Date: 15th October 2026
Hiding in Playing Sight
By Donald C Stewart
one of the things about growing old is your memory begins to lapse. It’s not that you go into full Alzheimer’s mode or anything like that, but now and again, the old joke of walking into a room and forgetting what it is that brought you there starts to become increasingly regular. And more importantly, simple words, simple names start to be beyond your memory’s recognition. You can grasp all of them, but you don’t always get them.
One of the things that I am grateful for is that I can remember the names of all my children, though perhaps their birth years are things that sometimes elude me.
When I read of a 79-year-old former professional footballer struggling to remember the names of his children, the obvious thought I had was perhaps he was a footballer who during the 70s and 80s had to head a thick leather ball more often than he needed and therefore was suffering from that terrible condition, Alzheimer’s.
Tragically, and therefore ironically, that’s not the case here. Tony Powell, now 79, is resident in the United States, and has an incredible story to tell.
The story I read in The Athletic, had a black and white photograph of Powell in his pomp, his hair reminiscent of the time, flowing locks that probably would have been impressive in the wind as he spurted down the wing. A steely eyed gaze that told you of the determination to achieve, behind him a vast number of standing supporters there to support the team who will be familiar with his striding across the pitch.
But Tony Powell had a secret that he hid for all of his time playing English football. In 1981 he transferred over to the San Jose Earthquakes, met the love of his life, cut off all connection with his family, including his children, and disappeared. It was believed that he was dead and it was not until an obscure film that was looking at the last resident of the Holloway Motel that he was found
Powell had spent 25 years there, first as its manager, then as its last occupant before he went off to stay in housing for homeless people in September 2025. The film, which was ostensibly about Los Angeles and its homeless problem, suddenly took a turn and became about Powell. Why? Because they discovered this man sitting on the porch everyday drinking wine had a story to tell that was as tragic as it was exceptional. A man who turned his back on his family and left no breadcrumbs to trace him is testimony to the prejudice of the 70s and it reminds me that perhaps we have not come far enough since then to embrace people like Tony Powell, because Powell was gay.
He shared a team with Justin Fashinu, a man that we know all too well, for a couple of years before Powell went off to the San Jose earthquakes. Eight years after Fashanu came out, he committed suicide. Powell did not complete the same fate, but it is clear that it was not far from his thoughts time and time again.
The love of his life had HIV, which became full-blown AIDS, and he looked after him. Frightened, terrified, scared, worried that his family would turn their back on him and refuse to have anything to do with him because he was gay, he had gone as far away as he could from the UK to escape judgment. In the 1970s people were being banished for their sexuality, and he never had the courage to turn around to his family and tell them of his true authentic self.
So, he left his wife and his two children and went off to America never to speak to them again until the film took that turn and concentrated on his story.
The reconnection with his family decades afterwards… ? The way to find out what happened is to watch the film. I’m not going to leave you any plot spoilers. But the one thing I will say is that whilst I read this through the prism of the 1970s, I couldn’t help wondering through the prism of 2026 whether or not things have radically altered. Whether we believe that people who would come out now openly as gay could continue to be on the pitch, their names chanted on the terraces and lauded for their ability, rather than targeted for their sexuality.
Have the terraces matured? I had a conversation a few weeks ago with my stepdaughter where she lamented the fact that people on the terraces still seem to be in a Neanderthal state when dealing with minorities on the pitch.
I couldn’t agree with her more.
It’s one of the reasons why she struggles, I think, with supporting any football team. Disgust, contempt and derogatory comments gathered together as banter and defending their prevalence by claiming that people should grow a thick skin is still stuck in the playground of maturity.
Perhaps people become more inclusive and as people lose the plot over throwing tennis balls onto a golf course perhaps people should consider that we need to tackle more than just racism dressed up as sectarianism but also the idea that once you cross the Rubicon of a turn style, that you do not lose your responsibility as a human. You should behave in a stadium the same way that you behave in your own front room, in the street, and on a day out, don’t ya think?
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Tags: football for all, oor Donald