122 The Australian Women’s Weekly|JUNE 2018
Humour
WITH
AMANDA
BLAIRT
he 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”
inds them in the drawer buried under
his underpants and socks.
The family calendar is also chock-a-
block 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 pickedlastin the schoolyard line-up - worse, I was the kidnobodypicked.
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
A lack of knowledge of sport is no barrier to enthusiastic
weekend parental support from the sidelines.Faking it on the field
ILLUSTRATION BY GUSTAV DEJERT @ILLUSTRATIONROOM.COM.AU.shed counting the Hacky sacks and
posture baskets, trying to convince
myself that these off-courtroles were
of vital importance and that one day
I’d get my chance on the ield.
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 ind 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
sidelineswatching their offspring spring
around, Istand there completelynumb,
knowing that there’s something I should
be doingFunny how thisreminds 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
itter 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 ind 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 anUnder 8’s
game. It doesn’t matter whichsport
I’m watching either, my uniquehybrid
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.AW WABOUT THE WRITERAmanda Blair lives in Adelaide with her four children and a husband she quite likes when she sees him.