It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game

I drop to the floor in pain. I didn’t think my first class would be this brutal. Maybe kickboxing isn’t for me? I pick myself up off the floor and get back into my fighting stance, sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. The saltiness of the sweat stings and I blink to refocus. My partners hands are up and ready for me to unleash the combo - Jab, cross, left kick…jab, cross, left kick – I did it! I look to my partner and she seems impressed, maybe not impressed, maybe more fascinated by my coordination (or lack of). I stand in front of my partner, hands up ready to catch the combo. Her punches are fast and sharp and her left kick stuns me again as I drop to the floor one more time. She kneels down next to me and checks to see if I am ok. I wince a little but try not to show my agony. As my partner encourages me off the ground, our trainer signals that class is over. I slump to the floor and lay in my pile of sweat. Boy, am I glad to see this class end. I look up at the class timetable and wonder if I should continue…

As soon as I get home, I dump my sweaty boxing gloves on the carpet floor in the closet. I always dread looking into the closet. As I peep in, I see my tennis racket, one month and nothing to show, except maybe an accidental backspin. To the left of the tennis racket are my soccer boots. I have to admit, I thought soccer would have lasted, I always pictured myself as a soccer star. It’s a shame my feet could never find the ball. I started the season too late and was put on the team without any practice. The first game was brilliant, the team played with ease. I was put on the bench. The next week, my second game, was intense. My legs were shaking as I walked onto the field. The coach put me in as left wing. As the ball was passed around the field, team mate to team mate, opposition stealing the ball, I ran up and down, waiting for my opportunity. Our midfielder had the ball and was chasing it through the centre of the field. I was sprinting up on the left, when my teammate kicks the ball far in front, between me and the goals. I race against the defender and can feel my heart racing with me. I’m almost there. My foot swings forward. So far forward that instead of kicking the side of the ball, I slip on top of the ball and slide forward in the splits. I was never good at gymnastics and this moment was not a time to show that skill off. I wish I could say I got better after that incident, but I would be lying. I lasted three more games until my soccer boots found the inside of my closet.

I’m intrigued now and walk into my closet, pushing aside other bits of equipment and clothing. I wonder how many hobbies I have tried out? Surely more than 15 since I have moved to the city. The first month living here was thrilling. I would walk around the city taking in all the sights. Peering into gym windows, watching through the link-wire fence onto basketball courts, smelling the chlorine from nearby pools. Everyone seemed to be doing something in this city. Not a single field, yard, nor gymnasium was empty. I was envious and from that moment decided I would find my own sporting passion. I never had one growing up. I was too busy with school and our farm. I never needed to exercise. During my wanderings around the city, I gazed through a studio window and was hypnotised by the seemingly effortless flow of the yoga students. With each breath a new pose. I was hooked on their ease and calmness that I found myself walking into the studio. This was it. This was the start of my journey. As I watched each flowing movement, I imagined myself on my yoga mat going through the movements and breathing each breath with purpose. The next day I was set up and ready to feel the serenity of each pose. We started with downward dog and worked through a sequence. My breath could not and would not match my pace, although each movement seemed easy, I was struggling. My warrior pose was less warrior and more wounded soldier. I stayed in child’s pose for the rest of the class. My body was sore for a week thereafter. My yoga mat has been sitting rolled up in my closet since then.

Pushing the mat aside, I see my swimming bag filled with my one piece, goggles and cap. I know what you must be thinking, she tried swimming next – wrong. I tried synchronised swimming. This was probably the most laughable activity I have ever tried. Not because I found the sport humorous or funny in any capacity but because I looked like a drowning helicopter. Arms flailing about and often rotating like helicopter blades trying to tread water. The instructor would regularly have a student pull me upright to make sure I wasn’t drowning or in distress. I think I swallowed the entire pool water in this one class. I couldn’t figure out how to breath through the nose clip and would end up gulping large amounts of chlorine water instead. I ended up vomiting that night.

As I reflect on my past sporting failures, I realise I might not be coordinated, or have speed or endurance, but what I am good at is realising new fears, experimenting with each new sport and each new failure. I am not only impressed with my body for enduring physical abuse brought on from each sporting failure but glad to continuously encourage myself to try again. Afterall, I did move to the city for my job – who would have thought I could suck at playing sport but be incredible at writing about it. I am this cities number one sporting journalist.

I close my closet door and walk my limp and aching body over to the shower and slowly undress to get in. As the warm water flows over my body, my mind wanders. Maybe I’m a dancer?