my pet steed, Tangent

Friday, 12 April 2013

Confessions of a Pregnancy Novice

It’s been a while since my last blog, in which I bemoaned the loss of hockey in my life since I had become pregnant, and pondered the mood swings that were then afflicting me. Suffice to say, it hadn’t been a good week.

Being pregnant is an incredible phenomenon and a perfectly natural, everyday occurrence, all at the same time. Of the approximately 50% of the population who are able to experience it in their lives, 4 in 5 in the UK will choose to do so. So that’s 40% of the population of the UK who will go through pregnancy on one or more occasion in their lifetime. Not exactly a rare occurrence, then. And yet it’s quite something to experience it, especially for the first time. It seemed about time I put some of my experiences down on screen in order to remember them in years to come, offer help, advise or amusement to others in my situation, educate that other 50% of the population, should they wish for it, or merely just to relieve the burden of the many things going around in my head by splurging them out via the medium of keyboard. As is the nature of blogging, generally.

So here it is – at this point in time I’m a shade over halfway there, yet it feels I’ve been pregnant for-EVER. So I am sure there will be plenty of time for a number of instalments in this, my pregnancy blog.

I don’t even know where to start to be honest. Let’s see. The bewildering gamut of emotions I am experiencing on a daily basis? That could keep me busy for quite some time. Sometimes I feel as though I am already so completely devoted to the tiny creature currently growing inside of me, I don’t want to see, experience or feel anything other than that little life form in my arms, for the rest of my life. At yet other times, when I’m busy, stressed, or having a good time, I could almost forget it’s even there. Until I look at my emerging bump of course. Which I’m surprisingly proud of. As an exercise enthusiast, nay, obsessive, I had always imagined that losing my figure whilst pregnant would be a source of horror for me. Instead I find myself throwing down Thorntons chocolates by the handful, and indulging in around about nine or so meals a day with reckless abandon, blithely unconcerned by the fatty deposits gleefully layering themselves on and around my stomach, hips and bottom, suctioning themselves to me like soft, squishy limpets ready to come along on this wild ride with me.

Although it isn’t so wild after all. A social butterfly in my previous incarnation (as a NON-pregnant female), I have found that nothing, repeat NOTHING, is as good as curling up on my sofa at home, a good series on TV, husband at my side, cake in my hand. I am, quite simply, losing the will to socialise. Is it because I cannot indulge in my regular pint of Strongbow whilst at the pub? That probably has quite a lot to do with it. After a stormy initial few weeks of pregnancy where I battled with my very suddenly imposed ban on the booze – over Christmas, too! – I have since had little or no interest in alcohol – except for when out at the pub. Then I find myself a boring, tired version of my former self, unable, or unwilling, to maintain conversation with others around me who are riding the merry train to tipsy land. I’m just not on the same wavelength anymore. So why bother? It’s a bind. I know I will come out the other side, hopefully with some of my more patient friends remaining, but in the meantime, please accept my blanket apology for being tired, grumpy, boring, or otherwise engaged at any or all social functions. It's not my fault. I just rely on booze to make me interesting.

And exercise! My former pal, fitness! They tell you to do plenty of exercise when you’re pregnant. Ha! Pre-pregnancy I had always sworn to myself I’d be one of those pregnant women who worked out up until the day she dropped, all perfect round bump and not an ounce of fat anywhere else. Give me a break. Every time I stand up, I get a head rush to the point of falling over. Motivating myself to put on something vaguely sporty and actually execute a series of vigorous movements that might constitute a workout has become a mountainous challenge. During my first trimester, I awaited with anticipation the purported glow and energy rush of the second, when I was sure I’d be up at the crack of dawn to work out in the spring sunshine before heading off to work full of the joys of impending motherhood.

Pfft. That went well. Deep into the second trimester and aside from a few half-hearted stabs at the punchbag (mainly just to take out my angry pregnant lady frustrations) and sporadic unenthusiastic efforts at my regular street dance class, and I’m still as lethargic and unmotivated as I was before. Add to the equation my rapidly expanding girth and the complete lack of aforementioned spring sunshine and I’m fighting a losing battle. I used to be a keen swimmer but the thought of donning a one piece lycra costume and taking to the water terrifies me – in this weather? With PEOPLE around? Er, I’m good thanks.

