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The Roar

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Dropping the N-bomb: A bloke at the netball

6th May, 2012
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Like dyeing my hair, going to a pilates class, or finishing that renovation on my bathroom, going to a game of netball was something I never thought I would undertake.

But, with the Gold Coast’s footy side having torn out my heart and trampled on it the night before and the ANZ Netball Championship Grand Final re-match in town, I thought an afternoon in the air-con watching the netty might soothe might my fragile sporting spirit.

Sure I’d been ‘around’ netball before. Everyone has, though for me this was mostly limited to waiting around in the car beeping my horn impatiently as my younger sister finished up a game on a dreary June evening.

And I have nothing against women’s sport: my brother in-law living with the goalkeeper of the Australian women’s water polo team had long since quashed any notion of women’s sport being easy. (On cold days, my right shoulder still hurts from where she punched me after I relayed a joke I’d heard that her team should be nicknamed The White Pointers.)

It’s just that like most blokes, netball was never really on my radar. Save the odd PE lesson or work mixed indoor side it was a game played by women, run by women and watched by women. And I was quite happy to leave them to it.

Arriving at the court it was these sentiments that had me feeling a bit uneasy. Even though I was being chaperoned by my better half, I still had the unnerving feeling that my presence at the match would be akin to that of the loser bloke standing outside the women’s fitting rooms at Myer waiting for his partner to hurry up and buy something.

This was not the case however, as I spotted a number of other guys, even some without venue uniforms, milling around outside. I was outnumbered no doubt, despite the presence of the Queensland men’s netball team at the match.

But equally outnumbered was anyone aged over 20. It appeared as if the Firebirds had secured One Direction for the pre-game entertainment, judging by the squealing fans outside the court.

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Pushing past the marauding face-painted Bieberarians to my seat, I found things inside to be much more serene, and the crowd a healthy mix of ages.

Seeing the two sides warm up strangely put me at ease, as did spotting one of the few professional netballers I recognised in Liz Ellis on the sideline, and a male ref to yell at.

The game passed off(?) at a frantic pace. There was no settling in period, and as soon as the whistle blew (one of many, many whistles) the players leapt around at a pace difficult to follow. The first quarter whizzed by in a blur of ponytails and long legs, and realising I might be out of my depth I turned to a couple of ladies behind me who had been vocal in the game’s opening.

“It’s all about Aiken and Latu,” a permed woman named Barb assured me, pointing out the Firebirds sleek Jamaican goal shooter and her Fuifui Moi Moi-esque Northern Mystics counterpart. “We shut down their big girl and they’re stuffed.”

After my masterclass I began to settle in to the rhythm of the game, and was struck as to how similar the whole experience was to a day at the footy. All the ingredients were there. The noise. The calls from the crowd. The lunatic fan wearing all the apparel and going berserk, who yes, even at the netball, was a bloke.

Barb’s prediction turned out to be profound, and an injury to the Mystics tattooed enforcer Latu allowed the Firebirds to open up a lead that never closed.

The match’s completion was met with a hearty cheer, and the sound of a few thousand inflatable ‘boom sticks’ being popped by girly grommets.

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As a first timer I found the game to be extremely quick, physical enough to keep the football fan inside me satisfied on a Sunday arvo and played in a cheerful atmosphere.

I’d recommend other blokes give it a chance, and I’ll definitely endeavour to take in some professional netty again the future.
For now, though, I should really get cracking on that bathroom.

Follow Chris on Twitter: @Vic_Arious

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