They feel they can say what they like. It's not brave at all.
When pandemic lockdowns emptied football stadiums and moved the game entirely onto screens, something corrosive surfaced in the digital void: West Midlands Police recorded 58 reports of online racist abuse directed at footballers during the 2020/21 season, compared to just one the year before. The anonymity of the internet, combined with the dissolution of the social structures that ordinarily temper human behaviour, created conditions in which hatred could be expressed without consequence — and largely was, with only two arrests resulting from those 58 reports. The story of this spike is, at its heart, a story about what people are willing to do when they believe no one is watching, and what it costs a society when the answer turns out to be: quite a lot.
- A 58-fold surge in racist abuse reports in a single season exposed how swiftly digital spaces can become arenas for targeted racial hatred when physical accountability disappears.
- The penalty misses of Bukayo Saka, Marcus Rashford, and Jadon Sancho at Euro 2020 unleashed a torrent of racist vitriol so severe it stripped away any pretence that the abuse was about football at all.
- With only two arrests from 58 reports, the gap between the scale of the harm and the reach of the law laid bare how ill-equipped enforcement remains when hatred hides behind a username.
- As pandemic conditions eased and stadiums refilled, online reports fell sharply — but racism did not retreat; it simply relocated from keyboards to terraces, trading one form of anonymity for another.
- Campaigners and supporters' groups are pressing for structural change — mandatory identification online, cross-body collaboration, and bystander reporting — but the question of how to punish speech spoken in the shadows remains stubbornly unanswered.
When pandemic lockdowns emptied football stadiums, West Midlands Police recorded 58 reports of online racist abuse directed at footballers during the 2020/21 season — up from a single report the year before. Matches were broadcast more widely than ever, reaching audiences far beyond the usual fanbase, while players taking the knee before kickoff seemed to provoke, rather than deter, abuse online. The abuse was not scattered or incidental; it was deliberate and targeted.
The ugliest moment came with Euro 2020, delayed to the summer of 2021. When Bukayo Saka, Marcus Rashford, and Jadon Sancho missed penalties in the final shootout, they were met within hours by waves of racist vitriol across social media. The attacks had nothing to do with football. They were about race, amplified by the reach and permanence of digital platforms.
Enforcement offered little comfort. Of the 58 reports, only two arrests were made. Police acknowledged that offenders might be dealt with by other means — a careful formulation that obscured a harder truth: most people who sent abuse faced no consequences whatsoever. Anonymity that enabled the hatred also shielded it.
The following season, reports fell to five. The pandemic had eased, stadiums had reopened, and the specific conditions that produced the spike — isolation, heightened media exposure, a major tournament — had passed. But the problem had not ended; it had moved. As online reports declined, racist incidents inside grounds began to rise.
Alan Cleverley of West Bromwich Albion's Official Supporters' Club called the online abusers cowards, arguing that mandatory identification would strip away the protection they relied upon. Tony Burnett of Kick it Out called for sustained collaboration between clubs, authorities, and governing bodies, urging bystanders to become active witnesses. The data left a stark lesson: remove the social friction of being seen and known, and some people will say what they have always thought. In 58 separate moments across one season, someone decided a footballer's race was a legitimate target. Only twice did that choice carry any cost at all.
When stadiums emptied during the pandemic, something unexpected happened in the digital spaces where football fans gathered. West Midlands Police fielded a staggering 58 reports of online racist abuse directed at footballers during the 2020/21 season—a year when matches were played in front of no crowds at all. The year before, in 2019/20, they had received just one such report. The numbers tell a story about what happens when the traditional boundaries of fandom dissolve, when screens become the only stadium, and when anonymity replaces accountability.
The spike coincided with several converging forces. Matches were broadcast more widely than ever, reaching audiences who might never have attended a game in person. The national conversation had shifted too—Black Lives Matter protests dominated headlines, and players began taking the knee before kickoff to protest racial injustice. These visible gestures of solidarity, meant to challenge discrimination, instead seemed to provoke it online. The abuse was not random or scattered. It was targeted, deliberate, and often vicious.
