It’s a brisk Tuesday night as the local stragglers appear at the netball courts, some of us dazed from the trauma of dinner time with toddlers, others fresh from work in their jeans and boots.
It’s netball season in our little town, and it’s pretty spectacular. My favourite is the banter between husbands and wives, long term friends and siblings. The two sisters paired against each other in the circle, GS and GK, pushing and barging, cracking inside jokes from their childhood. The ref doesn’t bother to pull them up on it, they are evenly matched and it’s entertaining to watch.
My sister yells at her husband, who has worn his gum boots to the match after a wet day in the sheep yards. “Mark your player!” Babies sit in prams on the sideline, and it’s part of the refs unspoken duty to rock the pram or pick up the cranky baby. Most times we only have enough players for two teams, and we don’t bother with a ref.
It’s a chaotic, unpredictable and beautiful game, with no tally of goals, no timers.
One of the players will usually just yell out, “surely it’s half time?!” And we will all agree and head over for a drinks break, a mere 7 minutes into the game.
To signal the end of the match, someone will just yell out “next goal wins!!”. Then we all shake hands, have a chat and head home, faces red from the exercise, hearts happy for the connection.
It reminds me of an age of primary school, where we would run around just for the fun of it, with no thoughts to calories or weight loss. Reminds me that exercise doesn’t need fancy nike shoes or the latest Lulu lemon tights.
Sometimes, it can be running around on a netball court, with limited knowledge of the rules and verbal aggression from your wife when you’re confidently (and constantly) in the shooting circle. Dressed in gumboots and jeans, with a brightly coloured bib thrustover your chest with the letters “WD”.This is small town sport, and I’m a big fan.
