I am out doing the job, I am relegated by sports fans and colleagues alike. At a recent commentary job, I was asked if I was a broadcast assistant when I arrived. Then there’s the colleague who questioned how much I knew about rugby, while getting some of his own facts wrong.
I generally stay away from YouTube comments, but one recently said that they were “pleasantly surprised by this female commentator”, while another called for me to be sacked mid-broadcast because “this woman is a pain to hear speak”. When I tell people I am a commentator, they always ask me if I played professionally. When I tell them no, most of them ask how I know enough about the sport to provide insight and analysis. It’s a fair question, and it’s not just viewers who’ve asked me that. It’s been my male contemporaries as well. While it might be a fair question, what is unfair is that men don’t really get asked it. And the answer is: “Because I am a professional sports broadcaster.”Some men I know in the industry feel their noses are out of joint and they’re being overlooked for jobs in favour of women. I was once told: “You only got this job because you’re a woman.” I replied: “What about all those times you were picked first because you’re a man?” This industry has never been exactly a meritocracy, and you can’t assess people objectively. There’s no “data”, you can’t compare our sales figures, our treatment success rates, or the number of clients we attract. Everything is subjective, and someone, somewhere is always going to feel they were more deserving of a job than someone else.
Where are the women in the press box at the lower league football matches, or around the less prestigious events in other sports? Of course there are a few – but not enough. It’s not that women lack the skill or ambition, but there is seemingly always an extra hoop to jump through to show those hiring that you are capable. Men are simply not criticised in the same way. It’s also become common to say that women shouldn’t be working on men’s football because it’s “a completely different game” to the women’s. It’s not a completely different game. It’s the same game played by different sexes. Kabaddi, for example, is a completely different game.
Rebecca Adams is a sports broadcaster
A new year’s resolution you can actually keep
These days I only have one rule when it comes to new year resolutions: do not, under any circumstances, write them down. Don’t put them on social media, or on a Post-it note stuck to your bathroom mirror, or in the notes section of your phone. Chances are high you won’t keep your resolutions, but as long as you don’t write them down chances are equally high you’ll have no memory of making them by next December.
I’ve learned there is simply no point in negotiating with future you - this person who no longer shares your goal to write a play, or to read 50 books in a year. Don’t let their failure be your failure. Besides: if you only manage to read nine books in 2025, you’ll still be nine books less stupid than you were in 2024.
In the meantime here’s something you can do right now to override future-you’s lack of commitment: support the Guardian’s work in 2025. You’ll be supporting independent journalism at a time when it’s more desperately needed than ever, and I promise that we will never send you an email reminding you to practice your Italian.
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