The last netball season was the Vietnam War of netball seasons. Rife with injuries; myself included. Netballer after netballer hitting the court in ear-splitting shouts of pain, ricocheting off the sports hall walls. Bodies lead on the ground, while first aid brought us a dripping Shoprite bag of ice. There were enough casualties to justify one of those uncomfortably cringe-worthy compensation adverts, where the flashback of how the injury happened is always in black and white slow motion. ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there. Hi. Have you been injured in a netball match and left unable to play or even move, for the rest of the season? Me too. That’s when I turned to the holy spirit. Vodka. I’m Rhian. And I’m an alcoholic.’ As one leaning more toward the tail-end of an injury, I’ve written this for my fellow fallen ballers. Consider it, if you will, the article-equivalent of Eye of the Tiger from Rocky. Hopefully it leaves you inspired to go and punch a massive slab of meat, and then eat it. Make the most of the protein. It’s good for tissue repair.
Back in November, I ruptured my Achilles. Mid-game, I heard the back of my ankle pop like a giant Rice Crispy, and immediately thought, what would be, ‘Ship. For ducking ducks sake’ post-auto-correct. With two lovely players acting as human crutches, I made a conscious effort to hop off court with a Russell-Crowe-in-Gladiator-like stoicism. This vanished immediately upon crossing the threshold of home where I became Vivian Leigh from Gone with the Wind, pinching my eyes and demanding ‘Mum, I need ice and Jurassic Park. Now.’
Overlooking physical pain and discomfort, a graph of the internal emotions in that first 24 hours would resemble the heart monitor of a fat kid after running up some stairs. One minute I was optimistically reminding myself that Pamela Cookie ruptured her Achilles and was playing in the Commonwealth Games less than a year later. The next, singing the slow version of ‘I’m Still Standing’ while silent tears ran down my face, as I burned my netball dress over the kitchen hob.
In hospital, I got the first of countless ‘have you ruptured your Achilles? tests. Which, I immediately hated more than any GCSE math exam. I was told to kneel on the hospital bed, ankles over-hanging and the doc would squeeze my calf to see what my ankle did. If it moved, the tendon was still attached. If not, it wasn’t. Mine hung there like a damp sock pegged to a washing line on a windless day. Besides the new Aladdin film, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness. I was given a Robocop boot, a pair of crutches and a leaflet warning me against blood clots that could travel to my heart and kill me. Then left to elbow my way out the exit doors, with my other sad, lonely shoe wedged under my armpit. Back home, the trauma of the hospital appointment melted away to be replaced with a whirlwind of denial, sadness of not being able to play, confusion over how bad the injury actually was, and a played-down terror of coming out the other side of this ordeal being eligible to apply to be on ‘My 800lb life.’ But hidden deep in the imaginary rolls of fat clouding my mind were a few silver linings waiting to be found.
The discovery of Riverdale, with it an unhealthy obsession with Jughead Jones.
Netballers no longer have to suffer the pain of pushing an earring through a closed up piercing, or suffer the wrath of umpires making you cut your newly manicured nails.
You can use disabled parking spaces, so you can get super close to Tesco every time. (This is probably the best one).
You get buckets of attention from family, friends and strangers alike, showing how much they care about you. However, after telling the same story continuously for months, over and over and over, the loveliness faded and I found myself gradually transforming into Jack Nicholson from The Shining: ‘Ruptured my Achilles. Netball game. 14 weeks in the boot. Thank you for asking.’ I was given two weeks off after my boss came into work to find this written repeatedly across the walls. Or because I was chasing people in the building with an axe. Not sure which.
