From strong bodies, growing self-confidence and a team that is not really a team – anticipation of the European Football Championship

I'm standing on the sidelines and I see my daughter standing in a circle of players. I see the girls putting their arms around each other and shouting something to give each other strength. And I think it's important to call the team "team," not just when they're women or girls. Actually, it's always the better word.

When I close my eyes and imagine a team, I see an image that has to do with power. It's also loud, boisterous, and smells of sweat and unconditional commitment. When I hear the word "team," however, I see something softer, something shared, where gender doesn't matter. I see a structure of people who share a goal.

I open my eyes at the kickoff. The girls move around the field like a flock of birds, separate, yet united. They want to win, they fight, run, blow, shout, curse, and only rarely do they whistle for someone knocking another to the ground.

And I remember an indoor tournament in the winter somewhere on Lake Zurich, which I accompanied my daughter to. Four hours of fries and the smell of punch, lots of iced tea and filter coffee. There was shouting, running, waiting, and cheering. During breaks, the girls braided each other's hair, and one did a cartwheel fifty times. And I remember how the mood suddenly changed after the tournament, when the boys joined the girls, because an indoor soccer tournament for the boys took place directly after the girls' tournament.

Things got louder, more aggressive, more rivalrous, and more restless. It was mostly fathers who accompanied the boys, and it was also mostly fathers who patted their boys on the shoulder. It was fathers who changed the mood, and the boys adapted to them. Among the girls, however, mothers and fathers were equally represented, and I didn't see a single father pat his daughter on the shoulder a little too hard or laugh when his daughter knocked another girl to the ground.

My daughter tried to score a goal at that tournament, but somehow she never quite got to the front. But a teammate called out to her from the sidelines, telling her she could do it, she could definitely do it, that she should try. "You can do it," the teammate shouted—and then my daughter ran forward and scored a goal. And I think about how important it is to have someone shout out to you every now and then that you can do it, that you can do everything that needs to be done, in a world that's more inclined to shout, "Oh, you can't do that, you're afraid of the ball."

"No, I didn't." We call back.

We were sitting in the stadium, watching a friendly match between the national team and Germany. We sat directly behind the goal, half behind the German goal and half behind the Swiss goal. We applauded and shouted, our fries frozen because it was the depths of winter, and we hadn't felt our toes for a long time.

The German team was much, much better, and they scored goal after goal right where we were sitting, and we ate the fries with stiff fingers and were happy because the stadium was full and there were lots of men and boys in the rows cheering on the women.

My daughter is 12 years old. She runs across the field in front of me and waves. Her body, and the bodies of the other girls, will change. They will become more feminine and acquire bodies that are highly judged in our society: whether they are beautiful or not, too conspicuous or too plain, too sexy or too prudish, too dressed up or too neglected, sloppy or twee or bitchy or ugly or thin or fat.

I see these bodies standing on the field, confident, moving, strong, self-assured. They move around the field to reach the ball, to pass, to receive it, to score, to mark someone, they dive into the corner of the goal to save the ball, and it's not about how their body looks; it's about saving the ball, scoring a goal, for the team.

There are people who cannot even count the amount of money they will earn during their football careers, and there are others who are just as ambitious and willing to invest a lot, but will never be able to make a living from it, simply because they are women.

A girl scores a goal, and I cheer; her father is cheering next to me. And I'm looking forward to the next few weeks, looking forward to being loud, or quiet, and subtle, and showing solidarity, and being combative, and being moved, emotional. And the anticipation also has to do with the fact that there will be far fewer fights after the games, far fewer racist and sexist attacks, and far less violence than at the men's European Championship. It's the anticipation of making room for something that wasn't given any space, something that was instead pushed back throughout the history of sport, which was and still is dominated by men.

Maybe we'll eat fries on the Josefwiese, there'll be a screen, and maybe a Fanta or a beer. It'll probably be warm. I'm looking forward to the movement of bodies on the field. To the self-confidence. To the men cheering for women on the field.

It's halftime, and my leg has fallen asleep; the score is 1-1. Twenty-two young people sit in the shade with their water bottles and discuss what to do in the second half. I'm happy that my daughter plays soccer. Because she's on a team, and a team isn't a squad, but a network of people who support and strengthen one another and give each other a self-confidence that society unfortunately still doesn't give them to the extent they deserve because they're girls.

Julia Weber is a Swiss author. Her book "Die Vermischung" (The Blending) was published by Limmat Verlag in 2022.