Did I mention the fear? The cold, creeping awareness that I’ve bought a one-way ticket to PAIN. That however far away it seems, there will come a day in the now not-too-distant future in which I’m a sweating, writhing, wailing, bleeding, bloated mess of a woman. And that it will hurt. A LOT.

But let’s hold that thought for a moment (but, but… the PAIN?!) – NO – let’s hold that thought, in fact let’s tuck it away, locked down in that little box called denial, until some other day, one of those days when I feel like an all-conquering Earth mother who can do anything, squeezing out a tiny human just a blip on the radar of my greater purpose within the world (there will BE one of those days, right?). Yes, let’s shelve the images of myself in horrendous agony to ponder all the nice things about being pregnant. Because really, there are quite a few, that all too readily become lost amongst the reams of material online and in books about what not to do, what not to eat, how not to lie, what drugs not to take (ALL of them) and all the niggles, aches, itches and mood swings that accompany this joyful nine month hiatus from your normal life.

Good things about being pregnant:

1) The eating. Okay, I’m aware I’m in a very lucky minority to have not suffered with morning sickness, at any point thus far. But at one point or another during pregnancy, most women will find themselves past the sicky phase and ready for food. And I imagine they, like me, will tell you – food has never tasted better. Oh no. The delight with which I am enjoying simple things such as beans on toast, a cheese toastie, a jam doughnut… It’s fantastic, and as a body conscious person, this is one of the few times in my life I get to legitimately enjoy all the foods my body (and my hungry inhabitant’s body) desires. Cravings are there for a reason and when you’re pregnant it’s your right, nay, your DUTY to indulge them to the best of your ability. So pass me that cake, yes, why not, chuck me a chocolate bar, for they are full of energy, calcium, and the promise of tastebuds dancing, alive with flavour, one of the great pleasures in an otherwise mundane existence. Bring it on, baby. All of it. With icecream.

2) People. People are really nice to you. It could be construed as patronising if you were that way inclined, perhaps a little too independent or feminist to really appreciate it, but the concern shown to you by others is really quite touching. People go out of their way to carry a heavy bag for you, open a door, enquire as to your health, or generally smile and glow at you. I even received an apology for someone’s bad language the other day! Imagine! I can swear like a trooper myself but all of a sudden I seem to have unconsciously begun garnering the kind of respect you would reserve for a lady. A proper one too, not a pretend one like me who watches sport, drinks pints and wears a hoodie to work. It’s all rather lovely.

3) The baby. It’s what it’s all about and it may seem like an obvious one, but there’s something quite breath-taking about the first time you feel movements within that are most certainly not your own. And not even in a chest-protruding Alien sort of way. Now I’m almost 21 weeks and I know my baby’s routine – it has a lie in of a morning (like its Mum), becomes particularly active after some tasty food (like its Mum) and never much feels like settling down at night (er, this child is already disturbingly similar to me). I can already tell we’re going to get along great. The kicks, prods, stretches and wriggles that are going on inside me are precious, every last one, and remind me constantly what all this is for. It’s like having a little buddy travelling with you all the time. You can never feel alone when you’re pregnant.

Which of course leads you to the end product. The life-changing, earth-shattering moment when you see your child for the first time and realise that nothing in the world has mattered up until this point. The moment that makes the hours of pain (oh my god, horrendous pain) all worthwhile. In 19 weeks and one day, (if the baby were to come on its predicted due date – which it undoubtedly will not) I will be there. And I cannot wait.

I have been writing for some time now and realise I haven’t even scraped the surface. The conversations about names (conflict!), the vast, endless array of goods you are forced to start considering purchasing (bewildering!), the annoying need to get out of bed every single night to urinate (too much information!). These are topics on which I will impart wisdom, or lack of it, to you my dear reader, in the coming weeks and months. Please come back and find out exactly how fat I am, which part of my body I have injured in my new-found clumsiness and even which gender of child I have most recently been predicted to be bearing! See you soon.

Monday, 18 February 2013

Self Help 101

Sometimes, you just get in one of those moods. You know, the ones where it seems like everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Negative feelings seem to multiply like a snowball of misery thundering downhill, picking up speed as well as plenty more negatives besides. Yes, you feel like a victim. Why me? Well, sometimes, buddy, it’s just not your day.

