Last weekend I went to a sporting field for a walk. As I joined a snaking queue of cars into the car park, with children of all ages jumping out and running to football fields and netball courts, I realised I had stumbled upon a ritual I used to know all too well: it was Saturday morning sport.
The world is in the middle of a sporting calendar frenzy this month. We have had the highs and lows of Wimbledon; the Ashes continue; and we are captivated by the long-awaited Women’s World Cup. And this weekend after four years, the netball World Cup begins in South Africa. We are spoilt for choice.
As we watch athletes compete, we are reminded how good it feels to be in the grip of competition, fighting for the next win. Even those who might not know anything about football feel the pull to the action of World Cup mania, and for your favourite sport, no hour is too late to stay up and watch.
But that day at the park made me realise how much I wanted to be back on the netball court, and just how important playing sport can be.
I’ve played netball all my life. I’m no state-ranked player nor did I ever imagine it as a career, but it is one of the great loves of my life.
At first I was like any kid who wants to be the one to score the points – as the shooter, striker or batter. But my coach soon decided I was in the wrong position and destined for defence. She was right, and I never looked back.
Hearing the thud of the ball that day in the park, the squeak of shoes and watching as the umpire switched a hair tie from her left wrist to her right as a goal was scored to remember who should have the next centre pass – a trick all netballers know – brought with it a flood of nostalgia.
I remember being woken at the crack of dawn to travel to games, donning a netball dress before adding every layer imaginable to keep warm in the winter. There was the dread if you forgot the shorts to wear under your dress, and someone always had to braid my hair tight enough that it wouldn’t fall out mid-game.
On the court we’d eye off the other team, mastering a pregame chant every side uses to stoke fear. On the sidelines, we’d observe the coach; silence or a worried look would always tell you if you were in trouble. Cheers from the sidelines would instead come from mums and dads – and thank god for them, because who do competitors always acknowledge at the end of a game? Their support squad.
There was also the sinking feeling when you only got put on court for half a match, or let someone else take your position because you were off your game that day. There were grazed knees, sprained ankles and jarred fingers that needed strapping. And there was always a yell of “here if you need” – a hallmark of the game – to signal you were ready for a desperate pass to the side.
In adulthood, we leave behind many of these rituals. School sport is hailed as an important part of our education. It is your chance to make your mark on the field, pitch or court, to feel like an athlete when perhaps you’re not. For some, it might be triggering, bringing back memories of forced fun and being picked last in the lineup. But others can hardly wait to join social teams at work or university to feed their competitive spirit.
But in the absence of the time or the drive to play in adulthood, at least we have the next best thing: plenty to watch on TV.
The Netball World Cup will be my chance to cheer like I used to for my own team. The rivalry will be in full force, the stakes high.
The affinity with a sport you love never leaves you and I have every intention to get back on court to play. For now, cheering from the sofa will do.
