Over the past few weeks, many of those nobly attempting to defend England’s players from the boos and jeers of their own supporters have argued that taking the knee is not in any way political. In fact, this has become the most common defence of the players and the easiest ‘gotcha’ to use against those who continue to boo.

It’s a well-meaning position with an understandable, if flawed, logic. By framing it as a neutral and non-political statement in support of human rights and equality, the hope is that the message resonates with as many people as possible, bringing the maximum number of fans onboard.

Marcus Rashford’s laudable campaign against child food poverty has employed a similar tactic. For all the jokes about him being the leader of the opposition, he is unlikely to be seen canvassing in Batley and Spen over the next few weeks. Avoiding affiliations in favour of building broad coalitions has been the strategy, and an admittedly successful one at that.

But for a supposedly apolitical campaign, Rashford and his team almost exclusively spend their energy combating the policies and schemes of the political right. Why? Because the question of whether the poorest children in this country have enough food to eat really could not be anything but political.

The same is true of the fight for racial justice. If taking the knee was not a political act, it would not be necessary for the players to make the stand that they have. If it was not political, it would not provoke the reaction that it has. And that reaction, in turn, has demonstrated just how many still need to be convinced, and how necessary it is. The booing has disappointed the players, but only hardened their resolve.

As Jordan Henderson recently said, the booing ‘shows even more that we have to keep going, keep fighting it. From our side, it’s about being together and doing what we think is right – and that’s what we feel is right.’ Tyrone Mings, who participated in Black Lives Matter demonstrations in Birmingham following the death of George Floyd last summer, recognises that ‘when you have such strong beliefs there will be opposition to that.’

Mings is right. The players’ beliefs are strong and should not be willingly watered down. Denying the political nature of their stance cedes ground to those who oppose them, framing this debate in their terms. It legitimises their argument that a political statement has no place in football when in reality, football is inherently political. In fact, this past season has been among the most politically-charged in memory, particularly around questions of race.

We have seen the campaigns around combatting online abuse, including the four-day social media boycott in April, which have drawn much attention but have fallen short on solutions. Worryingly, some of the most popular proposals involve handing greater surveillance powers to the tech companies and social media platforms on which such abuse proliferates, which could have dire consequences for minority groups and activist organisations.

Further afield, there has been the commendable work of Norway’s players in highlighting concerns about the rights of migrant workers in Qatar, which will host next year’s World Cup. A study by the Guardian conducted earlier this year found that at least 6,500 migrant workers have died since the Gulf state was awarded the tournament in 2022. Many migrants have been employed in the construction of specially-built World Cup stadiums.

Football is ripe with political questions which will not slink away to the sidelines when the players decide to stop taking the knee, if indeed they ever do. And as possibly some of the more meritocratic institutions in English public life, live debates on issues of race, class, and gender are woven into the fabric of the England national teams themselves.

Why is it, for example, that playing for England is the most accessible route to status and recognition for working-class young men in this country? Why is it also the most accessible route to status and recognition for young black men? What does this say about football and its potential in creating a more just and equal society?

At the same time, why do the working-class and black young men who play for England still earn more of that status and recognition than the working-class and black young women who do the same? Why are Asian and other minority communities poorly represented in both the men’s and women’s national teams, to the point where they are barely represented at all?

It was only in February of this year that, due to the unavailability of Nikita Parris and Demi Stokes, England initially named an all-white 21-player women’s squad. Ebony Salmon’s subsequent call-up saved face but was a sticking plaster on an issues which is under-discussed: why is the women’s game considered more white and middle class than the men’s? Or in other words, why is the game failing working-class and non-white women?

These are football’s questions to answer—and to the FA’s credit, they are alive to them—but they are not football’s to answer alone, just as those who boo the taking of the knee are not solely the game’s problem but a wider symptom of British society. Football cannot solve these problems, but it is in a powerful position of influence.

The national game is one of a few mass cultural interests which has the reach and the range to make powerful statements of a political nature. Taking the knee is such a statement – one that the players are boldly and courageously continuing to make despite opposition. As a demand for societal reform along the lines of greater racial justice and equality, it is political. That should not be denied but celebrated.