Commonwealth nations can easily be identified in two ways – their excitement about the birth of a royal baby, and their passion for netball. Just a few months ago, I had never heard of netball, a sport similar to basketball but with no dribbling. Netball’s like a game of catch and shoot, with lots of running in between. In primary school here in Perth, netball is a popular girls’ sport. The players wear their school uniforms with their hair pulled back in high ponytails. At a glance, a netball game appears as if the cheerleaders have taken over. Give me an F! Give me a U! Everyone off the court so we can show you how it’s done!
Willa inherited her dad’s attitude towards new activities: if other people have learned this thing, that means it’s learn-able, and therefore I can learn it. It’s one of my favorite things about her. Netball sounded like fun, so she decided to “have a go.” She had her first game this morning.
We woke up at 6:25 a.m. so we could get to the court in time for the pre-game warm up. It’s Saturday. Willa is nine years old. But we are in Perth, and we are not going to be the lazy Americans that sleep past sunrise and miss out on all the sportaliciousness.
The game was held at Matthews Netball Centre, a sports facility that, like many gyms and fields in Perth, is large enough to host five simultaneous Super Bowls. Getting in and out of the parking lot was like Pearl Jam at the Shoreline, circa 1995. There were approximately 50 netball games going on at once. It was a sea of ponytails and skorts.
The game was fun to watch. Except for the part when Willa flew through the air and landed face-first on the court.
I like Australia. So far, living here has been thoroughly enjoyable. But today, when I saw my child slide across the cement on her bare knees and chin, my inner voice became a raging xenophobe. Fucking Australia with their fucking version of basketball and their fucking giant crows that wake me up at dawn.
I ran over to Willa, rested my hand on her back, and asked her to lift her face off the pavement. It was bloody. But I could see she’d be ok. She spent the rest of the game on the sideline, icing her chin and knees. Her teammates kept calling out to her during the game. “You ok, Willa?” They were worried. After the game, they shared their own stories of blood and bruising. Parents were just as kind and concerned. One mother told us every scar on her body is from netball, and she loves the game.
Simone likes to touch the scar on my knee from when I fell off my bike when I was 10. She wants to hear about the blood, and how my mom was running a bath and couldn’t hear me crying. We talk about how our bodies tell the stories of our lives. Willa might end up with a scar. She’ll tell people she used to live in Perth and she played netball. It’s an Aussie thing.