Keep politics out of sport? Good luck. Sport has never been more political

Last Sunday, just before kick-off in the final round of the season’s Premier League fixtures, on the referee’s whistle at every ground, every player took the knee.

Borrowed from American football as a gesture designed to demonstrate an intolerance of discrimination, going down on one knee became routine for the country’s top players during the pandemic. This season, it was only rarely undertaken, reserved for special occasions. And in most stadiums, the sight of their heroes kneeling inspired a round of applause in solidarity, a sympathetic appreciation of the principles on show.

Though not everywhere.

At Elland Road, where relegated Leeds United were about to play their last Premier League fixture for a while, the players’ statement was soundtracked by disgruntled boos and heckling. At Leeds, for a noisy minority of the regulars, the symbolism was something they could do without. For them it signalled an unwanted intrusion of politics into their sport.

Indeed, for those who, like the Elland Road regulars, insist that sport should be a politics-free zone, these are testing times. From Gary Lineker tweeting his views on the government’s asylum policy and Novak Djokovic scribbling on to a camera lens his opinions on Kosovo, to the climate protester who smeared orange powder over the table at the World Snooker Championship and the animal rights activists gluing themselves to the Grand National fences, barely a day goes by when politics does not make ingress into our sport. And that is without even mentioning the gathering storm around trans participation in women’s events.

Not that there is anything new in it: sport has long provided a megaphone for the committed to advertise their cause. Back in 1913, a 40-year-old teacher called Emily Wilding Davison ran in front of the King’s horse Anmer at the Derby and was tragically, horribly trampled to death. She was not trying to prevent the race from happening. Rather she was seeking to attach a Suffragette flag to the horse’s bridle. And in her violent end, she became a martyr for the cause of women’s rights, her name still synonymous with the ultimate demonstration.

A less catastrophic protest came in 1970 when Peter Hain and Gordon Brown – later pillars of the establishment both – organised pitch invasions to object to the South African rugby team then touring Britain. Their efforts were so successful, the Springboks did not return for another 25 years, until the apartheid regime in their homeland had been dismantled.

And in 1975 at the Headingley cricket ground, the night before the final day of the fifth Ashes test, a bunch of intruders broke into the ground and etched into the turf the slogan: “Free George Davis.” They were campaigning to have their friend Davis released from prison after he had been convicted for holding up a post office, a crime he insisted he hadn’t committed. As a protest, it may have infuriated the many thousands anticipating the outcome of a finely balanced test match that had to be abandoned, but it worked.

The following May, Davis was released from prison after the home secretary Roy Jenkins, alerted by the publicity, became convinced the conviction was unsafe. Not that Davis had much time to enjoy watching any cricket after his release: he was jailed for eight years for armed robbery in 1977, then sent down again in 1987.

But this was the point those protests established: sport provides an unparalleled platform for publicity. Lineker showed that earlier this year when he published his tweet that compared the language used by members of the government about asylum seekers to that which was common in 1930s Germany. The former England international and Match of the Day host has built a significant following through his football and broadcasting endeavours.

But it was the hapless over-reaction by his employers at the BBC – who suspended him from presentational duties, claiming he had breached guidelines that turned out not to exist – that really gave his remarks legs. And he thoroughly enjoyed the embarrassment it brought to his critics, including the 25 Tory MPs who, while spending much of their time decrying cancel culture, demanded he be sacked from the corporation.

Few protesters, however, have Lineker’s prominence. But what they can do is borrow a bit of visibility from a sporting event. The idea is to use the moment when the focus of the world is trained on one place to raise their issue. Nothing offers an opportunity quite as much as sport. In the arena, everyone is looking. Everyone is focused. Attention is there to be seized.

It doesn’t even have to be an event that has any relevance to the cause. When two Just Stop Oil protesters ran on the pitch at Twickenham during the Premiership final recently, they were not seeking a ban on rugby union. What they are after is for the world to end its dependence on fossil fuels. They were simply doing their thing where they knew the cameras were lurking. And sure enough, they were all over that evening’s television news, spreading their orange paint across the greensward.

Which means this summer, almost every grand public sporting occasion is expecting to be targeted by those seeking to make a political point. At Ascot and the Derby, at Wimbledon and The Open, security measures are being upgraded even as we speak to prevent ingress or disturbance. Everywhere, things are getting serious. Everywhere, the organisers are trying to keep politics out of sport.

Not that those in charge of grand events are entirely immune from facilitating the use of their property for political ends, as we saw with last winter’s World Cup. Like international competitions stretching back to the 1936 Olympic Games, Fifa’s showcase was cheerfully sold to a regime anxious to proselytise its ambition.

Qatar did not host the tournament because it fancied the chance to stage a few football matches. Its leaders spent nearly £200bn in order to project themselves onto the world stage, to advertise their independence from the looming presence of their neighbours Saudi Arabia, to inform those reluctant to trade with them that, boy, were they a modern, organised, 21st century business operation.

And their lickspittle partners at Fifa happily complied, ruthlessly clamping down on anyone who attempted to argue against the very idea that such a society should be hosting such a significant tournament.

The absurd chief of the organisation, Gianni Infantino, mocked the German national side who took to the pitch with a collective mime in protest at such authoritarian silencing. “Let’s just enjoy the football,” Infantino cooed, even as he presided over a tournament infused with political intent.

Intriguingly, while any symbol celebrating gay pride – such as rainbow hats or statement T-shirts – was confiscated by frisk-happy security staff on arrival at any of Qatar’s eight monumental stadiums, hundreds of Tunisian, Moroccan and Saudi supporters were cheerfully allowed to take to their seats swathed in Palestinian flags.

And our own football authorities are not immune to the imposition of a bit of politics of their own. On the weekend of the King’s coronation recently, the instruction went out that every stadium in the country should play the national anthem before kick-off.

At Liverpool’s Anfield the republican sentiment was sufficiently enraged, the tune was roundly heckled. When Manchester City played Leeds that day, however, the visiting fans, the very ones who were to be so infuriated at their players taking the knee, sang it loud and long.

Clearly, for many in sport, politics is only reckoned invasive when it expresses an opinion with which they disagree.