Those who know me know I was a big Arsenal fan—until two years ago, when I stopped. This wasn’t about the lack of trophies, or an overpriced winger (see Pépé). It was about how the club dealt with, or more accurately, failed to deal with an Arsenal player accused of sexually assaulting multiple women.

One case was quietly dropped after what many fans believe was a financial settlement. The other, which took place overseas, never made it to a UK court because of jurisdiction issues. The legal system created enough shadows for the club to hide behind. And hide they did. This specific instance, however, illuminates a much broader issue. This is bigger than one player or one club; it’s about how institutions protect power and how we fans, teachers, leaders collude in cultures that harm women and girls while convincing ourselves we stand for something better.

I thought we were different

I grew up an Arsenal fan. Posters on the wall. Long sleeves or short sleeves? Whatever the captain wore, we all wore. This was the club of Ian Wright, the club of integrity, or so I believed. When OG12, the then-captain, was caught cheating on his wife in 2014, Wenger dropped him for a crucial game. We lost, and Wenger stood firm. This made me feel we were different. When Arteta was appointed, he preached respect, family, and shared standards, much like schools do. A sense of community that felt unshakable. 

I believed them—I had no reason to doubt. But as we see so often in schools, institutions that pride themselves on values are often the ones where harm hides in plain sight. This became painfully clear as I watched TP5 take to the pitch week after week. Despite fans crowdfunding a plane banner, “Kick Rapists off the pitch,” backed by Level Up, which flew over Selhurst Park at the season opener, the issue barely registered in the news. In the stands, however, there was an audible boo whenever TP5 touched the ball, a dissent that continued for the majority of the first half of the season.

Football isn’t the enemy

It would be easy to write football off as simply toxic, but that’s as simplistic as saying racism is only about individual ignorance. Football carries complexity. It’s the longest-running soap opera, a shared story across generations where we cry, laugh, and rage just as we do with music or movies. When Saka stepped up after his Euro penalty miss and the racist abuse that followed, it felt like the ending of a sporting movie. In the stands, strangers embrace after a goal and talk across divides they never would elsewhere. For many, especially in working-class communities, it’s one of the few spaces where joy, frustration, and solidarity live side by side. Yet we should also be clear-eyed: spikes in domestic violence during England matches tell us harm sits alongside passion, though this has as much to do with alcohol-fuelled culture as the sport itself. And yes, footballers earn eye-watering sums, but unlike many well-paid professions they pay taxes through PAYE, so no dropping the shoulder and slipping the tax. 

Football mirrors the classroom

Ben Lindsay recently wrote about sexual assault, calling for systemic change, not just individual reflection. I couldn’t agree more. But let’s take it further. At Class 13, we talk about how misogyny is baked into schools too. Think about the policing of girls’ bodies: hair too big, skirts too short, nails too long. Think about how uniform policies turn teachers into goalkeepers of “respectability” rather than a referee for equity.

The same logic that lets TP5 play on because “he hasn’t been convicted” is the logic that punishes girls for not conforming, and simultaneously punishes boys for joining in a conversation that schools themselves started by perpetuating misogynistic culture. Students didn’t create this culture; they’re reflecting it. The message is clear: women and girls are expected to manage harm rather than be protected from it.

The issue isn’t football or schools, it’s how power, misogyny, money, and camaraderie collude through these systems.

What does it say about our society that these are the values we protect, even when harm is staring us in the face?

Innocent or just not guilty?

Let’s be honest: “not guilty” is not the same as “innocent.” The law demands proof beyond reasonable doubt. But in a world where only ~3% of reported rapes result in charges and less than 2% lead to convictions, we can’t pretend that absence of a conviction equals absence of harm. Understanding how wealth and status shape access to the legal system matters too. Those with money can fund defences, settlements, and PR strategies that others simply can’t. I know anti-racist, pro-equity practitioners who have signed NDAs from schools and local authorities, so we know how justice really works. When the might of an organisation is pitted against the individual. So this isn’t just about footballers. It’s about us. Our schools. Our workplaces. Our silence.

So what now?
It would be easy to say the solution is “better conversations with boys.” And yes, that matters. But conversations alone won’t shift cultures built on control.

I used to believe it couldn’t happen here. Not at Arsenal. Not in a club I thought stood for integrity and community. But I was wrong. And schools are no different. The moment we start believing we’re the exception, we’ve begun cultivating the conditions for harm.

So what’s the worst that happens if we admit our potential for harm? At most, we slow down, reflect, and become more intentional in our practice. That’s not failure—that’s what justice work requires.