Two weeks under house arrest bred a Gandhi-level of patience. Far beyond the standard patience that comes from boredom. Patience that comes from deep within, when you’re trying not to snap at your parents who are just trying to help but ‘NO. DAD. I DO NOT WANT ANOTHER YORKSHIRE PUDDING OR I’LL GET FAT AND MY ANKLE IS ALREADY FAT ENOUGH FOR THE REST OF MY BODY SO JUST STOP ASKING AND GET ME A DIET COKE.’ This patience was transferable to situations that occurred outside the house. Mainly from being in town and having older folk look at me with a creased, pitying stare and say ‘Oh. I did my Achilles twenty years ago. Never been the same since.’ Cheers for the pep talk Harold. Must dash. I have to buy a shredder big enough to force my netball trainers through’. Equally as trying, and also surprising, was the tidal wave of sexist ‘witticisms’ I got when people asked how I ended up partially crippled. My favourite’s include;
Did you fall off your high heels?
Did you fall off your pony?
Did you fall off your stripper pole?
I’d just like to point out that I have never fallen off heels, or my pony. And the stripper pole. That happened ONE time. Seriously, let it go. After eleven separate questions of a similar nature, I was willing to sacrifice my other ankle for the satisfaction of kicking them so hard in the groin they’d look like a Ken doll down there. But all these niggles; the physical discomfort, denial, frustration, anger, annoyance, sadness, confusion, guilt, repetitiveness and yet, inconsistency that comes with being injured, brings us to the main silver lining; mental resilience. It’s the best perk of being injured. Like getting a free pen when you open a new bank account.
And that’s what it all comes down to. Not the pen. Or being able to drink at all occasions because you can’t drive. The mental toughness. The capability to manage a negative situation in a positive way and adapt with it to come back stronger than before. Every player who I have seen during this injury-prone season has uttered that same heartbreaking phrase, when at their most vulnerable. I just want to play.
For me, it came in the hospital waiting room, after I re-tore my Achilles a month after the original injury, which would rule me out of playing in front of a home crowd in the Island’s first international tournament. One hand trying to hide my ugly cry face, Mum holding the other to comfort me, while Karl and Susanne tried to choose between light white or less white-white for the downstairs loo walls in Home’s Under the Hammer. Karl and Susanne broke me. Hospitals that play daytime TV in waiting rooms full of people teetering on the edge, still waiting five hours after their scheduled appointment, should be trialed for manslaughter. Watching that show in a hospital waiting room, makes watching your teammates play without you a doddle. But really, that mental resilience helps you handle the inner anguish that adjoins conflicting thoughts of wanting your team to do well but also not wanting your absence to go unnoticed. To be blunt, wanting them to do well, but not too well without you. The mental resilience dissolves those insecurities like Aspirin in a glass of water, and replaces them with an overwhelming sense of pride for your team, desire to see them play the best they can play, and an excitement to get back on court with them.
If I can leave you with any advice from my own personal experience, it would be these key points:
You’re going to get a lot of different opinions about the best way to treat your injury – get surgery, don’t get surgery, keep the boot on at ALL TIMES, take the boot off when you want, use a hacksaw to amputate it, no- a chainsaw is much more effective. You can get drunk on the opinions of those who care and left not knowing which way is up. Pick one person you trust. Preferably someone with a medical profession. Listen to them. Do what they advise you to do.
Work on the other parts of your body that are still in-tact. Since the injury, my upper-body strength has improved ten-fold.
Prepare for a timeline of convincing yourself the injury isn’t as bad as it actually is, high breakthrough moments, lousily low lows and frustrating patches where it feels like your stuck on a treadmill; working hard and getting nowhere.
Watch netball. Though no-doubt difficult to stomach, especially at the start, watch the super-league and ANZ league. It keeps your eye’s switched on. Study slick passes and anticipate fly intercepts. It makes you see what works and what doesn’t and gives you things to look forward to trying when you’re back on court.
Remember, it’s only temporary. SO many professional athletes have come back immensely stronger after an injury, because they have that renewed mental edge and drive. And who doesn’t a love comeback story?
So, to my fellow injured ballers, I salute you. And to the countless people who have supported me, I thank you. Who knew throwing and catching a ball could cause so much love and heartache? Maybe I should just stick to pole dancing.
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