a note on sport

In the last little while, Adelaide had opened a letter from Port Power reminding her the first game of the season (the real season, we don’t count that pre-season rubbish) was just around the corner, and a thrill had pulsed through her veins.

She had taken her youngest child to a gym-type thing where together they had balanced on beams and bounced on trampolines.

She had been to school athletics and helped to teach five year olds how to fling a discus.

And she had watched several hours of the Commonwealth Games.

And it was strange for Adelaide to have her days filled with sport, because Adelaide was the kind of athlete who had been picked third to last at school games (she couldn’t run, or hit or catch, but she didn’t have bugs).

Adelaide was the kind of athlete who won best team player because she volunteered to stand out when her netball team made the finals.

Adelaide went to possibly the only school in the world with a house colour of purple. And Adelaide was the kind of athlete who had been the direct target of the chant purple’s as slow as a turtle. More than once, more than twice, more than thrice.

Adelaide’s mother had offered Adelaide this as consolation: we are the only ones who get to be in the race and watch it too.

Like much of Adelaide’s mother’s wisdom it was good for a laugh at dinner parties, but useless when you were ten.

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