Getting down like Shaquille O’Neal is not on
I’m at my wits end, Southland. I’m exasperated. Flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Flummoxed. What’s mystifying me is this: what is up with netball?
Yes, I know it’s a popular sport, but I’m still baffled by it.
I mean, how can something that evolved from basketball – the sport created by the good Dr. James Naismithwhich my beloved Portland Trail Blazersplay – be so different?
I’ve gone full Sherlock Holmestrying to get to the bottom of this, but so far have been shooting blanks.
My pride’s taken a few shots, however.
When a co-worker said she was looking for players for a Southland Times social netball team, I couldn’t say no.
After all, as my best friend back in Portland told me, netball seemed to be a popular part of Kiwi sporting culture.
Plus, it wasn’t like I had a lot else going on Wednesday nights.
Oh, and I absolutely loved playing basketball.
Netball – I assumed – was close enough.
What followed was – to use a sports analogy – somewhat similar to the time a guy conned his way into playing soccer for Southampton(seriously, look it up).
I hadn’t the faintest notion what the rules were, so our team captain thought it best I play centre because I’d get to run the most.
‘‘Can I shoot?’’ I asked her, thinking the position sounded like a guard in basketball.
‘‘No, but you can pass it to the players who can score.’’ Run and pass. Easy. I was wrong. The referee’s whistle blew. Under the bright lights of the velodrome at ILT Stadium Southlandwith a live audience of precisely zero, I grabbed the ball and dribbled it quickly to the centre circle with all the aplomb of Damian Lillardor or Sue Bird. It was a mistake. ‘‘Ben!’’ hissed one of my teammates. ‘‘No dribbling!’’ Things only went downhill from there.
In basketball you are always supposed to be in motion, but apparently in netball that’s not advisable if you don’t want to turn the ball over.
I only got called out for that about a dozen times.
The list of my various infractions would probably stretch from Invercargill to Auckland if I were to name them all.
Among the highlights, though, were multiple incursions into ‘‘forbidden zones’’ of the court, passing the ball too far, repeated ‘‘obstructions’’ of an opponent, and enough ‘‘contact violations’’ that if I had 20 cents for every one I’d have enough money to make a down payment on a house.
In the words of Rasheed Wallace: ball don’t lie – except when it does.
Like any person with a head as thick as the Great Wall of China, I chalked my poor showing up to inexperience and decided to give things another go the following week.
The next match was slightly better.
Given the success of my last outing, I decided to jump every time the ball came within a 50-metre radius of where I was.
We still lost. Bizarrely, I was awarded Man of the Match.
I’m pretty sure it was because my teammates took pity on me.
Every week the Terrible Typists– as our team was known – would play another match. We lost every one. Finding a position for me to play proved difficult. I wasn’t exactly of much help as a goal defence. I think it had something to do with the obvious fear all 5’10’’ and 55 kilos of me struck into the hearts of the opposition.
I played goal shoot for a whole quarter. As soon as the whistle blew, I was suddenly possessed with an overwhelming desire to take the ball, leap up, and slam it through the backboard-less hoop a la Shaquille O’Neal.
Instead, I promptly missed what remains to this day one of only two shots I’ve ever attempted in a netball game.
The point of this rather longwinded tale is that some things are harder than they look.
Looking back, I shouldn’t have been so quick to think of netball as a less exciting knock-off of basketball.
After all, it takes a lot of skill to do what the Southern Steeldo.
Maybe that’s why I’m playing in another league that starts later this month – to learn said skill, and to hopefully learn a bit more about a sport that seems to be very popular in both Southland and all of New Zealand.
See you on the court. I’ll be the bearded gentleman.