Now I know many of my male friends would put this down to the simple fact of ‘being a woman’. And I can’t deny, that hormones may well be behind many of my bad moods. But at the end of the day, so what? If blokes are telling me they never have a day like this, where they wake up in a black mood which turns out just to be a shade of grey in comparison to what’s to come, then I would be stunned.

So-called self-help ‘experts’ bleat endlessly about ‘breaking the cycle’ of negativity and all that baloney. Well okay, maybe it’s a legitimate point. But what happens when you’re a fan of science, a cynical anti-hippy such as myself who just cannot be doing with deep breathing, acupressure and god forbid, chanting positive mantras? Give me a break. Somebody give me a REAL solution to a day like today.

And don’t you dare tell me ‘it could be worse’. Please tell me I’m not alone in finding that the most annoying response to the blues ever invented. Of COURSE it could be worse. I’m not an idiot. I am quite aware that there are children starving in Africa, and I am very sad about that. And I am genuinely deeply grateful for the health and well-being of all of my family members and of myself. But these assurances are not enough - in this precise moment in time - to convince me this isn’t the WORST day in the history of EVER.

Let’s think of an example shall we. Let’s use, ooh, today. Seeing as I’m writing in precisely one of these moods. Or perhaps, the aftermath of it. We’ll see. I had spent the weekend watching the excellent Fantastic 4’s two day ball hockey tournament at Gateshead Leisure Centre, hosted by the North-East Dekstars club of which I am a member.

Why was I watching instead of playing? You might enquire. A good question! I’m expecting a baby, and having feigned a back injury to cover up the news until the 12 week scan gave me the all clear to tell the world last week, I hadn’t been in hockey-playing action since before Christmas. As the sprains, bruises, grazes and general batteredness of my hockey-playing peers can attest, it's not a sport for the faint-hearted, let alone the delicate of condition.

I really enjoyed the tournament and was proud to watch the 4 teams of Dekstars give it their all, all weekend long. I even went to the Shark Club in Newcastle afterwards for some food and (soft) drinks with the team. All very nice.

Yet I woke up Monday morning feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. The reality of what I’d missed out on being a part of solidified into a big, painful, real thing as I saw all the statuses on Facebook of my team-mates, sore, battered, bruised, proud, hungover, and happy. And it’s not just that. I’m missing out on a trip to Canada for the World Ball Hockey Championships as part of Team GB, having been selected in October 2012, one of the proudest moments of my life.

Many might question my decision to subsequently get pregnant and scupper my chance at international level competition in a sport I love with a passion (despite having only been involved with it since June 2012). I have reflected on the very same question myself and I can assure you, this is the one and only thing that would sideline me, aside from serious injury, from playing the sport I love. The desire to start a family is strong and inexplicable, and despite my apparent youth (!) I am in fact a stately 31 years old and heading swiftly for 32. Not over the hill just yet, but from a child-bearing point of view, worth getting a move on.

When it comes to once in a lifetime opportunities, I have sacrificed one, yes. But who knows, had I waited… if I may have sacrificed another. I wasn’t prepared to take that risk. That being said, I did not expect it to happen as quickly as it did – I thought I may even still be able to play in Canada, as if it didn’t happen straight away, I may as well have held on for a few more months. But that’s fate for you.

Yes, okay, I am a lover of science and a hater of all things pseudo and namby-pamby. So it may seem hypocritical for me to harp on about fate. But I do have a belief in things happening ‘for a reason’. Timing is clearly not my forte, in this case at least. But perhaps - maybe in a few months, maybe in a few years - I will look back on my less than fortuitous ‘planning’ if it can even be called that, with an element of stoicism, as I reflect – ‘it’s for the best because…’.

That explanation took longer than I meant it to and has become something of a reflective reasoning exercise for me. All that to say – I woke up this morning and the gravity of the situation hit me, all at once. The thing that is ‘mine’ – hockey – is gone. Not forever, but for the foreseeable future, and despite the lovely friends I have made at the North East Dekstars, not being able to be a part of something like the Fantastic 4’s tournament cannot help but make you feel like an outsider. Especially when you can’t even partake in a few drinks afterwards to toast your friends’ efforts.

