Heavy Balls















It's Saturday morning at the cheer-challenging time of 8.25am and Annoying Dad from the tennis team that Sapphire is playing against comes up to me for the fourth time in two minutes, asking, "Is your team all here yet? Are you ready to play?"

Instead of doing what I did the first three times, which is smile politely and say "Sorry no, we're not all here yet and no, I'm not the team captain and don't have the book and do we need to think about whether it's okay to play seeing as it's raining?"

.... I snap and hiss, "We're still five minutes early. I told you I don't have the team book and it's now sleeting down ice shards outside so surely you need to call the match off?" Chastened, he backs off and I seethe, trying not to hear the common sense in my eleven year old's advice to 'calm down and be quiet, Mum,' as she tugs at my handbag strap.

At precisely 8.30am - the official start time - we have our full team complement battling various stages of early morning-itis (and hair), staring out of the foggy windows of the warm clubhouse with very obvious expressions of dread. I decide not to re-establish my friendship with Annoying Dad and find Nervous Mum in the corner and try again. "Um, do you think it should be cancelled?"

"YE-E-E-E-E-S" say my team in an unenthusiastic but determined chorus, but she hesitates and rapidly whispers that we have to sit and wait for two hours -two hours - before anyone can officially call the morning's play 'off'. "It's not that heavy," she concludes, zipping up her Goretex Everest Puffer Jacket right up to her chin.

Sighing, I spot Denis and Alice and say, "You two - Boy Two and Girl Two - you're ON. Oh and Denis, meet Alice. Alice, this is Denis."

After several minutes of uncertain milling about, it seems that I am team coordinator today. Denis politely smiles at Alice who is playing her first ever match and then flips up his hoodie as a thin layer of protection against the downpour. Alice trudges behind him, already shivering and regretting her optimistic outfit of shortie shorts.

Nervous Mum sidles up to me again but the rustling sound of parachute material and Goretex betrays her.

I know what she's going to ask and I'm dreading it.

I've got a bloody inner ear thingy that makes it hard to hear, hard to stand up straight and quite frankly, hard to give a crazy cow's crap-splat about Saturday morning tennis 'Special Grade 2' comp.

"Do you have someone who can umpire this game?"














Poo. Love Chunks senses my distress and offers to take on the first match. There he stands, trying to keep the umbrella open, his fingers and scoresheet dry and keep an eye out for faults and outs. I couldn't love him harder than at this particular moment. Goretex rustles off to umpire the number three mixed doubles. Any negative thoughts I have about her instantly vanish as she stands there without an umbrella and thongs on her sodden bare feet.

Sure enough another match is ready to commence. Umpiring tennis games is clearly a task that for most parents (our team and the opposition) enjoy doing about as much as a home-made genital wax but we're in a grade that requires an umpire for each match. I've already explained my Labyrinthitis to nearby parents, but suddenly two have to run an errand, one claims not to fully understand the rules and there's an unseemly rush to the warmth of the clubhouse toilet block.

Poo Bum. My turn but - thank god - Love Chunks has offered me his umbrella. The temperature mottles my handles into rather lurid red and blue splotches and I drop the pen in a puddle of water. "Hey boys...." ---I gesture them over to the net--- "......How about we forget the warm up shots and get straight into it?" They're as relieved as I am.

Poo Bum Bugger. It's wrong and unfair and bad sportsmanship to wish for a quick thrashing, isn't it, but I do wish that, very much. The score sheet is now an ideal paper mache slab and the boys are bravely fighting against the elements to hit hard, try harder and get it to four-all. Each thwack of the ball produces a spray of water that, if near the south side of the net, splatters into my face and make it even harder for my frozen paws to grip the umbrella, pen and notepad. I wallow in self pity and forget what I'm supposed to be out there doing. "Sorry guys, was that a fault or in - do you want to play two again?"

Our boys lose the match 6-4. I offer my congratulations but they're both keen to buy a foul-smelling lukewarm hotdog from the club canteen and huddle in the shelter by the court.

No sooner do I write down the store in both team books than another two matches have started and Goretex is out there again on one court and asks me to do the other. Poo Bum Bugger Shit!

Love Chunks grabs the notepad before I can plead, "Please, please dear, sweet and honourable Goretex lady, let me sit down. Force someone else to do it and I'll promise to give you enough chocolate to give you a much-needed winter coat for the duration of this season." He shakes out his umbrella in preparation for the rain and my love for him beats stronger.

