It’s just not cricket

I’m not too bad at sport. I’m not great, but I’m not shocking either.

I used to play basketball when I was younger, mostly so I could check out the other guys in their sweaty singlets and join a cool group at school (it didn’t work).

My parents didn’t play sport. I lie — once I saw Dad play football and it was the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen him do.

These days I’m constantly throwing balls, frisbees, handballs and anything round to and at the mini men.

We take off on Saturday afternoons down to the park in Rushcutters Bay and kick the football around. Chicky gets upset when he can’t conquer a kick (he gets that from his dad) so it’s a long afternoon of chasing small footballs, cranky kids and watching handsome men running through the park.

The latter still takes effort as I usually have to dodge wayward footballs and the tiniest of mini men who has thrown in the towel and wants a leg ride mid-game.

At family gatherings at my grandparents’ farm, I used to dread the after-lunch sport events. There would be 10 aunties and uncles playing cricket under the trees in the paddock. Old cows and horses would chew and stare and I’d be wishing for a swim in the river instead or that the cows would stampede us and ruin our game.

My dad was always talking to Pa during these Meyer Olympics and Mum would be cleaning up the demolition zone of a lunch table with my beautiful white-haired feisty Nanna.

I was happy to bat, but never happy to bowl. I looked like a strangled cat trapped in a mesh bag. My arms would flail crazily and the ball would catapult from my grasp either too early and end up in a tree or too late and rebound into my forehead.

So, I have to remind myself constantly to teach the boys how to kick, throw, tackle and catch. Now, after lunch, it’s just not cricket.