Saturday has arrived

And being the partner of a netball coach can make Saturdays especially challenging.

It’s game day. At 6:30 a.m., the phone pings. On goes the light, followed by frantic typing and a volley of instant replies. I quietly get up and make a cup of tea.

By the time I return, the messaging has escalated into a phone call, so I make the sensible decision to head straight back to the kitchen.

Pre-game panic

An hour later-phone calls about netball often last that long-my partner bursts from the bedroom, grabs the laptop and powers it up as though a national emergency has been declared.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Mary, our shooter, has called in sick. Bloody princess. And I think our only reserve is five foot two and can’t catch, let alone shoot.”

“OK,” I say, “what about—”

“Don’t interfere. You know nothing about our game.”

At that point, I decide my best option is to make the bed, put the garbage out, clean the car, feed the chooks, or generally do anything that qualifies as disappearing.

The post-match debrief

Later that day I ask, “So, how did the game go?” “It was a draw. 35/35” “You’re kidding,” I say. “With that many goals, it seems almost mathematically impossible to end in a draw.” Only a brave man would say such a thing. “Did you find a suitable shooter?” “Well, we tried to call up one from a lower team, but their coach is not the sort of person to be messed with. We also considered running an unregistered player, but ‘The Upstairs Ladies’ were on the prowl.”

I tell myself a draw is better than a loss and that finals are still possible. This feels like a safe, supportive contribution.

Unsure what to say, I mention that I’ll go and watch some television. “No, you can’t,” comes the reply. “The Swifts are playing.” I pause for a moment and ask myself the only sensible question left: did I already clean the car?