Breaking the mould: Why footy (and other sports) isn't just for boys

My top childhood memories involve tyre swings, a mulberry-stained singlet, messy hair, and 3/4 length paisley-pattern shorts.

Ripped and faded red with a tattered waistband, wearing those fatigued shorts felt like sporting a material token of adventure and triumph.

Society's idea of 'traditional gender stereotypes' - softly-spoken women who must only love the colour pink - it's just not a box I've ever fit into.

There's a warm climate for women in sport given the national heat radiating from "Matildas fever" at the moment.

Whether it's at a professional or club level, female athletes are at the top of their game.

Our presence in the sporting world is undeniable; and it continues to gain both momentum and respect.

Mum threw on a home video a fair few years back, a reel of child-me in a dance concert out of an old school hall.

I can't pinpoint if the genre was jazz or something ballet-inspired, but I looked pretty out of place on the stage, despite the category.

It looked more like a game of 'who the hell am I supposed to be copying and running behind here' than a carefully choreographed dance routine.

Team that with prying out inanimate objects from the old wooden studio floorboards, and it was about the same moment when mum embraced that "the girly stuff" really wasn't my fit.

She signed me up with a local soccer club not long after, and I was the only girl in the squad for many years.

I may as well have been a pogo stick during games, though, because the boys avoided passing me the ball at all costs.

Cut to being perfectly positioned in the box at just the right time off a corner kick, I'd eventually "prove" myself a worthy teammate.

My first goal was a header, belted to the back of the net with the ever-glorious swish sound.

Not being fed the ball wasn't an issue I ever had again; and it was the moment that later led to a permanent striker position, well into my teen years.

Fast-forward to today, I'm 34 years old and the skipper of a women's rugby union team in the Central West.

My weight sits somewhere in the early 60-kilogram-bracket; my height only just pushes 160 centimetres.

A loose forward on the paddock, I play at blindside flanker and pack in at the side of an eight-person scrum.

By a mile, I'm one of the smallest players in a sea of brazen, big-statured and beautiful women - whether that's running alongside or against them.

And I feel right at home there.

But it's not that difficult to find little girls rolling in the mud of a soccer field these days, or see young women rising up through the ranks of rugby league.

Fashioning 'sprig' marks after busting their guts out during games, you might even find women rocking up to formal events with (proudly) battered legs.

If anything, they're like badges of honour - derived from a passionate warfare.

So, to think that our species has morphed from domestically-bound duties - a pack that's risen from listless realms of oppression - it's a pretty strong "here we are" message to send.

On the other side of the gender cliche coin, I have an 11-year-old son who tells people his favourite colour is "rainbow".

He couldn't break down the unwritten algorithm of having to choose just one of many stunning options and quite frankly, neither could I.

My rainbow-loving kid has played rugby union for the past five years. He's proudly donned bright (and odd-legged socks) at training from time to time.

And while he wore glitter-covered, neon pink shoes to my sister's wedding, he also thinks Iron Man is the s--t; and still froths a good mound of public dirt.

For those still living by the old script - where pink is for girls and blue is for boys - please, take a good look around.

There are girls out here who are as tough as all get-out, some as hard as nails.

And for a lot of these women, not unlike young soccer-me, we've had to carve out our spaces in predominantly male-dominated spaces.

To a large degree, we still are.

But we nurture every knee scrape, and wear our bruises like unapologetic armour.

And there are boys out here who wear pink commuter-style bike helmets, whack up A3 posters of Princess Peach, play dress-ups and don't mind an uplifting My Little Pony soundtrack, either.

But they also play rough-and-tough footy; and I think that's bloody wonderful.

To the people who meddle with the lingering, outdated scripts in the sporting world - power to you.

Because you're defying the odds that a past society created; and one that did so in your absence.

And for those who haven't already given a specific nod to women in sport by now, then maybe, it's due time to consider it.

Get a go of the female talent that exists, the courage (and difficulty) it takes to forge your own way, and you'll see determination lingering at every turn.

Female athletes are paving the way for little girls across the globe, and there's never been a better time to back those horses.

But if you're still not keen on supporting the rise of women in sport, then that's okay, too.

Because we've got each other and we'll back ourselves, with or without you, and ditch the box of notions that never belonged to us from the beginning.

And we'll do it accompanied by every bruise, busted kneecap and split eyebrow along the way.

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