WHAT is this big myth that women don't like sport?

During the Monday morning banter at work this week, talk in the office naturally turned to England's weekend of glory at Edgbaston.

"Yeah, it was fantastic!" I said. "My heart was absolutely hammering when they got to three runs to win!" Incredulous male eyes swivelled to rest their gaze upon me and a gobsmacked silence descended.

"Well," said the first bloke to get his breath back. "It must have been good if even YOU enjoyed it."

The fact is, I've always liked sport. I'm the daughter of a Leeds United fanatic and caught the bug from him.

As a young kid I even knitted Dad a supporter's scarf from leftover baby wool and was deeply offended when he failed to wear the resulting fluffy lemon, white and aqua number.

I stayed a passionate Leeds fan in spite of this early trauma, and when I was 11 I went on to draw a prize-winning felt-tip picture of the Elland Road crowd.

The editor of my local weekly paper wrote to tell me I had won his competition in a letter that began: "Dear Master Clee...". He looked a bit shocked when I turned up to collect my winnings wearing a pink top and a skirt, something he got used to a few years later when I started to work for him.

Back then, though, my prize was a real football signed by Don Revie and the Glory Days team, a set of Johnny Giles' sock tags and other bits of United memorabilia.

As soon as I got back home I did what any other soccer-mad kid would do. I put on the sock tags, went out on to the street and played with the football until the names were worn away.

In those far-off carefree days, I had yet to discover the agony of the football supporter. When second-division Sunderland defeated my heroes in the 1973 FA Cup final, the pain and humiliation were too much to bear. My team were never the same again, and sadly, reluctantly, I decided to cut my losses.

I switched allegiance to my Mum's favourite sport - tennis - and for two weeks in June each year, our sitting-room was gripped by the epic battles of the centre court.

It's fair to say that my interest in Ilie Nastase was not driven entirely by his sporting prowess.

A little later on in life, I could even be prevailed upon to attend the odd cricket match. Somewhere in my bundles of old photos is a snap of Geoffrey Boycott in the field at Bradford Park Avenue, posing for me with his back to the match in progress. I can't quite remember now, but I can only hope Yorkshire were cruising to victory at the time.

That's the truth about women and sport, really. We've just got a bit of discrimination.

Goran Ivanisevic taking the Wimbledon crown at the fourth attempt, as a 29-year-old underdog... fabulous. Coe and Ovett dominating world athletics... magic.

Jonny Wilkinson taking England to victory in the Rugby World Cup, naturally; and (controversial, this one) Manchester United snatching 2-1 glory and the Treble in the dying seconds of a European Cup Final everyone but Ferguson's men believed they would surely lose.

But Whitby Town v North Ferriby? Only in the finals of the FA Vase at Wembley, I'm afraid.

And don't even think of suggesting I might like A Question of Sport.

Updated: 08:54 Wednesday, August 10, 2005