I felt sorry for myself, plain and simple. But not just a bit mopey. Massive, crushing, utterly desolate misery. This, as I look back upon it and my subsequent reactions throughout this fateful day, was quite probably exacerbated by the dreaded pregnancy hormones, which, despite full knowledge of their existence, do not stop you feeling like your world is caving in around you for several sad hours at a time.

I came into work amid a swathe of colleagues leaving, or about to leave, having accepted the voluntary severance hastily offered by our short-sighted institution, leaving us not just short-staffed but missing valuable colleagues, and friends, my husband included. Suddenly my lunch hours are free – instead of wandering into town or down to the Quayside with him, I am now at a loose end. On any other day I could perhaps reflect positively on this development – I could use the time to write more? Get some exercise? Nope, not in this mood. It’s just a bitter cherry on top of a very sour pie.

And then the torrent of little sprinkles to go on top of that pie – shards of irritation, annoyance and disappointment all around me blown up beyond all sensible proportions into huge injustices. The one Watford FC away game I could attend, in Hull on Easter Monday, postponed until the Tuesday evening because of VILE Sky TV. The hoodie I had bought for my husband’s birthday arriving but not in the colour I had ordered – stupid website misrepresenting the product. Jake Bugg on the radio – his nasal voice an irritant to my poor ears; I nearly punched the radio in frustration. And another set-back in the complicated organisation of my best friend’s hen do – just a small one but in the grand scheme of my small-world view this horrible morning, it could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I sat at my desk fighting with my own morosity, struggling to keep on top of it all – ‘it’s just Monday blues, it’s just hormonal’. But literally everything felt as though it was going against me and when you feel that way, it’s impossible to break out of the funk. I desperately wanted to go home and curl up in bed, possibly never to return.

So. I’m still here, still at my desk (yes, I should be working. No, I don’t care – I partially blame this place for my horrendous day). And I feel a bit calmer. ‘Finally, the hormones have subsided,’ cry the men, more in hope than relief. That as may be. It turns out that as much as the small things get you down on days like today, it’s the small things you cling to that can help you claw your way free of the mire. A walk in the sun at lunchtime, a nice evening meal at home to look forward to, and half an hour or so away from the daily grind to put it all down on paper and realise that things really aren’t that bad.

I’m not going to say I made a big deal over nothing. The delayed reaction gutted-ness to the cruel amputation of hockey from my life was a very real feeling that I think would have hit me hard after a weekend like this one regardless of hormonal influences. But what it triggered possibly could have been avoided if I’d engaged in this therapeutic writing exercise at the beginning of the day instead of leaving it until now. If I’d lightened the mood in the office by engaging with colleagues instead of hunching my shoulders and resisting human interaction under the false cloud of belief that it would just make me feel worse.

There’s no hard and fast rule for ‘breaking the cycle of negativity’ and I sure as hell am not going to try heavy breathing or whatever the hell the namby-pamby arty-farty self-help lot tell you to do. But I am going to leave this clip here, as a reminder that however bad I am feeling, I am woman enough to admit that the hormones DO make it worse. I admit this through the medium of a clip of a tree frog that, when I was feeling at my lowest point, made me smile. Then laugh. And then burst uncontrollably into tears again. I’m not even kidding. Aaaah, what are you going to do?!

Friday, 30 November 2012

Movember: a short statement

‘Thank you for donating to Movember’

It’s because the only men I feel comfortable with displaying facial hair that doesn’t include a beard are Tom Selleck, Merv Hughes and my Dad.

It’s because there’s so many of you taking part this year I would have to take out a second mortgage to sponsor you all.

It’s because if you were all running marathons, climbing mountains or even painting yourselves green and unicycling backwards down Oxford Street I probably would try to sponsor you all individually but as you’re just squeezing some hair out of the gap between your mouth and nose, I can’t quite bring myself to.

It’s partly because I like to support good causes.

But it’s mostly because I’m just happy it’s over and you can all go back to NOT looking like members of the village people.

My donation to Movember has been made. On the best day of Movember – the last one. Well done boys. Now go get the razors out, for the love of all that is good.

Friday, 6 July 2012

Return of the Hockey Novice – This Time it’s Physical

Er, who am I then?

