Naturally, maintaining a training regime in Malawi was difficult. While I could not run frequently, I did exercise my sporting ability in the form of Netball.
The sky was clear. Like most days, it was dry. We felt the heat on the back of our stiff necks.
We’d been in Mzuzu for over a week. The locals were warm, receptive, energetic people. We spent a lot of our time at Sailsbury Line, working in Áras Kate – a preschool.
Working with the 250 children was fun. We thought them games, they thought us patience.
Every day outside Áras Kate, a group of women set two huge posts in holes in the ground. Rusty rings were nailed to the top which in effect created the perfect setting for a game of netball. These women were seriously committed. Collectively, their average height was no more than 5ft. But where they lacked height, they made up for in swiftness, stealth and steely determination.
Traditionally the female volunteers who travelled with Wells for Zoe accepted the challenge to play these women in a Netball match. Traditionally, the women on Mzuzu slaughtered the volunteers.
To say we were apprehensive would be an understatement. Our “team” was a mismatch of sizes, ability and talent. The only thing we had in common was our inexperience. I, along with another five people on the team, had never played netball. In fact, I’d never even seen a netball match.
Coaching duties fell on the shoulders of Felicity. Felicity was the self confessed runt of her netball team. Though she played consistently during her scholastic life, she –no offence intended- had absolutely no flare for the sport...or probably any other sport for that matter. At the very least, she informed us of what positions to take and how to maintain our boundaries on the field.
My love affair with team sports in school, like my attention span, was short. I had a fling one year with volleyball. It was fun, passionate and I missed French. However it was a demanding lover, and I didn’t have the commitment to train two evening a week.
Soon after I tried doubles badminton – my long spaghetti arms were, for once, quite appreciated. A few shuttle cocks to the head later however, and I realised my basic lack of hand-eye coordination was going to be an issue.
As you may have figured from choice in Jogging, I prefer sports that I can participate in independently. I can maintain my own sense of freedom – and no one need ever see me.
Being quite familiar with my sporting difficulties, I was reluctant to play this net ball match. My sentiments, fortunately, were shared.
We psyched ourselves up before the match by blasting T.I from cheap ipod speakers. Poster paint, which we had been using to paint a charming mural on the birthing centre, provided us each with war paint. In our unwillingness and fear, we were united.
Elaine played football at home and was a pillar of strength in mid-field. Claire and I played forward. Claire was quick. I was not. Fiona and Grace played semi-back and were semi-successful. Likewise, Sarah was close to Elaine, only in position though, not in talent.
I caught the ball awkwardly early on, bending my fingers back. It hurt. It really hurt. Determined I played on.
Fortune was granted upon us in the shape of Jane Clarke. Tall and agile, Jane had previously been an imperative volunteer. She had successfully painted the pink balloon in the mural. Like the entire team (and probably most of the spectators) I didn’t expect much from Jane during the match.
Oh how I was wrong.
Jane, in defence, was inspirational. Nothing got past the girl. Her bravery, strength, and raw un-nurtured talent inspired us all. After a quick change of positions and a positive team talk we were ready to rock.
Jane moved forward. Claire stayed as a goal scorer. I went in defence (fingers still throbbing), mimicking Jane’s awesome sweeping defence actions. We were losing. Then we were drawing.
It was tense. A crowd had gathered. Immersed in the game we played over time. Never before had the women come so close to defeat. Never before had we felt so involved. We had been playing for 90 minutes when the referee announced next goal wins.
I was tight to my opposed player. We were all in position. Elaine moved forward from centre position. Our main goal scorer moved back. We had the ball. The crowd erupted. It was thrown to Claire. Then, to Elaine. Elaine, a GAA enthusiast, landed in front of the post. Unable to move, she threw the ball. All eyes were to the sky as the ball swept through the ring. We won. We were victorious.
My fingers were broken. Endorphins numbed the pain. They wore off. The pain did not.
Being in Malawi, we did not have easy access to doctors and medics. I did not realise at the time my fingers were broken. As I sit here now, the knuckle of my middle finger on my left hand is suspiciously lumpy.
We won. It was fun. Alas, I maintain...Sport is the Devil.
No comments:
Post a Comment