In mid-November, during a World Cup qualification game, the England soccer player Jude Bellingham made a 40-yard pass to Marcus Rashford, who crossed the ball to the team captain, Harry Kane. The Bayern Munich striker then scored, sealing England’s 2-0 victory against Albania. Moments later, in the 84th minute of the match, Bellingham was substituted for Aston Villa midfielder Morgan Rogers.
Bellingham, a star player for Spanish club Real Madrid, threw his arms up in displeasure and trotted off down the pitch, shaking Rogers’ hand and that of England manager Thomas Tuchel, who gave him a pat on the bum. The incident should have been unremarkable, but it caused a furor among English sports journalists.
Despite Bellingham receiving the Man of the Match award for his performance, the Daily Mail’s chief soccer reporter, Craig Hope, couldn’t contain his indignation. He wanted Tuchel to leave this “divisive soloist out” because “his ridiculous antics threaten England’s shot at glory.” Even The Guardian led with “Tuchel criticises Bellingham’s petulance in England win.”
But even more remarkable was the treatment of Arsenal legend and England player Ian Wright’s comments after coming to Bellingham’s defence. Wright pointed out that Britain isn’t ready for a Black superstar. English fans, he argued, don’t like the fact that “he’s too uppity. … They all love [former Chelsea and French national player] N’Golo Kanté. He’s a humble Black man, gets on with what he’s doing. But if you get a [Paul] Pogba, or a Bellingham, and you get that kind of energy, that does not sit well with people. So someone like Jude, for some reason, frightens these people because of his capability and the inspiration he can give.” Wright was accused of playing the race card.
I didn’t think Wright’s comments were controversial. He simply echoed the idea that the beautiful game, as it is known in England, has long been an identity battleground — a truth that stretches back to George Orwell’s day. In 1945, Orwell, commenting on a match between Arsenal and Dynamo Moscow, wrote: “I am always amazed when I hear people saying that sport creates goodwill between the nations, and that if only the common peoples of the world could meet one another at football or cricket, they would have no inclination to meet on the battlefield.”
What Orwell was getting at was that soccer has identity at its very heart, and can easily stir up nationalist ill-will with little provocation. Wright simply expanded on Orwell’s idea by pointing out that England has never been entirely comfortable with Black players in the squad — especially now, when almost everything, from the economy to even the weather (bad weather means fewer boats crossing the English Channel), is filtered through the lens of immigration, race and identity in British politics.
And he should know — to me, he was greatness personified. We grew up watching and cheering for “Wrighty,” as he’s known to his fans. Until the Black Dutch player-manager Ruud Gullit arrived at Chelsea in 1995 and made us switch our allegiance, it was Arsenal for most of us. Many ethnic minorities in London felt the same; back then, several London teams were associated with racist, hooligan-ish fan bases.
Looking back now, it’s astonishing to think that he flourished during a time when Britain’s national broadcaster, the BBC, allowed household comedians like David Baddiel to perform racist blackface while mocking the dreadlocks of soccer player Jason Lee. I can’t imagine what Wright endured as he progressed from the “Blacks versus whites” training sessions at South London club Crystal Palace to the monkey noises and banana peels at Millwall Football Club. Yet he went on to become “Mr. Arsenal” — the flamboyant striker we all adored. We never saw the doubts, the insecurities or the loneliness he carried as he became the club’s all-time leading scorer, a record later surpassed only by French striker Thierry Henry, who joined Arsenal after Wright retired, having represented England 33 times along the way.
But Wright was more than just a soccer pundit — he became a cultural icon in the U.K. He’s appeared on “Top Gear,” “Big Brother” and countless TV commercials, and even penned a forgettable song called “Do the Right Thing,” collaborating with the Pet Shop Boys. He has been named one of the most influential figures in the country and uses that influence to support the women’s game, or to drop a message of encouragement to fellow Arsenal supporter and New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani. But despite all of that, he still receives racist DMs to this day — messages that make him feel, as he admits, like nothing.
