No Easy Way Out: Alex's Story.

Alex Smith.

It’s a name you’ll almost certainly have never heard of.

Until two weeks ago, I hadn’t either.

Twenty-two years ago, though, it was a name being discussed by scouts and coaches at some of London’s biggest football clubs.

As a 15-year-old schoolboy Alex was captaining his school, his local side’s U17 team, playing for their Senior Men’s 2nd XI and was in the youth set up of a then Division One side.

He also had a dream.

Like so many schoolboys, he dreamt of playing football for England. Captaining them in a World Cup.

A lot of us have that dream – in football and other sports – but for most of us it remains a dream. At the end of the day, we just aren’t good enough.

By all accounts Alex was good enough.

He has a scrapbook his mum made full of newspaper cuttings that mention his performances. One Saturday morning five scouts from those big London clubs came to watch him play. Each of them had long chats with his parents about why Alex should go on the books of their club.

A month later he’d moved to a Premier League club. It wasn’t only his technical ability and work ethic they admired. What really stood out was a level of leadership that belied his years. “You’ll captain this club one day”, he was told.

“It was probably the last time I felt properly wanted in football,” Alex reflects.

Two years later, on a Tuesday evening after a match, Alex took off his boots.

He never put them back on.

A year previously, at 16, Alex had come out to his parents. They were, he says, “far more supportive that I was expecting”.

He’d been particularly nervous about telling his Dad. He shouldn’t have been. His Dad hugged him, told him he loved him and “went straight out to try and find a book about being a father to a gay son.” They laughed about that.

“Looking back, my parent’s acceptance gave me a huge sense of false security. It’s hard enough coming out in 2022. Back in 2001, it was a terrifying thought. I knew from when I was 14, but I hid it for almost two years. I was so scared of telling people, sometimes I told myself it was a phase I would grow out of. When I told my parents it was such a huge relief. I felt a bit embarrassed for thinking they’d react badly. I then figured that perhaps wider society would be just as welcoming.”

Sadly, Alex was mistaken.

One Sunday morning, Alex’s boyfriend came to watch him play football. After the game they hugged affectionately. It was seen by his teammates. The ribbing – as Alex describes it - started immediately. Literally as the teams were walking off the pitch.

“I was expecting a few comments. A few jokes. We were all relatively immature 15- and 16-year-olds. I didn’t find it offensive or intimidating or anything like that. I hate it now, but at the time I accepted it as ‘lads being lads’ and played along. ‘Yeah, I’m gay. Yeah, I like kissing boys.’ I figured it would pass pretty quickly.”

But it didn’t.

He was nicknamed GayLord. Unoriginal, but hurtful. There were ‘jokes’ every week. One day someone put a copy of Maxim in his kitbag during training. His boyfriend found it and started questioning Alex’s sexuality. They split up.

Despite everything, Alex was excelling on the pitch. He was made vice-captain. He was scoring goals. Creating assists. He was consistently the best player on the park.

But then that Tuesday evening in March 2004 came. The team was losing and Alex – for once – was having an off game. He gave the ball away and the opposition scored. From behind him, he heard a shout.

“Get that poofter off the pitch!”

He turned round expecting it to have come from a teammate. He was wrong. It had come from one of the Dad’s on the sideline.

His team was smirking. A couple of people on the sidelines were too.

“I looked at my coach on the sidelines. I looked at the ref. I looked at the other parents. I knew everyone had heard it. No one, not one single person, did or said anything. And that’s what got to me the most. It wasn’t the words. It was that no one stood up for me. To me their silence was a sign that they all thought the same thing.

“When I took my boots off after the match, I hadn’t made a conscious decision that it would be the last time. It wasn’t like a ‘I quit’ moment. It was a gradual thing. I missed the next training session telling my coaches I was injured. The same thing happened on the next one. I quickly realised I didn’t miss it. I was relieved to be out of it.

“My Dad attempted to change my mind. Told me I couldn’t let them win. Told me to just ignore it. Said he’d speak to the club. He was desperate for me to not give up on my dream.

“The truth is it was no longer my dream.

“I don’t know what happened in that conversation. I didn’t want to know. My dad told me it was sorted, and I should just do what made me happy. He thought – or probably hoped – that after a while I’d join another club and resurrect some kind of football career.”

Alex never did. No other club ever approached him. A couple of his teammates messaged him to start with asking if he was coming back. One poignantly read, ‘We need you back captain.’ But soon those messages stopped too.

I don’t know how you’ve felt reading this. But it got to me a bit listening to him. A sick feeling in my stomach.

And then Alex said one more thing. A line in amongst a bigger reflection he was sharing. And it jumped out at me.

“It was easier for everyone if I wasn’t there.”

This was the best part of 20 years ago. Alex says things have got better.

But I worry about this constant comparison between how things are today with the past. Or with the ‘culture’ in other countries. It feels self-defeating. Just because we (might) be better, doesn’t mean we’re anywhere near good enough. Or welcoming enough. Or inclusive enough.

“That’s why we need more allyship in clubs,” Alex replies. “From outside of the LGBTQ+ community.”

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No Easy Way Out is a self-initiated campaign to build allyship and better inclusion in grassroots sport. More coming in 2023.