Whistling Girls

When I was growing up, the local netball courts were just up the road from us, and on Saturdays when the teams would gather to play, my father would say ”the Whistling Girls are at it again!”. I love that phrase because it captures the way that netball sounds, with the constant random whistles dominating over the hubhub of the spectators and the squeal of shoes on the courts.
Needless to say, I did not play netball at school. I am congenitally incapable of throwing and catching (although marginally more competent when there is an implement – bat, racquet, hockey stick – between me and the ball). The sight of any ball hurtling towards me (especially those rock hard softballs) filled me with fear, and the combination of fear and the expectation of team-mates, that I not only catch it successfully but then throw it quickly and accurately to another player (preferably one on my own team), was a potent mix of pressures dooming me to inevitable failure. Despite my best efforts, it has not always been possible for me to avoid playing netball, usually during the euphemistically called ”games” – compulsory sporting activities designed to keep us occupied at boarding school between the end of classes and dinner. On these occasions, I was the last to be picked for the team, not surprisingly, since it was rare for me to catch the ball, and on the even rarer occasions when I caught it, I was almost universally penalised for holding as I stood frozen to the spot, desperately searching for someone to throw it to. Netball and I were never going to be friends.
So when daughter #1 declared an interest in playing netball, I engaged the supportive mother in me, and duly attended her matches. At first, these efforts were not without a slight tinge of resentment and swearing, especially when evening matches meant battling rush hour traffic and long queues of other parents trying to find a parking space in the limited carparks that serve the local netball courts. And standing on the sidelines on dark, cold, wet evenings did nothing to broker a reconciliation between me and netball. Israel and Palestine had a better chance of harbouring warm feelings towards one another than netball and I did on some nights.
I could spot the mothers who used (or still do) play netball. They stride the sidelines with the confidence of women who are at home on a court. They often wear tracksuits and trainers (probably because they’ve just finished coaching or umpiring somewhere) and help with scoring, can step in to umpire when needed, and shout helpful suggestions to their sporty daughters on court (usually the centre). These were the same sporty girls who (30 or so years ago) picked me last for their teams, and fixed me with disparaging looks when I failed to catch the ball. I try to make myself invisible in the face of these women. Some teenage angst never leaves us.
But lo! High school netball is played on a Saturday morning, and (since I’m a morning person) this has become a happy outing for me. Since year 9s play first, parking is easy, the courts have an excellent coffee shop serving very good lattes. And I can peruse the Weekend Herald while I wait for the game to start.
What’s more I realise now that I bring many worthy qualities to the role of netball mother. Years of netball avoidance have bred in me a singular ignorance of the rules that makes me the perfect spectator. With nothing of value to suggest in terms of tactics or skills, I can only offer noncomittal phrases like ”Yay” and ”go Taka” when things go well and ”Oh, never mind” and ”shame” when things go wrong (although recently, I have had to drop ”shame” from my repertoire, since daughter #1 informs me that in modern parlance it means ”you ought be ashamed of yourself” rather than the ”what a shame” meaning I intended). While other mothers and fathers can offer insight into how their daughters and their team can improve their performance, with helpful suggestions like ”make space” and ”use your outside arm” (which arm is that, anyway?), I have nothing to offer that will offend, alarm or incite sideline violence (at least now that I’ve stopped saying ”shame”). Umpires are safe from me as well, since my knowledge of the rules is so vague, I have no reason to assume that all of their decisions are not 100% spot on every time!
So maybe this is the start of a detente between me and netball. As long as daughter #1 wants to be a whistling girl, I’ll be there….