Strike!

There was some discussion in the staff room today (in response to this post…click here) about what sort of ‘Grannie’ various individuals could identify with.

“I’m probably the Conservative Grannie,” declared one senior staff member, “But I wouldn’t go to Morning Melodies. I’d rather have my arm ripped off! And I wouldn’t play lawn bowls either for that matter.”

I was quite taken aback at her last remark. What’s wrong with lawn bowls? I’ve never been any good at organised physical activities and have always given team games a wide berth due to my lack of hand-eye-body-feet coordination. Lawn bowls could be the chance for me to finally shine in the sporting arena.

Tucked away in the back of my mind for the last forty years has been the idea that when all the other seventy year olds are hobbling around on their knee replacements, my knees will be perfectly intact due to a lack of previous over exertion. Lawn bowls doesn’t look hard… rolling a little ball along the ground. Surely even I will be able to master that. Plus there will be all the morning teas and happy hours, flirting with the old boys during the game and chuffing off to the Pokies with the girls and their hats crammed into a Morris Minor after the game to look forward to.

I tell a lie when I say I have NEVER played team sports. Once when I was about seventeen I joined a soft ball team called, “F Troop”. The name of the team reflected our talent and I only lasted one season after sustaining a black eye during training one day when I caught the ball with my face. 

There was also a time a couple of years ago when Scotto and I joined a Ten Pin Bowling League. I went to considerable expense and enthusiastically bought my very own custom-made bowling ball “Golden Boy #1” (the only piece of sporting equipment I’d ever owned in my life). 

We lasted the entire season, even attending the end of year Christmas party, but unexpectedly wound up having to pay for our own lunch because the team manager scandalously absconded with all the club funds at the end of the season. I believe there was a police investigation… the team was immediately disbanded and as Scotto and I couldn’t be arsed looking for another, that was the end of that.

For sale: Barely used Bowling Ball. Purchaser must have skinny fingers exactly the same shape as Pinky’s.

State of Origin or Cultural Decay?

                      

Lulu’s netball game has been cancelled tonight. Why? … because of the bloody State of Origin Rugby League match of course.

Our nation stops when Origin fever descends; the pubs are insanely full for a Wednesday night, the electricity grid is strained to the limit powering all the big screen televisions and everyone in Queensland is wearing Mighty Maroon even though the colour makes even the more attractive zealots look sickly.

This morning as I sat in the staffroom eavesdropping on the mind-numbing discussion centred on tonight’s game and feeling a bit left out, I pitched in my two cents worth.

“So who is Queensland playing tonight?” I queried feigning interest.

There followed an appalled silence as they stared at me as if I was some sort bizarre extra-terrestrial.

Then came the uproarious, mocking laughter and I quickly realised my blooper.

I may as well have asked who Australia is playing this year in the Ashes.

Oh well… we can’t all be rabid footy fans. Someone has to uphold the cultural element in society.

Crap… now I’ve done it... I’ll be copping some flack tomorrow for that statement. But on the other hand no one will read it because they’ll all be watching the damn S.O.O. eating meat pies, screaming abuse at the referees and swilling beer.

Back in the eighties when I lived in Sydney, I shared a house with four other people including one of the New South Wales State of Origin players, Michael O’Connor, and his fiancé Suzy. Our house was always full of elite football players but the game still didn’t manage to hook me in.

Occasionally I’d accompany Suzy and go to watch Michael play a game but I think I annoyed her by asking questions like, 

“So who are the ones in the stripy costumes again?”

Cameron Smith is a bit of a spunk though! Don't tell Scotto I wrote that.

Should I Kiss my Husband's Balls Tonight?

Scotto cleaned out our shambolic garage last weekend and found my sister Sam’s old golf clubs amongst the Huntsmen spiders and cockroach poo. 

        This is the skip filled with the refuse extricated from said garage. 

Coming across the clubs was quite serendipitous as Scotto was invited to play golf on Saturday morning (tomorrow) with Kyle’s husband, Troy; Greggles and a couple of other rowdy blokes.

Many years ago Scotto and I decided to try our hand at the old Scottish game and gave it up after a couple of months, upholding our fickle custom, such as it is. 

We had forgotten to return the clubs we'd borrowed from Sam and here they were; finally unearthed after roughly seven years of dusty neglect in our garage (and numerous enquiries from Sam).