But his defence of Bellingham caused just as much controversy as Bellingham’s actions, if not more. A selection of the responses on the website of the right-wing TV channel GB News, the British equivalent of America’s Fox News, offers textbook examples of how racism functions in the U.K. now, and proves exactly what Wright was talking about. But it wasn’t the obvious comments we’ve all heard before. “Half-caste … gets his skill from his white dad.” “It’s nothing to do with skin colour.” “Only someone obsessed with skin colour would see race.” “White boy David Beckham got it worse.” For me, these responses sounded like growing up in the ’90s — classic examples of how racism worked in the U.K. Anyone who has played Sunday league soccer has heard them. They always start the same way: first, the denial (“It’s nothing to do with skin colour”), then biological reductionism (“He got his skills from his white dad”) followed by false equivalence (“Beckham got it worse”), and finally, the accusation that Wright was being oversensitive, that he was wrong to point out racism.
But it was the more insidious comments — the ones that sounded reasonable at first glance yet concealed prejudice — that stood out. Take, for example, the comparison between the backlash Beckham faced after his sending off in the 1998 World Cup in France and Bellingham’s recent frustration. There should be no comparison at all. Beckham retaliated, lost his head and acted like a diva on the national stage; Bellingham merely expressed his frustration at wanting to play on. As former England captain Rio Ferdinand noted, Bellingham’s reaction was a nonissue — Manchester United greats like Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo would have used profanity if they were substituted.
“These big players want to play the game, they want to score goals,” he said. “I want the passion.” But instead, Bellingham was derided for being a “soloist.” Worse was that Wright’s observation — grounded as it was in lived experience — was treated as more offensive than the racism itself. To me, these comments suggested that Wright wasn’t imagining things at all; he was diagnosing a national pattern with a long history in the U.K.
Arguably, where Wright is wrong is in implying that this reaction is reserved only for its flamboyant Black stars. It also affects unassuming England defenders like Danny Rose, now retired, who said in 2019 that he couldn’t wait to stop playing soccer because of the racism he faced in everyday life. None of the experiences Rose mentioned were new or unfamiliar; they have been there ever since I was a teenager in the ’90s. I grew up just behind Chelsea stadium, Stamford Bridge, and whenever England played, if you went to a pub to watch the match, everyone cheered for England’s Black players — until one of them made a mistake. I still remember the vitriol when England’s first Black captain, Paul Ince, or Sol Campbell slipped up; the racism would just pour out. “Belt it in, you Black bastard” was a common refrain.
Now, thankfully, these comments have lessened in the so-called “post-racial” age; I certainly see how aware the new generation is of race, and that gives me hope. But they are not the ones who edit the tabloids or run the television channels. Anyone who follows soccer has to ask themselves why Black players receive different treatment from their white counterparts.
Why was England striker Marcus Rashford demonized by the Daily Mail in 2020 for accumulating a property portfolio while simultaneously campaigning against child poverty? Many soccer players do the same — in fact, given the brevity of their careers, it makes financial sense. When dutiful son and England winger Raheem Sterling bought his mother a house in 2016, a British tabloid, The Sun, ran the headlines: “The Fall of Sterling: Life and times of Three Lions footie idiot Raheem” and “England failure steps off plane and insults fans by showing off blinging house.” When he got a tattoo commemorating his father’s violent death in 2018, the same paper published: “Tat’s Gun Too Far: England ace Raheem Sterling sparks fury by unveiling M16 assault rifle tattoo on his leg.”
Now, let’s contrast this with the treatment The Sun gave England midfielder Phil Foden when he bought a house for his mother. “No Place Like Home: Manchester City starlet Phil Foden buys mum new £2m home aged just 18 after being brought up in modest Stockport suburb,” the headline read. Or consider the write-up England winger Jack Grealish received when he went drinking in Dubai in October: “Drinking Jack Flash: ‘Total legend’ Jack Grealish sinks beers in Dubai pub with footy-loving expats after being left out of England squad.”
