With fat fingers

I took a hiatus. Not for the sake of climbing Mt Everest, or an enlightening yoga retreat. I did not save endangered animals or pursue the literary profound. Rather, I spent my summer as a degen. That’s short for degenerate.

And now I’m back. Though, a summer of indulgence and sheer lack of discipline has left me with few stories safe for publishing. But there is this one thing…

In late June I was serving tables at my delightfully dodgy pub in Toronto, when a large group sat in my section on the patio. I quickly learned that they were an Australian Football Club, The Central Blues to be precise. And they recruited me right then and there. What can I say, they had a certain charm and energy about them. An energy once familiar. An energy I missed and wanted to have again.

So the following Monday I showed up for my very first practice. With no clue about the sport and my fitness a distant memory, I was nervous. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time.

I struggled. With the endurance of a fish out of water and neither hand-eye nor foot-eye nor hand-foot coordination on my side, I turned to the one bottomless resource for strength. My unchecked ego.

After that same practice, now aching from head to toe, wide-eyed and with traces of anxiety, I turned to my better half and said, “What have I gotten myself into?!”

His response, “Footy.”

I analyzed my options. There were really only two. Back out or stay the course. Though my ego wouldn’t allow me to quit. So I kept on going. And slowly my body learned to whinge and moan less and less. And I began to learn a few things.

Here I am, 31 years old, 5 foot 4 (and a half!) 69 kg (giggity), a professional excuse-maker for avoiding the gym, with her liver the most exercised part of her body… joining arguably the roughest, toughest, most physically demanding sport known to man!

Is it too early to have a mid-life crisis?

Anywho, I blame my team. For being so positive and confidence boosting. I blame them for making me believe I’ve got what it takes. I blame them for being such a cool bunch of misfits that pique my interest and for throwing me a familiar bone once in a while to remind me they are human…aka post footy beers. I blame the fact that they celebrate my small triumphs and make me feel like a dopey little jerk kid again.

Then there’s the sport. Australian Football is not for the faint hearted, it scares more newbies than it retains, because a prerequisite for play is true grit. The cheetah-vs-gazelle pace of the game and nothing-but-a-mouthguard full contact nature make it the provider of a most addictive sensation…the high of pure unadulterated adrenaline. Damn that shit is good!

So even though my back aches and my shoulder smarts, those tackles were absolutely worth it. Even though a couple fingers on my left hand are swollen from stupid rookie habits, and the clicking sound in my knee is telling me to pull out before I get pregnant with footy fever…I guess its safe to say, mate, its too late.

 *Disclaimer* We may or may not have tampered with the scoreboard…