With the eyes of the Commonwealth focussed on the Gold Coast’s sunny shores, I got to reflecting on my own athletic prowess. A child of the 1950s, I, of course, spent a lot of time outside running around, climbing trees, playing hopscotch endlessly, skipping and playing marbles in and out the roots of the jacaranda trees.
School games were captain ball and tunnel ball. I was better at tunnel ball because you didn’t actually have to catch the object.
Swimming lessons were in the muddy Clarence where we dog paddled the obligatory 10 yards (9.1m) and were declared water safe. Much more fun were days spent jumping in the surf and turning brown as we played in the sand.
High school presented team games where there were rules. My mother thought individual games better and had visions of me socialising gracefully at courts through my adolescence. Such dreams were waylaid by the fact you had to hit a ball moving at you through the air.
I aspired to hockey like the heroines of my English boarding school stories. While never masterful, I was at least competent and very much enjoyed my years on the hockey field.
Softball was the other choice. I understood what had to be done, even gaining an umpire’s certificate. Trouble was, I couldn’t do any of it.
As a teacher, manned with a whistle, I refereed soccer and touch football. Thanks to all those who would yell, ‘Blow the whistle, Miss!’. We all got some exercise.
However, in retirement, and after an accident that has left me walking with a stick, I have found my forte. Aquaerobics.
For 45 minutes twice a week, I raise my heart rate, strengthen my inner core, work the weights. With only my head showing I give it all I’ve got.
It’s never to late to be a sportswoman.