When I was in primary school I was desperate to start my netball career. I was certain that “career” was the right word as I planned to play netball for Australia and therefore become rich and famous. Behold my nesting dolls of delusion.
Joining my first team, Newstead Junior 2, was the start of a very steep netball learning curve. Unfortunately it wasn’t steep enough to lead to international netball, but I still learnt a few things, which I’d like to share.
When I was in high school I played a couple of seasons of mid-week indoor netball. This has all the same rules as outdoor netball except you’re allowed to kill people. It was an incredibly rough competition. Luckily the courts were surrounded with nets and there was no bitumen so breaking a pelvis didn’t hurt.
A team from a local low-security prison were also in the competition. One week one of their players threatened to kill Julia. This was clearly unacceptable. So at half-time our captain swapped Julia out of that position. And swapped me in. I was baffled by this decision because I tend to shit people at the best of times.
I kept my distance and the woman only threatened to punch me in the face. I didn’t play my best half of netball ever, but it wasn’t the point. I had discovered something important about myself; people didn’t always want to kill me.
The next week this lady apologised, explaining that she hadn’t been taking her medication. No worries I said. No worries at all.
As a general rule, the prison team were much less frightening than the young mums team who brought their toddlers to the game, smoked next to the court and absolutely hated our university-destined guts, to which I can only say fair enough as I imagine we were pretty annoying.
For me, netball and losing are intertwined. I have never been a member of a winning netball team. I’ve never played in a final. I probably lost 95% of all netball games I played in. The score for my first ever netball game was 17 – 1. With losing so inevitable I set other goals. I might feel like we’d had a great game because we achieved half the score of the winning team, or because we won one quarter, or because no-one wanted to kill me (see Indoor Netball).
Men playing netball may seem shocking but once you accept that not everyone will be classically trained (and you might witness such horrors as a Goal Attack taking a free pass outside the goal circle) mixed netball can be quite fun. I’ve filled in for a few mixed netball teams in Melbourne and have mainly enjoyed it without tsking.
One of the proudest achievements of my life was winning the Most Improved trophy in my first netball season. I did deserve that trophy. I had started the season playing half games as a Wing Attack. I ended the year getting the occasional quarter as Centre. The lesson is, make sure you start as badly as you can to maximise apparent improvement.
These are a pair of black underpants worn over your normal underpants so that no-one sees your underpants when your incredibly short skirt flies into the air. Here’s a thought – shorts.
Orange quarters are the perfect food for half-time. All athletes like to be sticky and have bits in their teeth.
Ra Ra Ra
When I played classical netball, at the end of each game both teams were required to stand in a circle with our arms around each other and chant:
Three cheers for “Winning Team”, Ra, Ra, Ra.
Three cheers for “Losing Team”, Ra, Ra, Ra.
Three cheers for the umpires, Ra, Ra, Ra.
I presume we were made to do this to prepare us for the for the indignities of giving birth.
Socks were very controversial on the ’90s netball court. Ankle sports socks were the fashion but were banned. Everyone still wore them (except me because my mum wouldn’t let me) and usually nothing was said. The exception was on the one occasion when my C Grade team Wesley Hill unexpectedly and uniquely won a game. Our opposition team (I say that, but I mean their mums) put in an official complaint about our socks and we didn’t get the match points.
I like to hope that these dark ’90s days of socking shaming teenage girls have passed, but I thought that about Pauline Hanson.
I am always shocked by sports where the players criticise the umpires. This was not allowed when I played netball. I don’t know how they achieved such discipline but I think it involved making examples of people.
I only personally umpired one game of netball. I had aced the written netball umpiring test and felt quietly confident. Then I discovered that in real life it’s all a lot more confusing than in the book. No-one actually abused me while the game was going on, but after there were a number of official complaints, including from the team who won.
Apparently a lot of people make New Years Resolutions. I am scornful of this. Don’t they know this doesn’t work? I think. What’s so magical about 1 January? I scoff. They won’t last a week. I snicker.
However, I think August is the perfect to time to report on key projects and assess progress against KPIs all as part of reaffirming commitment to the spirit of continuous improvement.
It is in this spirit that I am reflecting on my progress this year.
Have you read all of Dickens? I imagine myself saying every time someone is doing something I don’t approve of and consider a waste of time. Like watching television shows that I don’t watch or playing golf. To be fair, I have not read all of Dickens either and I often watch Neighbours and sew cloth napkins. Actually, let’s not read all of Dickens. I won’t judge if you don’t.
Earlier in the year I decided I would not watch Neighbours unless I was doing my stretch and strength exercises at the same time. The goal was to be able to touch my toes and not feel my brain. It hasn’t worked. I still can’t touch my toes and my brain thinks all kinds of nonsense and some of it hurts. The good news is that Karl and Susan’s marriage seems solid at the moment. This proves that anything’s possible so I will keep chipping away at it.
I feel terribly guilty about milk. Those poor cows.
But cheese! And flat whites! (I don’t like soy milk, it tastes like beans. And the first time I had an almond milk coffee I couldn’t believe they were allowed to charge money for it because it tasted like sick.) I have cut back on dairy but I haven’t cut it out. It’s yet another example of my self-serving and inconsistent ethical framework.
Leaving aside whether half-measures are evil, there are definitely still some low hanging yoghurts that I could pick off my dairy consumption tree. I’m going to start having oat milk on my cereal. After all, oats and oat milk are old friends.
This still leaves a fair bit of dairy in my life, however, mothers don’t mind giving up their babies to slaughter if it’s contributing to the production of Camembert.
A few years ago a friend of mine said that she never reads trash mags. Not even at the hairdresser’s? I said. No, never. She did not know who the Kardashians are.
