Allow me to take you back to a simpler time. The year was 1999. We were all wearing cargo shorts and halter tops (OK, so that doesn’t sound so different, but stay with me). Things were very different in the world of women’s sport.
Outside the Olympics and the occasional tennis match, netball was the only women’s sport with a television presence, and even that was limited. National league games were played on Friday nights and broadcast on a Saturday afternoon. But with the final of the then World Netball Championships taking place in New Zealand, a rare live broadcast was on offer. For a young netball fan, it was exhilarating.
I was 14 years old and full of enthusiasm for a young player called Sharelle McMahon. My dad (who was also my netball coach), my 12-year-old sister and I gathered in the lounge room, ready for some of the quietest cheering we were capable of, so as not to wake my mum before her night shift began.
Naturally it was to be Australia and New Zealand competing in the final – back then the other games in the tournament were more of a formality, a way to make the other nations feel included in something before the inevitable showdown between these two old rivals took place.
New Zealand was incredibly confident in the most New Zealand way possible. Headlines in the newspaper dubbed the Australian team “Jill’s Jeriatrics”, named for their coach, Jill McIntosh, and her team of pensioners (average age 28), and were certain these ancient relics wouldn’t get within spitting distance of the youthful New Zealanders (average age 25).
For a time it appeared they were right. After a tight first quarter, the game began to swing New Zealand’s way and, at three-quarter time, the Silver Ferns were ahead by six goals – in 1999 this seemed like an insurmountable total. It was stressful and a loss felt unavoidable so I decided I would simply not engage with it any more and go have a bath instead. In many ways I was an ahead-of-my-time self-care queen.
But, as soon as I had finished running the bath, the final quarter began and my Fomo kicked in, so I swiftly abandoned my plans and went back to watching the game.
For the final quarter, McIntosh rolled the dice and subbed off her captain, Vicki Wilson, bringing on Jenny Borlase to goal shooter alongside McMahon in goal attack, who had come on late in the third quarter and offered a spark in those short minutes.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, Australia drew level and much of the quarter was spent in a goal-for-goal tussle. With two minutes remaining, the score was 41-all and the ball went up and down the court as both teams tried to take the lead. With one minute left, there was a toss-up – a rare sight even in those days – and the goal keeper, Liz Ellis, made her move before the whistle blew, giving away a free pass, then a penalty for a contact as Silver Ferns’ goal shooter Donna Loffhagen was receiving the ball back. Loffhagen steadied herself for what was surely the winning goal with 25 seconds remaining.
In our living room, we held our breath as the ball sailed for the goal ring before hitting the rim and bouncing back towards a leaping Ellis, who had anticipated the miss and made the jump of her life to take possession. We forgot about not disturbing Mum before her night shift and yelled as if our lives – and the game – depended on it. We were all on our feet, my sister and I standing on the lounge as if this extra height might give us a cheering advantage.
The ball made its way toward Australia’s end, was nearly lost when Shelley O’Donnell slipped on a decal, was regathered by Carissa Tombs and made its way into the hands of McMahon in the circle with five seconds remaining. Inexplicably, McMahon decided this was the perfect time to get a little bit closer to the post, passing out of the circle, getting the ball back and finally shooting with one second left.
The ball fell through the net as if in slow motion, McMahon sauntered back to the transverse line – pulling out a wedgie as she went – before realising that she had made history. The team piled on top of her as New Zealand stood by heartbroken. Back at home our yells had turned into screams of joy. Mum wandered into the lounge room in confusion as we tried to explain why we had woken her.
It is a night that will be forever sealed in my memory and truly one of the most defining moments of Australian sporting folklore, which is why it has my vote in this poll. A team of scrappy, over-the-hill underdogs in a come-from-behind, against-the-odds victory over New Zealand? Surely there is nothing more Australian than that.
