Behind the Scenes: Away Trips and Messy Starts

Being new, being noticed and being asked a question I wasn’t expecting

That’s me, in my early 20s, in the first couple of years at Bath Rugby.

Back in my early 20s, whenever I told people that I worked for Bath Rugby, they would instantly imagine that life was glamorous, elegant and a lot of fun.

It was fun, yes.

But it was far from glamorous.

For a start, the work was relentless, which didn’t leave much room for a social life. And even if it had, someone would always somehow know your business anyway, so it often felt like living in a bit of a goldfish bowl.

We also started off in this tiny office on a quaint Bath street that was, quite literally, wonky. The stairs were narrow, the rooms were cramped, and every available surface seemed to be stacked with matchday programmes and paperwork.

It wasn’t polished.

But it was my dream job, and I had worked hard to get there. I took it on without fully knowing what I was doing, hoping I could hit the ground running and figure it out as I went along. It really was a baptism of fire.

That became particularly clear on my first away trip.

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On that trip, I had understood that I travelled with the team. Of course I did. I managed all of the press!

But, from the minute I got on the team bus to head to the airport, I realised I was in an environment where everyone else knew exactly how things worked…and I didn’t.

There was only one other woman on the trip and, in my eyes at least, she had been there long enough to have proved why she belonged. (I think she had already done about 15 years!)

I hadn’t.

I hadn’t been given a squad number, which meant I was carrying my own luggage while everyone else had branded kit. I only had one club T-shirt. Everyone else looked like part of something established, and I felt like I was hovering just outside of it.

Still, I got on with it. What choice did I have.

We had arrived the night before the match and after the evening meal, I decided to head up to my room. I had reached the point where I’d had enough of trying to work out where I fitted for one evening.

Just as I turned towards the stairs, the team captain pulled me aside.

“Kate, why are you here?” he asked.

For a moment, I didn’t really understand what he meant.

Why was I in the corridor? I was just heading up to bed.

Then he said it again, adding “here, in France,” and I realised what he was actually asking.

Why had I come on the trip at all?

I felt it immediately. That flush of heat, that sudden awareness that you are being looked at and assessed in a way you hadn’t quite prepared for.

He went on to explain that the other press officers never used to travel, which I knew wasn’t true. My predecessor had, and so had the one before her. But that wasn’t really the point.

The point was that my presence needed explaining.

From a practical perspective, it made no sense for me not to be there. I was responsible for the match report, the post-match media, collecting the coach and players and managing the press conferences. It was part of the job.

But in that moment, none of that seemed to carry much weight, or, actually, any weight at all.

I can’t remember exactly what I said back to him. It was probably something along those lines, something calm and factual, something that explained the role rather than challenged the question.

What I do remember very clearly is how it felt.

It hurt. A lot.

It hurt because I respected him, probably more than any other player I worked with - before or since. And when doubt comes from someone you admire, it carries weight.

The implication, whether intended or not, was that I wasn’t really there to do my job.

I wish I had said something sharper. I wish I had challenged it more directly. But I didn’t.

Instead, I went up to my room and cried.

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That moment has always stayed with me.

Not because of the shock and hurt I felt, but because it forced a decision.

I realised quite quickly that no one was going to make me feel like I belonged or help me to fit in. If that was going to happen, I was going to have to build that belief myself and carry on regardless of what any of them thought.

So I made a quiet commitment.

I wasn’t going to argue it or try to explain it away. I was just going to remove the question altogether by being good enough at my job that it stopped being asked.

I focused on understanding exactly what was required of me, preparing properly, staying calm when things got pressured, and paying attention to the details that often got overlooked. Over time, that started to shift things.

People didn’t suddenly change, but the dynamic did. The questions and snide comments stopped, and in their place came something much more useful — reliance.

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What I hope you take from this

• You won’t always be welcomed into the room. Sometimes you have to earn your place in it.

• Confidence doesn’t come first. It follows evidence.

• Respect is rarely given early. It is built through consistency.

• Feeling uncomfortable is not a sign you shouldn’t be there. Often, it’s the opposite.

• You don’t need to prove people wrong loudly. You can do it quietly, through how you operate.

• The way you respond in those moments shapes far more than the moment itself.