Faking it on the field
A lack of knowledge of sport is no barrier to enthusiastic weekend parental support from the sidelines.
The winter 2018 sports season is upon us. In our household boots have new laces, mouthguards have been remoulded to take in dental movement and the “away” shorts have been purchased. In what I’m now calling an annual tradition, they’ve also been put “away” in the cupboard by the under 14’s wearer, in a spot which he’ll not be able to remember which causes him to accuse siblings of theft, sabotage and treachery until my “mum’s look” finds them in the drawer buried under his underpants and socks.
The family calendar is also chock-ablock full with training times, venue locations and game day information, and our stomachs are tight with anticipation – his for the games and mine for the onslaught of fundraising sausage sizzles.
My stomach is always extra tight this time of the year, because sport gives me anxiety.
While I’ve given birth to four children who enjoy sport and are good at it, the only sport I’ve ever participated in is the MS Readathon. I wasn’t the kid who was picked last in the schoolyard line-up – worse, I was the kid nobody picked. Left standing awkwardly on the netball courts, my teacher would attempt to break the tension with, “Lucky Amanda gets to play with me” and I’d spend the rest of the class in the equipment shed counting the Hacky sacks and posture baskets, trying to convince myself that these off-court roles were of vital importance and that one day
I’d get my chance on the field.
Needless to say that day never came, and I’ve had to contend with knowing that I would have held the best and fairest trophy aloft if a team had been brave enough to find a place for my, ahem, unique physical attributes.
As a parent, I attend at least eight sporting events per weekend without a clue about what’s going on because I don’t know the language of sport. While other parents stand on the sidelines watching their offspring spring around, I stand there completely numb, knowing that there’s something I should be doing Funny how this reminds me of how my husband must feel with a toilet brush and a bottle of Harpic ... But I digress.
Like a true sportsperson I’ve used my past disappointments to make me fitter and stronger. I’m determined to come out of the equipment shed and into the sunshine, and have adopted a simple strategy of faking it until I make it. I’ve been copying those around me, hoping that I’ll become just like them – a ridgy-didge sporting parent.
So you'll find me at the games loudly shouting out words like I've got sport-focused Tourette’s. Without any correlation to play I'm blurting out pressure, focus, forward, defence, tackle, head down, eyes up, sticks down, shepherds smothers tackles, push up, go hard, come on umpire, obstruction, ball, good try, and my all-time favourite, you're walking home, which goes down well at an Under 8’s game. It doesn’t matter which sport
I’m watching either, my unique hybrid language seems to suit them all.
Post-game, I’m all about reviewing our structures and making sure this playing group are following the process. Doesn’t matter if we win or lose, we need to keep it all in perspective because we’re just going to take it one week at a time ... one week at a time
... now pass me another sausage in bread.