For those of you who don't know me, let me introduce myself. My name is Katy, and just two short years ago I was completely oblivious to the world of ice hockey and all the glorious joys that came along with it. I found (and subsequently lost) Elite League side the Newcastle Vipers, and along the way I wrote about my experiences in this here blog, as I discovered the myriad intricacies of the world of ice hockey; learning the rules, finding out about players and teams, figuring out what the strange language meant, realising with unbridled joy how much facial hair was involved, and quickly falling head-over-heels love with what I now view as the greatest sport in the world.

So I'm not a novice anymore, right? Well, from a spectator standpoint, no. I rather like to think of myself as a fully-fledged hockey aficionado. Ish. As such, I graduated from hockey novice to hockey nomad last season, as I travelled around the UK to follow my new-found passion. And of course, it's tempting to want to have a crack at playing the game myself. But the fact that I'm only just beginning to master the skill of moving backwards on ice skates rather limits my desire to even consider actually picking up a stick and hitting a puck with it.

'Fear not!' Cried Kevin, my longtime ice hockey travel-buddy, 'you SHALL go to the ball (hockey rink)!' 'But HOW?' I enquired in wonder. ‘Ball hockey!’ He replied. ‘It's a fabulous indoor alternative to ice hockey, and best of all, you don't even need to skate! You can just use your boring old regular feet!'

Imagine my delight!

I can't go for long without being a novice at something or other, and as my recent foray into the rather terrifying and yet fabulous world of roller derby proved, despite being completely uninitiated, I am quite willing to throw myself into any activity, even if the outcome might well be pain. For someone who is scared of balloons bursting, hates spinny rides at theme parks and can't actually look at a television if it has a spider on it, I've got a decent set of cahones when it comes to launching myself into something that I’ve no idea how to do. Maybe it’s my competitive streak. In addition to roller derby, I've atttemped bootcamp, street dance, rock climbing, squash, charity runs and assault courses and paragliding with varying degrees of success in recent years, because God forbid I stick to a sporting pursuit I'm actually any good at (swimming, rowing, competitive cider drinking…).

So it was settled. I would try Dek hockey (that's what all the cool kids call it, in case you weren't aware). Aside from a couple of winters in the dim and distant past pathetically dragging my posterior around a frozen field at my all girls' high school, I'd never played any hockey before in my life, but despite this I had to admit I felt mildly optimistic. A sport in which I didn't have to initially master staying on wheels or blades had to give me some sort of a head start, right?

So what is it?

So: trainers. Holding a stick. Running around. I can totally do those things! Yes! It was possible I may even be able to hold a stick and run around at the same time. You want me to also attempt to control a ball whilst doing these things? Well, that might be pushing it. But I'm game. And I had the advantage of a modest level of fitness to aid my in my new endeavour. What could possibly go wrong?

The North East Dekstars are a friendly bunch of hockey fanatics from various walks of life who come together on a Sunday morning (for some insane reason) to hone their dek hockey skills. There are ice hockey players, roller hockey players, and just plain old hockey players, both male and female, young and slightly less young, along with total novices such as myself who have arrived purely for the love of the sport and the desire to try something new. Add them all together and you have an astoundingly jovial and welcoming group of people who are always happy to welcome flailing newbies such as myself into their fold. I later realised that motivation may not have been entirely benevolent. But more on that later.

You must need more than a pair of trainers and a stick though?! I hear you cry! Well yes. Some sort of clothing is to be advised. In addition to clothing, some shinpads, hockey gloves, and a helmet are all compulsory gear. But don't worry if you don't have these things, you can borrow some! You may find yourself with rather a funky smell hanging around your face and hands by the end of the session but to be honest, when you hear about the sweat, you're not going to be precious about a slightly musty hockey glove.

The nitty-gritty

I'm not going to lie to you. When I arrived at my first Sunday session and we were immediately separated into teams play a game, I was not without some degree of trepidation. I struggled into my helmet, which like a toddler trying to put on shoes, involved someone else having to do me up. Except this was putting my face into a cage. Yes, a cage. There are a number of practical implications about having your face fully covered by a metal grid. Drinking water, wiping sweat from your brow and scratching your nose to name but a few, become nigh on impossible tasks. But being a girl, and a relatively narcissistic one at that, I am not going to take the risk of NOT wearing one. I like my face. And I didn't go through three years worth of orthodontistry in my teen years to go losing teeth. What do you think I am, a hockey player or something?!