Then came Euro 2020, delayed until the summer of 2021. England reached the final. Three young Black players—Bukayo Saka, Marcus Rashford, and Jadon Sancho—missed penalties in the shootout. Within hours, they were engulfed in a torrent of racist vitriol across Twitter and Instagram. The attacks were not about football anymore, if they ever had been. They were about race, pure and simple, amplified by the reach and permanence of social media.
Yet enforcement proved nearly impossible. Of those 58 reports made during the 2020/21 season, West Midlands Police made only two arrests. The force acknowledged that "offenders may be dealt with by means other than arrest," a careful phrase that masks a harder truth: most of the people hurling abuse online faced no consequences at all. The anonymity that enabled the abuse also protected it. Finding someone behind a username, proving intent, building a case—these are laborious tasks for police already stretched thin.
The following season, 2021/22, the numbers dropped sharply to five reports. The pandemic was easing. Stadiums were filling again. Euro 2020 was over. The spike, it seemed, had been tied to those specific conditions—lockdown, isolation, heightened media attention, a major tournament. But the problem did not disappear; it migrated. As online reports fell, racism at matches themselves began to rise. The abuse had simply moved from screens to stands, from the safety of a keyboard to the relative anonymity of a crowd.
Alan Cleverley, secretary of West Bromwich Albion's Official Supporters' Club, called the online abusers cowards. He was not wrong. "All these people who put stuff up, it should be that they have to give their name and address," he said. "There's a lot of cowardice involved in it. They feel they can say what they like." His frustration pointed to a structural problem: the internet had created a space where people could express hatred without the social friction that might normally restrain them. No one was watching. No one knew who they were.
Tony Burnett, chief executive of Kick it Out, the anti-racism organization, called for sustained collaboration between clubs, local authorities, and football's governing bodies. "We would encourage other fans, when possible, to do the same if they witness discrimination of any kind in football in the future," he said, appealing to bystanders to become witnesses and reporters. But the challenge remained: how do you punish speech that happens in the shadows, spoken by people who believe they will never be found?
The data from West Midlands Police offered a grim lesson about the pandemic's hidden costs. It was not just about illness and isolation. It was about what happened when the structures that normally contained human behavior—the presence of others, the risk of recognition, the weight of community—were stripped away. Online, behind a screen, in the dark, some people revealed what they had always thought. The numbers suggest that for 58 different occasions in a single season, someone decided that a footballer's race was a legitimate target for abuse. Only twice did that decision carry a cost.
Citações Notáveis
All these people who put stuff up, it should be that they have to give their name and address. There's a lot of cowardice involved in it.— Alan Cleverley, West Bromwich Albion Official Supporters' Club secretary
We would encourage clubs, local authorities and football's governing bodies to continue to work together to understand where and when discrimination happens and bring those responsible to justice.— Tony Burnett, chief executive of Kick it Out
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did the numbers spike so dramatically? Was it just that people had more time online?
Time was part of it, but it was more than that. Stadiums were empty, so the traditional social pressure—the person next to you, the steward watching, the risk of being recognized—that all vanished. Online, you're alone with your phone.
But the abuse was directed at specific players, specific moments. It wasn't random.
No, it wasn't. Euro 2020 gave people a focal point. Three young Black players missed penalties in a final. That became permission, in some minds, to say things they'd been thinking all along. The tournament was the spark, but the fuel was already there.
Only two arrests from 58 reports. That's a massive enforcement gap.
It is. Police can't easily trace someone behind a username. Building a case takes time and resources. And there's a question of what crime you're even prosecuting—is it harassment? Incitement? The law hasn't quite caught up with how abuse works online.
The numbers dropped the next season. Does that mean the problem solved itself?
Not at all. It just moved. As stadiums reopened and people returned, racism reports at matches started rising. The abuse didn't disappear—it shifted venues. It went from screens to stands.
So the pandemic didn't create the racism. It just exposed where it was hiding.
Exactly. The pandemic removed the friction that normally keeps people in check. It showed us what happens when anonymity is total and consequences are zero. That's the real story.