It’s no wonder Sterling complained. In a 2019 op-ed in The Times, he wrote: “The media have a big role to play. Too often I see Black players portrayed as greedy or flashy for the way they behave, and white players written about in a positive way.” It’s not a figment of Wright’s imagination, then, that white players are often given a different kind of treatment — as if their behavior is merely the harmless antics of “lads,” “characters” or “free spirits.” Even the inexcusable is excused.
In this context, consider whether Bellingham deserved the media opprobrium. He broke no rules and merely showed his displeasure at being substituted because he loves the game. How many times have we seen English players show dissent when they are taken off? No player wants to leave the pitch. And so Wright simply made an obvious point: English fans accept Black brilliance when it comes in the shape of the endearing, humble Kanté. Everything else is read as arrogance. If it were a white player, it would be seen as charisma or leadership.
Where does this discrimination originate? According to Campbell, a former England captain, it starts at the very top. “Everyone has to ask themselves why there are not more Black managers in this country. … I’ve spoken to other Black players who want to coach, and they feel the same, that attitudes here are archaic. I hope and pray the environment changes.” Campbell made those comments in a 2013 interview. In 2022, John Barnes — the pundit, former Liverpool player, and one of the rare Black soccer managers — raised the same issue that Campbell had highlighted. He believes that the issue of race is baked into the very structure of English soccer.
In an interview with former Crystal Palace owner Simon Jordan, Barnes said that Black Englishness is policed. Black people are allowed “running, singing and dancing,” but there is a perception in society — and particularly in soccer — that asks the question: “Can we think?” Can Black players be trusted with leadership and authority? And the answer, in practice, is a resounding no. There have only been 11 Black managers in the top tier of English soccer, proof that racism in the sport is institutional, not merely interpersonal. And the issue with Bellingham’s dissent on the pitch is precisely that it reads as an assertion of leadership. This isn’t just about the fans — it is about the gatekeepers.
Arguably, soccer in England is so inherently tied to identity that it is unlike any other sport. Black British boxers like Derek Chisora, Chris Eubank, Chris Eubank Jr. and Conor Benn, for all their braggadocio, are not questioned about whether they are sufficiently British or English. They can be uppity, eccentric and bold, and no one raises an eyebrow. (Admittedly, if you did, you might not have an eyebrow.) In fact, such things are celebrated. But soccer occupies a different place in English culture: It is the closest thing the country has to a religion, and — as Orwell noted — a proxy for national identity. This is why England versus Germany is still accompanied by the theme tune from the World War II film “The Great Escape,” starring Steve McQueen. Just as that film erased the brown and Black contribution to the war effort, epitomized instead by stiff upper-lipped white English prisoners of war, English soccer still holds the all-white team of 1966 as its foundational myth. And so whenever a Black player dons the England shirt, he must prove his Englishness; miss a penalty and you revert back to your “original” heritage.
This is something former England manager Gareth Southgate tried to address in a letter published on June 8, 2021, entitled “Dear England,” which later inspired a stage play. In the letter, Southgate writes: “Venting that might have taken place while walking out of the stadium, or in the pub, has been transferred online. I get that. However, there are things I will never understand. Why would you tag someone in on a conversation that is abusive? Why would you choose to insult somebody for something as ridiculous as the colour of their skin?”
Southgate tried to change the culture in soccer. But then reality intervened. When Rashford and teammates Bukayo Saka and Jadon Sancho missed penalties in Euro 2020, the backlash erupted. Those old comments were back. Southgate had forgotten that the venting about a player’s color had never really stopped in the pub — it had always been there. The message now, as it was then, is clear: Black players are dear to England until they stop being useful. And the treatment of Bellingham is yet another example of that.
Because the truth is that England has had Black superstars for decades — Barnes, Wright, Ferdinand, Ashley Cole and others. What England has not had is the cultural confidence or courage to fully embrace them as English sons and icons in the same way it embraces its white heroes. Bellingham’s obvious brilliance cannot be confronted head-on. The coded criticism, the defensiveness, the insistence on colorblindness — these are not reactions to him as an individual but to what he represents. Bellingham’s moment has exposed something deep in the English psyche: It still cannot deal with a flamboyant, proud, Black English soccer star.
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