The Many Masculinities of ‘Ted Lasso’

Sports films and television shows are not, in most cases, the arena of storytelling one first thinks of when considering genres most conducive to thoughtful narratives about masculinity. This is not to say there are no exceptions, but rather that in terms of mainstream tales of athletes and teams, characterizations of gender are overwhelmingly one-note. American storytelling in particular favors chest-thumping, adrenaline-first game sequences, and archetypal narratives of underdogs and teamwork that leave marginal room for layered gender commentary. Watch through Hoosiers (1986),  Remember the Titans (2000), Miracle (2004), and Bleed for This (2016) and you’ll experience a merry-go-round of overblown visions of performative masculinity or circumstances where the only acceptable expression of sadness or pain connects to the loss of a big game or after an unexpected death. In short, there’s little room for nuance.

When the announcement came that Apple TV+ was adapting a character from a series of NBC promos into the television show Ted Lasso, expectations were understandably low. No matter the love for Jason Sudeikis as a comic performer, the potential for a whole show spun from the one-note joke about an American football coach named Ted Lasso coaching an English football team seemed minimal. Somehow though, that idea has resulted in two seasons of a smash hit, Emmy-winning television show. What I find even more remarkable however is that a show focused on professional sports has emerged as a salve through its multifaceted and multi-cultural examination of masculinity. After a first season that set up an expansive roster of characters, the most recent season positioned the ensemble to face down deeply personal impediments concerning self-worth, grief, and, yes, masculinity. 

While there exist a slew of characters to examine, four emerge during season two as vectors for the show’s appraisal of masculinity; Ted Lasso (Jason Sudeikis), Nate Shelley (Nick Mohammed), Sam Obisanya (Toheed Jimoh), and Roy Kent (Brett Goldstein). Considering each in terms of their season arc as well as how they interact with one another, a reading of Ted Lasso’s interrogation of multiple masculinities, both of the toxic and healthy varieties, emerges. So, lace up those boots, take your biscuits out of the oven, and let’s head out to the pitch.

Ted Lasso

In the eighth episode of season one, Ted labels his defeating Rupert (Anthony Head) in darts as “white knighting,”  a turn of phrase that reveals the extent to which Lasso views his involvements in England as an opportunity for him to take the hero’s perch. If season one was about building Ted up as an alternative to AFC Richmond’s norm of repression and relative toxicity, season two fragments the Lasso facade of placidity. Yes, season one introduced Ted’s anxiety and grief surrounding his divorce, but those took relative backstage positions to his day-to-day coaching and friendship building. The season two premiere wastes no time introducing us to Ted’s decidedly unenlightened view on therapy through Dr. Sharon Fieldstone (Sarah Niles), sports psychologist. Ted’s resistance to Sharon’s involvement with the team unfurls a series of revelations concerning his own repressed trauma: he blames therapy for his divorce, harbors fury at his father’s suicide, and uses his obsession with helping others as a way to avoid working on himself. 

Here, Ted is a stand-in for the well-documented reality of men eschewing therapy, opting instead to bottle up their issues until they eat away at them. Ted rebukes one toxic norm by regularly engaging in emotional conversations with colleagues and friends of all genders, but his willingness to do that stops short of actively confronting his most deep-seated sorrows revealing his vice grip on that facet of toxic masculinity. He drinks alone, or rather just with his pain, on Christmas until Rebecca (Hannah Waddingham) drops in. He restrains his rage and grief until it erupts in the form of a massive anxiety attack during a Richmond match. Charting these moments over the course of the season, Ted’s arc is one of progressive descent to relative rock bottom where he is finally forced to reckon with the issues he submerges under his often “toxic positivity.” One does not end up in a therapist’s office in tears gripping a pillow unless one has displaced dealing with trauma by focusing on others for decades. 

The difference for Ted is that even for his unhealthy and suppressive coping mechanism, he has built a community with a foundation of mutual love and care which results in his friends rallying to help him, with one major exception we’ll get to shortly. Ted’s parallel narratives, those of accepting Sharon’s professional help and opening up to the team about his mental health struggles, represent a refreshingly honest depiction of one man’s journey towards healing. Ted is a fundamentally kind, loving, and empathetic man who exhibits the qualities of inclusive masculinity that should always be aspirational, but that is not mutually exclusive with harmful traits, both to one’s self and others, that must be worked on. Therefore, season two evolves Ted by scrutinizing his soul, leaning into the messiness and pain of self-actualization, and bringing him out on the other side set up to be an advocate for mental health in sports. 

Nate Shelley

When Ted arrived at Richmond in season one, Nate was stuck in the role of overlooked and bullied kit man. Rebecca did not know his name, the players took perverse pleasure in badgering him, and his baseline expectation was that no one would care about his opinion. Steadily though, Ted and Coach Beard’s (Brendan Hunt) joint belief in him and openness to valuing his football acumen bring him closer to a healthy sense of self-worth, and also results in his promotion to assistant coach. Throughout all of this, the underlying currents at play within Nate’s arc concern the toxic realities of hegemonic masculinity that devalue men who do not outwardly represent the dominant cultural norms of being muscular, aggressive, and white. While Nate’s ethnicity is never specified in the show, Mohammed has discussed his Trinidadian and Cypriot Greek background as a major factor in how both he and the writers approach Nate. Altogether, this delivers Nate into season two as a full-fledged coach, but one who still harbors a lifetime of mental and emotional wounds from a society that pummels him for simply existing.