Somehow, the rain clears a little. It's now an acceptable drizzle and the competition is close; closest we've ever come to winning. One more set out of the final three and we'll finally know what victory tastes like. Kids from sides are now willingly running out onto the courts to hit up ready for playing. Every single one of them has played brilliantly and, to my utter amazement, actually enjoyed themselves in arctic conditions. For reasons undeserved, I feel hugely proud of them all.

It is then, with three courts free and every kid out there warming up and trying to hit the balls as hard as they can to thrash the water out of them before their final doubles matches that Annoying Dad makes his re-appearance.

"I'm officially calling this match a wash-out. It's 10.35am and it's a draw."

Poo Bum Bugger Shit Faaaaart!

He answered the door naked from the waist down.

Granted, Angus is only two and very proud of his new-found ability to go the toilet under his own steam and considers jocks or shorts an unnecessary hindrance. Especially on warm sunny days. Plus being naked gives him unlimited access to his own personal plaything, which can be slightly off-putting when trying to meet him at eye level to discuss what drawing you're doing for him in crayon.

Four year old Brianna wasn't far behind him as the door opened but was fully-clothed in a stripey green dress. I complimented her on it, remembering that I also have a t-shirt made from the same material but it didn't come with a fancy sequinned pocket on the front.
"Mine does," she replied proudly, "And I can put things in it too." She reached in and thrust something at me. "Here are some flowers for you." As she had literally picked just the flowers and not bothered with the stems, I had a handful of geranium heads, already wilting from their violent removal. They looked beautiful.

Their mother rushed up, skinny, tired, busy. But beaming and genuinely happy. "Come in, come in! Callum's at school but he insisted on making you this letter:

Not bad for a five year old in reception, is it?
"He wanted to see you, he really did," Sam said, "But he also knew that we were making some carrot cake after we dropped him off, and he's afraid he'll miss out on a slice."

And thus commenced the morning tea I had with my oldest friend, Samantha, a girl I'd met in Reception class at Murray Bridge South Primary School at the start of 1974 when we'd both just turned five. She had white-blonde bobbed hair, tiny glitter framed glasses and a giggle that I'd do anything to hear as often as possible. We ended up holding hands by lunchtime that day and continued to do so until at least year six before kiss chasey with boys and self-consciousness set in. We danced to Abba on her Dad's stereo, watched couples smooching in cars at the lookout next to her house, petted her 60 breeding beagles and drank our first cappuccinos at her parent's takeaway shop 'The Hungry Bunyip.'

Thirty four years later and here she is, in her element with a flour-smudge on her face, three children under the age of six, married to a smart and funny accountant and trying to get her two youngest kids to sit still long enough to put hats and 30+ on. "Shall we go outside too?"

Sam never ever gets to drink a hot cup of coffee from start to finish. There's far too many:

"Mum, I've just done a wee in the garden but my pants are wet."

"Mum can we wash the dollies and the dog?"

"Mum Angus has my green ball and I've got the yellow one but it's his and he won't swap with me."

"Mum how come Kath brought chocolate biscuits in but you're not sharing them?"

"Come and see my dog Snuffles, Kath. But you have to find him first because he fell under my bed."

"Mum Angus has bounced his ball over the fence."

Sam kindly and patiently answers their questions, complaints and observations -
"Wow Angus, this is an incredible poo you've just done in there, well done!", "No Brianna, don't stick your finger - or that dinosaur - up your nose again please," and "Yes, you can set up the water cans outside but I'd like you to put the crayons in the box first."

In between that, we have a conversation over still-warm carrot cake whose lemon butter icing has slid off the top and is pooling around the edges of the plates. In the middle of some no-doubt fascinating anecdote about selling up and moving to Melbourne, turning forty and wondering just why Ryan Shelton has a paid TV gig, I look down and notice Brianna's snot-encrusted pointer finger slyly dipping itself into my icing.
"Er help yourself, sweetie."

I see my friend proudly singing PlaySchool songs to her two children, not caring about doing it in front of me, her kindergarten teacher background coming to the fore. She looks tired but giggles unaffectedly at Angus trying to hitch his chubby white leg over the fit-ball, immediately bouncing backwards and deciding that a taste of backyard dirt was more to his liking.

I hang up their t-shirts, now wet from water play, and Sam goes inside to find them clean and dry outfits. Brianna decides to mimic her brother and go bottomless for the rest of the day.















A couple of hours later, I kissed Sam, Brianna and Angus goodbye and noted that a pair of knickers on the ground after a social event these days is for far different reasons than the parties we suffered through a life time ago. And thank god for that.