On being a bad sport. Part 1.

I have many faults.

As well as being prone to jealousy, whininess, envy, laziness, anger, impatience, dissatisfaction, coveting my neighbours ass and worshiping idols, I am also a really fucking bad sport and have limited ability to regulate my emotions in public.

Over the years there have been a myriad of opportunities for me to demonstrate my epically bad sportsmanship, going right back to my primary school days.

I am just lucky enough to be someone who was gifted with the happy combination of moderate ability in a variety of things, laziness, with vague competitiveness and a sense of entitlement thrown in for good measure.

I am such a catch.  People want to be me, people want to be like me.  Who wouldn't*?

Anyway this combination of enjoyable characteristics has resulted in some fairly epic examples of John McEnroe like behaviour. But like, without the John McEnroe skills to back it up. So, just the bad behaviour. Ugh.

Many of them have become family legend. As you can imagine it brings me NO END OF PLEASURE to hear my parents/much older cousins/aunts and uncles regale family gatherings with tales of my tantruming. NO END OF PLEASURE.

Keep it up guys it isn't getting old YET! YEAH! GIVE ME MORE. I MEAN YOU'VE ONLY BEEN DINING OUT ON THEM FOR ABOUT 20 YEARS BUT WHATEVER**.

Since they all get so much pleasure going on about it I thought I would re-appropriate the stories for the blog. A series of blog posts to be precise. Since they are about me. I may as well try and cash in on them, dudes. It will probably segue nicely into a follow up series of posts on "Taking criticism badly" and "Sulking". Because I do those things too.

Part 1 - Murder on the netball court.

So, back in the day, I used to be quite a whizz on the netball court. When I say whizz, I mean, I could catch and throw a ball and didn't fall over. Much. Couldn't shoot goals or play defence though. That is not at all important in netball though***.

I couldn't find any photos of me at netty so here's some of me circa 1991/2 just being revoltingly precocious anyway. Ugh.

Just acting up a storm for the FANS whilst wearing a ra ra skirt and white moon boots, you gotta problem with dat?

Just banging out a tune on the keyboard for an adoring crowd whilst wearing a white frock and scarlet sash WHAT OF IT?

Just reading Roald Dahl at a family picnic while wearing overalls, a straw hat and a self-satisfied smirk, SO SUE ME!

It came to pass, long ago, that shifting netball club committee politics resulted in my very own parents becoming President, Treasurer, Secretary, Registrar, fundraising coordinators, just basically ALL OF THE POSITIONS. Which included Dad becoming coach of my VERY OWN TEAM. Because of how he is an expert in all the rules and ins and outs of netball and played it for years himself back in the old country****.

You can imagine how AWESOME this was. I loved it sick*****. I especially loved it when Coach Dad would single me out on the court and yell detailed instructions at me during the games, arms gesticulating wildly. Oh how I loved it. And I loved the way it drew UNNECESSARY ATTENTION my way, from the members of the other team. Oh yes I LOVED IT.

One particular Saturday morning we were battling it out on the court with some tough opposition. I was sweaty and grumpy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad waving his arms at me and yelling . He was waving and pointing and instructing. And waving and instructing. And probably coaching too.

I tried to ignore it but it was tough. Sporty Coach Dad was nothing if not persistent. He waved at me a bit more to get me to move over or try harder or run faster or something.

At that moment something in my 11 year old mind snapped and reader, I saw red.  I abandoned my post at Wing Attack and came hurtling over to the sideline where Dad was waving at me, the eyes of both teams on me. I screeched to a halt and shouted, enraged;

"Shut UP DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!! BLAAARGGHHHHHHH! SNARGGGLLLYYY BLLAAAGGGHH".

I screamed hysterically at him while the crowd looked on in shocked silence.

When I had finished my tirade, I did the worst thing my eleven year old mind could think of.

I did the finger. With both hands. I waved them in his face, ranting incoherently, and then ran screaming from the court into the carpark.

Here is an artist's impression of the alleged incident.

My main memory was the look of bemusement on Dad's face as I turned and fled.  I think he was quite enjoying it. Was this the reaction he had been trying for all along? Who can say.

I can't remember what happened next. I was probably shepherded home and a cloud probably hung over my name for a while, netball wise.

Still, if this, and other similar incidents hadn't occurred, then basically my family and friends would never have anything to talk about ever because APPARENTLY THIS IS A DINNER PARTY STORY THAT JUST KEEPS ON GIVING NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU TELL IT!

So there you have it. Part 1 in a series of MANY MANY instalments where I demonstrate my poor emotional regulation, bad temper and extremely low levels of sportsmanship.

You can thank me later.



*Me. I wouldn't. Actually.
** Ugh.
***It is actually. Kind of the whole point of the game but whatever.
***NOT! That was rugby you fools not netball. Ugh.
*****No I didn't, DUR you guys