Inspired, I also stopped reading trash mags. I stared resolutely at the pot plants in waiting rooms and took out a novel. I waited for the knowledge to leave or at least stop flooding in. But it didn’t. I still found out that the Duchess of Cambridge never has bare legs in public.
It is the internet’s fault. Particularly, the naughty Age website. I go to the site planning to read about new crop rotation techniques and political affairs but I actually click on swimsuit articles and famous faces (particularly if they look funny). So, I am resolved to find a truly worthy news site and only visit that when I’m not reading Proust.
You’re welcome to snicker, she won’t last a week, any time you want.
I’ve been to a fair few Trivia Nights and attending one is always an emotional roller-coaster. I’m finally ready to talk about it. There are six emotional stages of Trivia Night that I always go through.
I start the night feeling hopeful. I envisage, that much like in Slumdog Millionaire all the answers will be obscure facts I have picked up in my journey through life. I listen with great attention to the first questions, poised to frantically spitty whisper the correct answers to my team mates. ‘How do you know this stuff!’ they will gasp. ‘Oh -‘ I will say, ‘I read Ulysses by James Joyce while on maternity leave.’
By the end of the first round I realise that the only questions I will know the answers to are the ones that everyone knows like, ‘Name 23 Kardashians whose first name starts with K’. If there is a question on Ulysses by James Joyce I will not know the answer because I didn’t understand it when I read it and have subsequently forgotten precisely 100% of what I read (when I say I ‘read’ Ulysses, it’s probably more accurate to say that I looked at every word on every page).
Boredom sets in after I accept that there will be no questions on the life of Richard Feynman or Phar Lap and I also accept that my useful role in the Trivia Night is strictly that of chips eater and doing my darndest in the heads or tails competition (I always choose heads every time in homage to Rozencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead). My interest in the evening wanes and the evening waxes. Trivia nights last for approximately 100 hours if you’re the type of person like me who’s confused about where the Pacific Ocean is and hasn’t seen many films.
Embarrassment can arise in a couple of different ways. Chemistry questions are usually mortifying as I have a degree in Chemistry but no knowledge of the subject. The other way I can be humiliated is when suddenly, joy!, I do know the answer to a very daggy music question that no-one else knows because they are not daggy enough.
There’s always one question that I do know the answer to but because I am by then staggering under the accumulated weight of my previous ignorance, I don’t have the courage to speak up, and as a result, my team gets it wrong. For example, I might not cry ‘No sir! You are wrong!’ when a team mate says that Phar Lap won two Melbourne Cups. (Actually that’s a bad example, I would fight to the death with righteous certainty over that one, but I did once remain silent while a team mate attributed a quote to Adam Smith that was clearly Karl Marx, which I should never have let happen.)
The final stage is elation, which either comes from the night being finally over or, and you might be surprised by this, because my team has won! Because despite having very little personal knowledge I have been on many winning tables due to sensible friend selection. Once we’ve won I care very little about not having done anything to contribute to the team’s success and am overjoyed and very happy to take home the free wine.
Last week I wrote about Anne of Green Gables, who was a role model of mine when I was growing up. I related to her because I liked reading and had a temper on me. In one important respect we are very different, however. Anne of Green Gables prided herself on never making the same mistake twice. Whereas I act like if a mistake’s worth making it’s worth making every day.
Here are some of my most frequent mistakes that I have never learned from.
1. Spelling hierarchy and bourgeoisie
I know it looks like I’ve nailed it here but Spell Check helped a lot. These were my first attempts: heirachy and bourgeouis. Sometimes I spell them so badly that Spell Check refuses to dignify my attempts with a spelling suggestion. I then have to try random combinations of vowels until it takes pity on me. There have been times in my life when I wrote the words bourgeoisie and hierarchy a lot (I’m a really fun pen-friend). For a couple of months in 2007 I actually knew how to spell them unassisted but that knowledge could not last and and now I get it wrong every time.
2. Knowing where almost anything in the world is
Like Bridget Jones, I am hazy on the location of Germany. It’s fun to laugh at Americans who can’t find Afghanistan on a map but I laugh in fear that someone might ask me the same question. At various times I have tried to rectify this knowledge chasm. A few years ago for about a month every time a country was mentioned I looked at a world map to locate the place hoping to aid memory. This has had no long term benefits and my knowledge of geography is abysmal. To be honest, Brisbane is not where I think it is.
3. 6*8 = ? and 7*8 = ?
I know all the rest of the my times tables, but my first thought when asked either of these is ’42’, which I know is wrong. I have to work the answers out in my head using addition. There have been many, many times in my life when I’ve needed to know what 6*8 or 7*8 equals but this repetition has not helped and my mind is blank each time the question comes up.
4. Eating too much directly before a run
I once learned the lesson that eating a big container of muesli and yoghurt an hour before a run will make me feel sick. The next week I learned the lesson that eating a massive muesli bar and an apple shortly before a run will make me feel sick. The next week I learned that eating two pieces of chocolate cake just before a run will make me feel sick…it’s an ongoing learning by doing process that appears not to be working.
5. Forgetting to add muffin ingredients
I make a batch of muffins about once a week. I have a standard recipe that I know by heart and the flavour depends on what we have available in the cupboard. The quality depends on whether I remember to add all the key ingredients, which I probably do about half the time. On multiple occasions I have forgotten: the sugar (they look pasty but I think they taste okay if you put honey on them, my partner acts like they’re poison), the eggs (they come out a bit flat), and the butter (they are rubbery and disgusting).
So good on Anne of Green Gables for only drowning a mouse in the pudding sauce once. If it were me I’d have gone on to drown a rat, a hamster, a mole and then looped back around and drowned another mouse. I’ve got no idea where Prince Edward Island is either.