When we pulled up outside the golf club for our very first game we were, at the same time, appalled and highly entertained to see that the club had designated the disabled parking spots with outrageously politically-incorrect signage stating, “Reserved for Handicappers”. 

After a good half hour of snorting laughter mocking the idiocy and naivety of club management, the penny eventually dropped and we realised we were the stupid ones.

Neither of us were what you might describe as ‘golf professionals’ (most of my golfing knowledge emanated from the movie “Caddyshack”) and there was a considerable amount of hacked turf left in our wake as we finished each hole.

The first time we played, I bought a hot pink golf ball which was nicked by a magpie thirty seconds after I teed off. Several altercations with psychotic, dive-bombing Plovers occurred during our games and it caused me to wonder about the connection between our feathered friends and golf, and if that was the reason there are golf terms such as Birdie, Double-Eagle and Albatross.

From memory, Scotto is a bit of a ‘Happy Gilmore’ on the green and enthusiastic zeal outweighs his actual technique and precision. I think he may be a bit nervous about making a chump of himself in front of the boys.

I read somewhere that many years ago, Arnold Palmer’s wife was a guest on the Johnny Carson Show and when asked if she did anything special before a big match to bring her husband good luck, she replied that she kissed his balls. Apparently the audience went crazy… but she was mortified when she realised the double entendre.

So... what do you think? Should I kiss Scotto’s balls tonight for luck?

                                

Pinky knows it's not in the genes.

It’s a surreal feeling when all four of the boys are home together, standing around me in the kitchen and I think back to when they were babies. 
They all stand over six feet tall and are fairly athletic having always played a lot of sport. Even Lulu is taller than me and is an accomplished basketball and netball player. 

I’m genuinely bewildered as to where they get their sporting talent from. 

Not me that’s for sure.
I have to confess that at school I was absolutely shite at sport. I was scared of the ball, couldn’t throw or run fast and had zilch coordination. 
This was a disappointing attribute and one I desperately wanted to resolve. 

Firstly, all the cool kids were good at sport, secondly, all the spunky boys (back in the seventies ‘spunky’ meant ‘hot’) played sport, and thirdly… well, they were the most important reasons to me anyway. 

To say that the PE teacher at my school disliked me would be an understatement. This wasn’t because I was one of those lazy kids who always tried to get out of sport by bringing out sick notes from their mother every Friday. 

Oh no, the vindictive b#%*h detested me because I was the exact opposite of that. I signed up for every team possible, dreaming that one day I would discover my hidden talent. 

After playing an entire season of inter-school netball I realized that the PE teacher hadn’t put me on the court even once in any of the games, AND I was the only reserve on the team. I was a bit put out but it was okay because I got to hang out with all the popular girls. 

My mother, however, wasn’t very impressed as she’d forked out a notable sum of money for the spiffy uniform and Dunlop volleys (green and white).

It was clearly time to switch sports and what could be better than the mixed softball team. 
A fifteen year old, blonde-haired spunk named Geoffrey Powers, was the softball captain of my house team. I was fairly invisible to the boys as I had skinny legs, no boobies and was outrageously shy. 

Every time Geoffrey walked past me I would nervously begin examining the ground with a penetrating intensity, terrified he might actually speak to me. Nevertheless I thought there was a chance something might happen if I was on his team.

It was the beginning of the game and the skeptical PE teacher sent me out to field in the paddock. Getting a bit bored standing in the sun with no ball action coming my way; I drifted off into a careless daydream. 

In my mind’s eye I could see the opposing team getting ready to bat. After a mighty swing the ball was propelled from the tip of the bat and sailed impressively high in the air. 

I darted forward and against all odds caught the ball before it hit the ground. 

Batter out! People were screaming and cheering! 

Geoffrey was smiling coyly at me and other kids were running towards me and slapping me on the back. 

In my peripheral vision a dark shadow passed over me in the sky above interrupting my fantasy… must be a bird, I thought.

I suddenly snapped back to reality.

No, it wasn’t a f#$%king bird, it was a ball, an easy catch that had been heading directly towards me. My team on the field had been yelling for my attention to catch the bloody thing. 

Loser, Pinky!

There was a lot disappointed muttering from my team mates but nothing too abusive. I think they were humouring my sporting efforts. 
But frankly, the look on the PE teacher’s face could have curdled a bowl of fresh whipped cream.