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Written by Luke Fisher (he/him) | @lukefisher7__ | CONTRIBUTING COLUMNIST
I was fortunate enough to be dreadful at sports during my youth. I had this thought when I recently found myself back at my home of mediocrity: the Harry Barker Reserve in Gisborne.
Even though it had been nearly two years since I last played cricket, nothing had changed. It possessed an eerie familiarity, almost as if it had been frozen in time. The leather cricket ball still struck the bat with that same satisfying thud. Cries of “CATCH IT!” and “KEEPER!” occasionally interrupted the symphony of chirping cicadas. The sun beat down through our near-non-existent patch of ozone.
The familiarity went deeper than that. My old team, Gisborne Boys’ High School, were getting battered. And so they should be, they were a bunch of wiry teenagers going up against fully grown men. One of the few remaining Boys’ High batters was run out off a free hit, a cardinal sin in cricket. As the poor lad trudged forlornly off the field, and my old coach buried his face in his hands, I reflected on how lucky I’ve been to have the opportunities I’ve had. To have parents who always cheered me on, despite me cutting that forlorn figure too many times to count. But I didn’t always have such a mature perspective.
When I was younger, cricket was everything to me. I went to every training session; every game. I knew all of New Zealand’s cricketers, and when they played my eyes were glued to the TV screen. I’d sometimes even start playing cricket shots mid-conversation — and wonder why I stayed single through high school. I was tragically in love with the game. But it seemed the game didn’t love me back.
For any cricket nerds out there, I was an opening batsman with a career average of bugger all and a strike rate of diddly squat. My first enduring memory from age group cricket is the taste of the cold gas station steak and cheese pie I choked down after getting out for 0 in my first regional game. The tears did not mix well with the already soggy pastry. Over the years, I made failure an aesthetic. After getting out, I would tuck the bat under my left armpit, remove my gloves and position my helmet’s chin strap in front of my mouth — my head would not lift until I crossed the boundary. Just like the professionals.
Cricket was an abusive girlfriend, but I came back to her every single summer until Year 13. Why? For the love of the game: to chase the feeling of smashing dad over the backyard fence for six. For being in a team full of lifelong friends. For celebrating with those friends, not because you won the game, but because you passed the target the coach set for his shout of Maccas soft serve on the way home. Because those rare moments of success made you feel like you were on top of the world. Cricket was a home for me, and sport still is.
As I sat watching another classic Boys’ High batting collapse, I thought about how my relationship with sport has changed over the years. The biggest realisation: my journey isn’t unique. I used to think I was the only one who struggled with bad performances when I was just your average built-like-a-toothpick teen with an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. Youths are more likely to experience performance anxiety during sports and lack the emotional toolbox to deal with it. As we grow older, we tend to regulate our emotions better, aiding performance. Worry less, do better.
I’m grateful for not having any sporting talent because I can enjoy all the benefits of playing a sport — improved mental and physical health, better sleep, social connection, and more — without having to worry about how well I play. Sure, my social 7aside football isn’t played in front of 70,000 fans, but that means if I score an own goal I don’t have to face the wrath of the fans and media afterwards. That is, unless my teammates set up a faux press conference in which case I’d be forced to harness my inner Nick Kyrgios and give it right back to them.
So, if you’re worried about playing a sport because you sucked when you were younger, don’t worry, most of us did. Close your eyes, and become your inner five-year-old. I see mine right now. Feeling the freshly cut grass between his feet, and the Milo plastic cricket bat in his hands, he faces up to Dad. Dad stands at the other end of the pitch, spouting fantastical bullshit about his old age making him wily and easily underestimated. Mini-me tells him to bring it on. He tosses the ball up. I run towards it and smash it straight over his head. Holding the pose, I stand and admire it as it sails over the fence and lands in a crusty cow turd. That was awesome. I can’t wait to face the next ball.
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