At the opening of season two, Nate’s clear desperation to solidify his status as an elevated member of the Richmond community manifests in his cruelty to the new kit man Will (Charlie Hiscock). Nate chides him for putting the towels in the wrong spot for the players, using lavender-scented soap in the wash, and so on. While Ted and Beard confront him at times for this, their approach is topical, failing to engage Nate in a way that allows him to open up about the latent issues manifesting as his displaced aggression towards Will. Consequently, Nate’s season two arc grapples with how to demonstrate his increasing desperation to be taken seriously as a man in realms professional, social, and sexual bubble up in increasingly toxic ways. His behavior towards Will grows in heinousness. A quest to secure a table for his parent’s anniversary results in an expanded assertiveness, but also includes a seemingly throwaway moment of his asking for the hostesses number, a twinge that flares further when he kisses Keeley (Juno Temple) during a suit-fitting. Nate lacks committed male figures in his life to support him through a harrowing emotional time, and so his heart curdles. 

Much of this can in fact come back to Ted’s “toxic positivity” — Ted brings back former Richmond players Jamie Tartt (Phil Dunster) and Roy Kent to the squad and coaching staff, respectfully, without discussing the impact of welcoming in two men who Nate struggled with in various ways. Jamie represents all that is violent about hegemonic masculinity attacking someone viewed as “Other,” while Roy stands in for Nate’s terror at being replaced by someone who fits the football masculinity mold in more traditional ways. By the time Ted apologizes for his actions in the finale, it’s far too late. Nate has suffered in silence because he was not provided the same avenues for communication Ted afforded others. Therefore, Nate’s joining West Ham is a clearly articulated cause and effect; Nate was not provided with a healthy way to process his emotional landscape, and so latched on to the toxic but validating opportunity with Rupert. Nate’s story is, in short, a crushing tragedy centered on the cost of white patriarchal society.

Sam Obisanya

A beloved supporting character in season one, Sam is afforded the chance to grow into a more central role during season two, one that foregrounds his maturation as a footballer, friend, and young man. Woven into all of this is the prominence of Sam’s Nigerian identity as a major factor in how he makes decisions about his life and career. This is not new, as a memorable beat in season one saw him returning a toy soldier to Ted while pointing out the colonial underpinnings of the figure, and Sam often reminds his friends that he dreams of joining the Nigerian National Team. However, Sam is also not turned into a totemic figure whose only characteristic is his Africanness, for season two also introduces major arcs focused on his grappling with new leadership responsibilities on the pitch and complicated love life off the green. In a genre that often tokenizes and or caricatures Black masculinity, Sam’s season two storyline emerges as a vital counterpoint to American film and television norms. 

Early in the season when Ted considers bringing Jamie back on board, Sam’s reaction embodies his vision of masculinity. He first storms off the field, not unexpected for a man in his early 20s in the throes of suddenly hearing that another man who belittled and tormented him might be coming back. When Ted pursues him, he then also has a frank and emotionally cogent conversation about his Jamie-related agony. The sequence is a microcosm of Sam’s character: he is a loving and thoughtful young man who is also just that, a young man full of the exuberance and rawness of youth. This scenario also draws a parallel to Nate’s anger at Jamie’s return but exhibits how Sam’s experience differs due to his place in the Richmond patchwork. Nate and Sam share the aforementioned heinous reality of existing as men of color in a society that dictates white hegemony as the ideal. Where they differ however is that Sam fits into the physical side of masculine expectations: he is tall, strong, and fast. Furthermore, he has Nigerian peers on the team that rallied around him, building a tight sub-community that Nate lacks, articulating how colossal a difference camaraderie makes when one is struggling. 

Beyond this, Sam’s two major storylines, those concerning his wrestling with how to best connect with his Nigerian roots while at Richmond, and how to navigate the dating world combine to provide him a rich season narrative. The dual arcs of the Dubai Air sponsorship and resultant protest alongside the courting visit from Edwin Akufo (Sam Richardson) examine Sam’s quest towards self-actualization in the form of marrying his role as a leader on AFC Richmond with his yearning to rise to the challenge of being a role model. Concurrently, without even considering the Rebecca of it all, Sam’s Bantr chatting and preparation for the first date revel in the delightful homosocial activity of relying on your “mates” to help look your best. Sam’s haircut scene is a lovely counter-narrative to the constant reinforcement of hegemonic masculine ideas that men should not care about their appearance beyond tending to rippling muscles. Sam embodies a vision of Black masculinity that celebrates the richness of identity and leans into fun. Ted Lasso takes pains to sidestep clichés about Black male athletes and present Sam as a layered young man experiencing all the trials and joys of coming into his own. 

