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‘Worlds colliding!’ It’s an expression which
often floats through my mind on a smile. Unremarkably, it hails from a Seinfeld
episode in which a pent up George finds his new fiancé, Susan, deepening her
relationship with his old buddy Elaine, lunching together and shopping
together, all of it without him. In a state of infantile distress, George confesses
his unease to Jerry. Eyes wide, breath held, arms flailing, he cries, ‘Worlds
colliding.’
I’ve been struggling over a piece of writing
– my Masters thesis – a strange long essay on accumulation, volume and
identity, part art criticism, part philosophy, part long piece of writing. In
an effort to preserve focus, I’ve been drawing up calendars and maps of how to
keep the world at bay: paid work, childcare, household duties, social
responsibilities and the tangents of other writing. When I finally sit down to
write, I wrestle in clear space, with unattainable thoughts.
School holidays are no friend to the
creatively preoccupied mother. This past week I went ‘home’ down the NSW south
coast; my ma and pa had been pining for the Cygnet. Somehow I imagined hours of
writing time, my desk tuned to the rainforest, a bell for meals and bed. But it
didn’t work out that way. Because my eight year old Cygnet wants to play board
games before breakfast. He wants to make LEGO trapeze and advanced origami
before lunch. And when the sun is shining (as it was) he wants to move, he
wants to ride and kick and run in the fields until the moon rises. And my
parents can no longer do those things all day.
So, after lunches of reluctantly pasteurized
cheeses and Barossa reds, the Cygnet and I spent the afternoons on the front
hill, high above the rolling hills of the Shoalhaven and the endless sea
beyond.
This year, I am most definitely up for the
challenge; I need the practice. This year, I am assistant coach to the Newtown
Swans Under 9 Golds. And while my handballing and marking have always been
fine, while I can work any drill the coach throws at me, while I can get the
kids up and giggling as well as anyone, my Achilles heel has always been … my
kicking. And it has weighed heavily; ‘You know it’s called football,
Mum!’ I spend Wednesday night training sessions hoping that it will only
ever be the kids who need to be kicking. And when kicking is actually required,
I’ve been known to throw the Sherrin into the breeze that whips across Botany
Bay, using it as a factor, ‘keeping the trajectory steady’ for the kids. Never
mind that they can kick 50 metres on a tightrope. This year, aware of my new
title, the Cygnet and his dad have taken it on themselves to train me up and
make me proud - there’s no place for a ‘girlie kick’ with a coach’s hat on.
We’ve spent hot autumn Saturdays at the park, our bikes leaned against the palm
trees, a triangle of kicks wearing down the afternoons as we discuss laces and
points, toes and insteps, backspin and other spin, dropping versus throwing,
elbows in, elbows out and the opposite hand taken off.
And so training continued down the
coast – the Cygnet and I, an imperfect ground, an opposition of gums
and lilly pillies and a single jacaranda in the goal square.
‘Good kick,’ I congratulated myself on something which landed on his chest.
‘Great mark,’ said the Cygnet.
‘Good mark.’ I was responsible for my own morale.
‘Pretty perfect kick,’ said the Cygnet of his own.
And so it went. And in the flow and rhythm of
our kick and catch, something took over. My kicks went straighter and
straighter, with backward spin. Judgement dissolved. We dug out the rogue balls
from snake territory round the water tank. The Cygnet created the ‘Uphill
Demon’, a spiralling bomb from the bottom of the slope. Increasing accuracy
meant the jacaranda couldn’t get a touch. In the application and repetition, in
the acceptance of the grubbers that weren’t pretty and the ones that came off
the shin, and the ones which stayed closer to home rather than travel,
something emerged beyond expectation or will, something free and fine. I wished
for a pen in my hand as we blew the siren on the lost shape of the gums to
night.
The Swans played the Saints in New Zealand
that evening. History, international points, ANZAC spirit. Yeah, yeah.
According to Shane Mummy, it was simply a trip east rather than west. And the
match – it ground from the start. On a slippery deck in a foreign land, it just
ground and ground. The odd display of very slick hands, the odd display of
traditional full forwardness, the odd display of flow and link. But mostly, it
ground and ground. No need for heroics, no need for fighting spirit or blind
courage. It was almost as if the style was more than conditions or strategy,
some driving force which had a longer throw for Sydney’s season, some kind of
reiteration of ‘bit by bit’ and ‘staying the distance’ all in the one movement.
Some might have called it dour. But me, I found the even tension of the four
quarters transfixing. It reminded me of the patch of grass on the front hill.
It reminded me of the mown lines of an empty page. Worlds colliding.
Setting out on a piece of writing is a bit
like going onto foreign soil, into imperfect conditions and not knowing what
you’ll make there. It’s a process of beginning at the beginning and trusting
the course, with enough intention to keep the destination in sight. It’s as
hands off as it is hands on. As much as I try to quarantine solo space in
this world, I rarely get the chance to do anything cocooned from colliding
worlds. Perhaps it’s time to let them call the shots.
