Having grown up with football all around me and joining a grassroots team at a young age, I have experienced the game and the people within it firsthand. The comfort found in my team and the joy of playing every match is what I thought football would mean to me forever.

Now I realise this was simply naive – I have witnessed a new side of football over the last two years. A sport that was once simply fun has become a source of stress and anxiety for my household.

Having stood on the sidelines of my brother’s matches, screaming his name in anticipation of his next goal, it was heartbreaking to see his team fall apart. Whilst he would spend hours at the park, repeating the same drill to perfect his free kicks, his so-called friends secretly discussed the opportunity to move on.

The situation hurt even more as I had seen my dad dedicate all his free time to managing the team and developing all players – no matter their original ability. His great efforts and actions full of support and kindness were simply discarded by ungrateful players and parents.

The downfall began when a supposed star joined the team, and his selfless father offered to help with training. After not even a whole season, it was revealed that these new members were not kindhearted but instead took advantage of the warm welcome they received.

Within the blink of an eye, multiple players were stolen.

With now half the team gone, the season was a struggle. My dad tried desperately to find new players. But despite his attempts, every match was played with no subs and every loss destroyed the spirit of the remaining lads even more.

Finally, the season came to an end and the folding of other teams proved to be our saving grace. Like a phoenix from the ashes, the team rose again to pursue yet another battle.

Unfortunately, triumph was short-lived as even after a successful series of games, yet more friends left for the glory of a first division team. My dad spent whole days of his summer holiday calling all the other managers he could, searching for new additions.

He couldn’t let the team fold because my brother would prove too shy to join another – he couldn’t let a passion from birth die.

Once again, the remains of other clubs found their way to the ruins of our team. 

Although the bare bones remaining fight against all odds, their love for football has likely been dimmed. New players don’t even have a kit to wear since the immoral actions of others continue through a petty reluctance to return clothes that don’t belong to them.

Last weekend, the boys won their first match for a while. My brother scored two goals from his free kicks; the drills he spent hours on have paid off. For the first time in months, he came home with a smile on his face and said, “I think I played better today.”

These six words hurt me even more. His confidence has been shrunk so small that he blames the faults of others and the consequent struggles on his own performance.

My mum sometimes says that the poaching was a blessing in disguise. That we don’t want those people on our team – our community – anyway. But although I agree with this in some ways, half of me thinks that I would happily welcome back those players if it meant my brother could find his love for football once again. 

So, I say poaching is evil. Pure evil.