I have a sports injury.
OK, OK, I have a grazed knee, but still, I did it playing an Actual Sport, and it quite hurt at the time, (although I was very brave and didn’t cry), so I’m calling it a sports injury.
Friends and family will be laughing now at the idea of me playing any kind of sport, let alone putting in enough effort to sustain an injury, but they can laugh all they like, for I am pleased to announce that at the age of 33 I have finally found a sport that I enjoy. Never having been able to maintain any sort of physical activity for longer than a few weeks before, this is something of a revelation for me, and an achievement therefore to be celebrated.
My sport of choice?
I remember netball at school, like pretty much every PE lesson, as a mild form of torture – the ritual picking of teams, puppy fat bouncing distastefully round the court, and my face even redder and shinier than normal – all reminders for my classmates of why they tried to avoid sitting next to me in lessons if they could help up. My hyper-competitiveness in those days was restricted to the classroom, all my energies focussed on getting my hand up first to answer questions, rather than to score goals.
Nowadays though, my competitive nature knows no bounds. I have managed to tone it down a little over the weeks since I started playing, only diving to the floor on top of the ball once last week crying ‘that ball is mine!’. Initially though I did find it hard to restrain myself. ‘FOOTWORK!!!’ I screamed six inches from the face of one poor woman in my first week, resulting in a hasty embarrassed apology from me and a look of horror from her.
I like it though. I like that it is exercise with a purpose rather than just cycling or running for the sake of it. I like that there is a winning team, even if it’s not mine, and I like the sense of camaraderie that is beginning to develop between me and my team mates. And so for now I’m taking my graze on the chin, or the knee at least, and embracing my new-found athleticism. Long may it last.