Roy Kent

Last but certainly not least, and truly number one in my heart, is the taciturn and tender Roy Kent. For Roy, season one concerned coming to terms with the end of a storied career while also embarking on a proper adult relationship with Keeley, all the while coming around to “the Lasso way” bit by bit. Season two opens on a Roy adrift, entirely unsure of how to forge a life beyond his playing days. He refuses to attend any AFC Richmond matches, rebuts Keeley’s suggestions to try being a Sky Sports pundit, and fills his days primarily by coaching his niece Phoebe’s (Elodie Blomfield) Under-9 youth football team. Translated into terms of critical masculinity, Roy is at a crisis stage concerning how to define himself as a man after closing the door on the physical undertaking that has defined his life since he was 12 years old. Much of the joy of season one came from Roy’s continuous defiance of expectations where his gruffness and traditionally masculine aggression were matched by his constant care of those around him, not to mention his love of the yoga moms who make up his key social group. 

Season two modulates what made season one Roy tick into his new space of liminal masculinity. Fascinatingly, much of this is accomplished through framing Roy with romantic comedy tropes. Roy’s first major arc comes by way of him accepting the Sky Sports position, but gradually realizing that he wants to be as close to the pitch as he can manage. In the fifth episode, Ted asks Roy for help getting Isaac (Kola Bokinni) back in competition shape. Roy grumbles at first but finally agrees, and after an outing to some backstreets football, Ted and Roy have a conversation in which Ted rolls out line after line from famous romcoms ranging from Notting Hill to The Princess Bride trying to convince Roy to come coach. The effect is to position Ted and Roy as a platonic couple in their own romance arc, one where, following classical tropes, Roy must detach before realizing what he’s missing and come back. Therefore, Roy’s opining that he “has to go,” followed by the mad dash back to the Richmond sidelines is a massive romcom homage that undercuts stuffy, old-fashioned ideas of masculine relationships as ones that must be bereft of intense emotions. Roy’s return to Ted’s side is a high mark of the season because it is done in a way that foregrounds their ardent affection for one another and Roy’s acceptance of Ted’s help.

Woven into that arc is the second major component of Roy’s season and developing masculinity: his romantic relationship with Keeley. A highlight of season one, their courtship has progressed beyond the honeymoon period of first blush into the realities of living as a couple. Keeley is instrumental in convincing Roy to return to Richmond, but his return also leads to a situation where he is slotted in for the traditionally feminine story role of being clingy. The knowing exchange of roles, and focus on the mature reckoning the two undertake to establish healthy boundaries is a monumental example of empathetic masculinity that forgoes egotistic posturing in favor of reflective conversation. Yes, Roy may let loose with a constant stream of variations on “fuck,” and he does headbutt Jamie in the finale before hugging him, but his relationships with Keeley and Ted embody a man who can be both a coarse personality and a giant beating heart. It’s possible the perfect encapsulation of Roy even came in the season premiere when he let Rebecca know what he really thought of her date when Keeley obfuscated. “You deserve someone who makes you feel like you’ve been struck by fucking lighting. Don’t you dare settle for fine,” he says. While he may be speaking to Rebecca, it is a worthy thesis for the way Ted Lasso treats Roy. They could “settle for fine” in depicting him, but instead, they work to make his particular brand of masculinity a true lightning bolt of creativity. 

In writing about masculinity in Ted Lasso, I could just have easily delved into Jamie, Higgins (Jeremy Swift), Beard, Rupert, or any number of other characters. That fact is a testament to the show’s commitment to challenging, subverting, and examining all that makes male characters within a sports setting tick. Even beyond that, it is a demonstration that decades of toxic male characters passed off as heroes deserve no space in a pop culture landscape where such nuanced depictions of empathetic and inclusive masculinities can exist. This is not to suggest that male characters should never falter or do things we disagree with. We love and feel for Ted, Nate, Sam, and Roy precisely because they are imperfect souls pursuing a better vision of themselves. 

Tying all this back to the broader tapestry of the sports movie and TV genre, it is key to note that Ted Lasso accomplishes its examination of multiple masculinities while also maintaining its stride as a hilarious comedy and underdog story. Therefore, the lesson for other sports projects should not be to simply try and duplicate Ted Lasso, but simply serve as a reminder that it is possible to eschew lazy and damaging gendered storytelling while still attaining other genre goals. Just as we are having conversations about gender, race, sexual orientation, and so on in genres such as horror, romantic comedy, and science fiction, Ted Lasso marks an ideal jumping-off for point for conversations about the same in sports narratives. Ted Lasso, just likes its characters, is imperfect, but it nonetheless stands as a testament to empathetic and nuanced storytelling. 

My hope is that the dual critical and popular acclaim that Ted Lasso has enjoyed for both seasons can be, much as the title character is for AFC Richmond, a compassionate Trojan horse for those who have been previously uncomfortable with turning a critical eye on masculinity. One show cannot turn around centuries of cultural conditioning, but popular media has real-world impacts, be they as small as a massive rush on chess boards, or as lasting as a science-first investigator inspiring women to follow their STEM dreams. Who knows, but just as Ted would probably tell me, it might just be possible if we all believe.