heartIt was an innocent enough question from Hayley (Kiwi flatmate), and I didn’t take it seriously enough to make a proper response, so I said I might consider it someday.
“Someday” ended up being in a thrice-yearly tournament the next evening, and one hour after the not-so-innocent question was asked, I begrudgingly accepted a position on her team, as someone was maimed or missing or gone for some other forgotten reason.
So at six o’clock the next evening, I stepped onto the netball court, in a pair of borrowed basketball shorts, my Autry Army T-shirt, and no clue what netball was. For your benefit, though, netball (we played six-person, if any netball buffs are out there) is a spinoff of basketball, with some differences that are not worth going into. The one big difference is that one cannot move or dribble while holding the netball. It’s also predominately a female sport, though that, for purposes of saving face, is a fact you ought to immediately forget.
With a sigh and a tear, I prepared myself for game one. Enough people had shown up to form a team with one left over, but I got to play.
For the other team.
I filled in since they had a couple of missing members, and I did a passable job, though I felt a little guilty guarding people I was supposed to be playing with. I also had this recurring problem with landing on anything but my feet, for which my back, shoulders, and face did not thank me. After the first interval, the rest of the opponent’s squad showed up, and I sat out. We then proceeded to systematically slaughter the other team, something Hayley assured me wouldn’t happen. I played a little more, and though I still made a number of mistakes, I gradually got the hang of the game, using the same skills that make me decent in basketball.
My team (which I had learned was called the Toadstools, something I intend to fervently deny if ever asked in person) then prepared for game two, which was much of the same. Another huge win, and suddenly we find ourselves atop the bracket, with a huge cushion over second place.
Game Three: I sat out for this one, but the opponent was wickedly tough, and at the buzzer they managed to tie the game. No tiebreak, and both of us found ourselves in the semifinals with 2-0-1 records, to the dismay of some of the Toadstools, who were hoping by this hour to find themselves in a pub.
The semifinals saw the return of newbie Jonathan Jackson, and things completely fell apart. Beginner’s luck, my pazootie. Our shooters went cold, the centers couldn’t catch their opponents, and the defense (one of whom was me) just could not read the offense. We were down with three minutes to go, and our team couldn’t get on the ball. Somehow, our offense simply outshot their offense, and we scraped a buzzer-beater to secure the win.
The Finals: Of course, in the finals we met the team we had previously tied against, to the surprise of everyone but me, who was rather used to this sort of thing happening. Initially, we led the game, but that same wave of cold hit us again, this time a few minutes into the first half. The opponent stretched their lead, and as time dwindled in the half, the lights went out all around us, illuminating the court, setting the stage for a showdown. At the half, we were down by three, and were yet again being outclassed in every position. I was unsettled in playing defense, falling for the same trick again and again. With two minutes to go, and the lead changing with every shot, I stopped for a moment, collected my composure, and took a breath.
The game now tied with the clock ticking down from thirty seconds, the entire team was clearly exhausted and cold (the facility wasn’t heated). With my last spurt of energy and a cry, I intercepted a pass, thanked God above that He gave me long arms, and launched the ball down the court. Ten seconds left. I could do nothing now but watch. The ball was intercepted, but the opponent committed a foul, and our shooter turned to set up the shot. Three seconds. She focused, lifted her arms, and put the ball into an arc. “No,” whispered the girl blocking me, and tensed.
Nothing but net.
With a sweet swish, the ball met the net, and the buzzer was barely heard over the ruckus caused by the Toadstools. Eleven teams, five hours, one champion. The Toadstools stand alone as the champions of Dunedin netball for the next four months. A singular experience. I headed back to the flat, tired, but wearing a curious, weary half-smile. Whether that slight smile was because we won the championship or because I, the woefully inadequate athlete managed a first performance that made me the pride of the team, even I can’t be certain. I slept well that night, the sweet slumber of victory, and with the heart of a champion.
As a side note, I wasn’t voted Rookie of the Tournament because apparently the word “rookie” is nerdy Americanese. Bah.
The next stop for us on our day tour of the Catlins was McLean Falls, which would be a much longer and slightly tougher hike. However, our perseverance paid off, as a few minutes into our journey we came across this scene.
Another picture of McLean Fall Trail. Although it was cold, the terrain seemed rather like a rainforest. In the picture is Mandi’s flatmate, Alex, a Canadian who has suffered from a recent addiction to that gag-inducing, tar-like substance, Vegemite.
We then came upon this sight, which we thought was nice enough to be McLean Falls, until we clambered back on the trail and realized that it continued very steeply upward, until…
McLean Falls. One of the great things about New Zealand hikes is how incredibly close to nature you can get, and the fact that although thousands of people get this close every year, the environment is still respected and kept clean. That’s me in the grey jacket, and in about forty-five seconds, I would be scaling the rock face in front of me.
What awaited Dan and me after climbing up the bit of rock. More Catlins photos to come, and don’t worry, it’s not all forest and waterfalls.
