Saturday Sport

Part 1.

I nervously step up to the transverse line and give a small smile to my teammate next to me. My brandnew uniform is bright turquoise and is so big that mum had to tie the back of the shirt with a hair band to keep it in place. I glance at our umpire, she is much older than I am, and I admire how confident she looks as she uses clear hand signals to communicate with the other umpire. I make a promise to myself to be just like her when I’m older.

Before I can think, the centre of my new team, Lucy, jumps into the circle and the crisp sound of a whistle follows. I dash forward. The cheering from the parents suddenly feels far in the distance and all I can hear is the loud pounding of my heartbeat. The defender is hot on my heels as I run and she leaps in front of me, slapping the ball from my grasp. I feel my stomach drop with disappointment, but I don’t let it stop me. I redeem myself by darting in front of my opponent and defend her with my hands up. The ball is swiftly passed down the court and the Palmyra’s Goal Shooter dodges her player and scores with an easy flick of the wrist.

I sprint back into position; trying to mimic how the defender positioned herself to stop me on the first pass. I scuff the court to position my left foot at the line and tense my back leg muscles in anticipation.

Determination invigorates me. I feel lighter on my toes this time as the whistle is blown. I race in front of my player and manage to stop her from running forward for the pass. The centre looks around frantically as the three seconds tick down and tries to pass but Lucy is too fast. She whacks the airborne ball causing its course to diverge straight into her arms.

“Good job Lucy!” I cheer. I drop into my position for our set play and fake running out, but at the last moment I spin in the opposite direction, losing my opponent to receive the chest pass. Elation rises in me like bubbles in a milkshake. I lob the ball to our wing attack at the base of the goal circle and run around her as fast as I can. With a swift leg split, I have the ball and I pivot on my foot closest to the goalpost. I glance nervously at the Goal Shooter, and she gives me an encouraging nod. I bend my arms and knees and flick my wrist just as my coach had taught me and the ball flies up and through the net with a satisfying swoosh

I can’t help myself from grinning as the parents on the sideline cheer and the Goal Shooter gives me a high five. The exhilaration of my first goal with the team fills me with energy as I race back. Soon, I am in the flow of the game and I’m running, jumping, and passing with ease. The brisk air whooshes past my ears as I play, levitating my loose strands of dirty blond hair and filling my lungs with surging energy. I feel like I’m floating as I glide across the court. Each component of our team is working together perfectly like the gears in a clockwork. It takes me back to home and the feeling is euphoric.

I now know that with this team backing me, I can get through anything my new school throws at me… Especially if it is a netball.

Part 2.

The piercing wind whips my purple cheeks and stings my chapped lips as I run through the morning’s icy haze. My sneakers and socks soak up the water droplets clinging to blades of grass, leaving my feet sodden and numb. I shakily reach for the screen of my watch with blue fingers, to change the interval on my timer. My nails are illuminated in the dawn light. It casts a spotlight on how chewed and mangled they are from the psychological agony of the racing season.

My bitten-down nails are a fun by-product of not sleeping last night. Lying awake knowing how much I needed sleep sent me spiralling downwards. I couldn’t stop myself from fixating on the importance of getting enough rest for training. Before I could try to calm down, my heart was pounding uncontrollably, and I felt pressure on my chest suffocating me.

Meanwhile, paranoia had been racing through my head and had demolished reason. When I closed my eyes, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything and anything that could go wrong in my race. I imagined the feeling of lactic acid building up in my legs, making them heavy and useless. I imagined it screwing up my race plan. Not being able to keep my pace… Not qualifying. Enduring the guilt as my parents give me masked smiles and fabricated reassurance.

It should come as no surprise that my paranoia, accompanied by her cheer squad anxiety, has been winning the race lately. An alert from my watch reads “behind target pace” snapping me back to reality. I swipe up, and my watch reads:

24:47.62

182BPM

3’54” ROLLING KM

4.85KM

My pace for this interval isn’t good enough. I need to stay focused on pushing myself if I’m ever going to make it to nationals. I will my legs to run faster until they start to burn, (as I gasp?) gasping in shaky breaths. I can’t disappoint my coach. I need to get a good placing. I can’t put to waste all the work everyone’s put into getting me this far. I’m thinking about everything at once and I can’t stop. Each thought leads down another twisted road of doubts, each tightens my throat more and more until I’m suffocating. But I can’t stop running. My watch keeps buzzing me, rubbing it in my face that I’ll never make it. My face and body are burning up despite the cold. Jagged breaths rasp out of me. I can’t stop. I know I need to, but I can’t. My wrists are balled into fists so tight that my nails dig into my skin. I wince as each step hits the floor and pain strikes through my shins.

Tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision. Panic squeezes my throat like a vice. Everything is spinning and I have no sense of where I am.

“Mariah? Do you hear me? MARIAH! You have to stop.” I look around hysterically, the sound of my dad’s voice manages to jolt me. I collapse, gasping for air. I gag as bile rises in my throat. My hands tremble as I yank at my hair and squeeze my eyes closed. Hot tears slip down my face. My body is numb all over, but I feel my dad’s arm come around me. I hug my knees to my chest and let the tears fall.