Normally, I was reliably informed, a session would begin with some drills and exercises - this sounded good to me. I needed to get a feel for the length of the stick, the weight of the ball (keep it clean people, keep it clean). But no - we were missing balls so it was straight into the fray of an actual game. A baptism of fire if ever there was one. As we organised ourselves into forward lines and defensive pairings, I was, quite frankly, terrified. My knowledge of the rules was purely based on watching ice hockey, and my instinct to defend would be all I had in my arsenal as I was launched like an unwilling human cannonball straight into a live game situation.

I have no real memory of that first shift. It's as if my mind has buried it so deeply as to prevent the subsequent trauma of the memory resurfacing and haunting me for the rest of my days. Actually, it was more likely because it was a complete blur. The speed of ice hockey baffled me in the early days of my obsession, and this was the same, except now I was actually involved in it. Opposition forwards came at me and I did all I could to impede their progress, but for the most part I remained rooted to the spot as they danced around me. They probably did a few pirouhettes on their way past just to mock me but in all honesty, I wouldn’t have even noticed if they had, as I was too busy trying to keep my eyes on the round orange thing that was zipping about the place like a brightly coloured amphetamine-fuelled mouse, as I desperately tried to prevent it getting past me.

And then I lost the ability to breathe and decided it was high time I was swapped off. As I tried to restore my circulatory system to something resembling normality and took stock of what had just happened, there was really only one thought persisting: I wanted to do it again. And with a two hour session stretching ahead of me, I would have plenty of time for that.

A number of things became very quickly apparent over the course of my first dek session, and for the sake of brevity I will summarise them in a series of unrelated bullet points of varying importance:

- I have the ball skills of a five year old child. Possibly four and three-quarters.

- The fitness I was relying on to at least make me look like a person who could run around adequately was woefully inadequate

- I need to engage in some serous sprint training

- I need to invent some sort of sweat-mopping device that can be inserted through the gaps in my face cage

- Blocking shots with your thighs is incredibly painful and despite the adrenaline of a game situation concealing the pain at the time, the resulting bruises make you look as if someone has beaten you with a mace
- I'm going to carry on blocking shots anyway, because that's all I know how to do

- I really need to eat a proper breakfast in future

- I really, really, love playing this game

This is what Dek looks like! When I'm not playing, that is.

The verdict?

I made my fair share of mistakes that first week (and everyone else's fair share if I'm honest) but it didn't matter. Everyone was encouraging, supportive, and non-judgmental. Advice was shouted by teammates and congratulations offered at the end of every shift in which I DIDN'T do something horrendous. The camaraderie was both heart-warming and a little disorienting. Once out on the court, everyone means business. It's not intended to be a full-on checking game (there is no dropping of gloves here) but it's a physical contact sport, and bumping into people, leaning your weight into them, and expecting the same in return is par for the course. However nice everyone seems, they will not hesitate to put you on the floor if they need to. These are passionate competitors. I tripped people up, knocked them off the ball and probably trod on a few people. I've no idea yet which of these I did legally or which are actually considered acceptable defensive tactics, but I do know I said 'sorry' a lot. Probably unnecessarily. Or not. I felt terribly British. But these people were all so nice, I had no desire to actually inflict pain on any of them. Note to self: I may need to toughen up a bit.

So I made it through my first session relatively unscathed. A bruised thigh, a slightly bruised ego, a pair of legs unclear on the motion required to get up a flight of stairs on my return home and about eight pints of fluid that needed replacing, but despite all this, an urge to return and play again so strong it caught me off guard. It was above anything else, incredible fun.

The aftermath

Well, that was three weeks ago. So did I go back? You bet I did. After an initial recovery period which took about three days as my back once again got used to being held straight instead of at an inhumanly hunched angle, I've played twice since and am officially a Dek hockey addict. In the sessions since my first, I've had my ups and downs; the downs probably outnumbering the ups by a ratio of about 9:1: I've scored an own goal, passed to opposition players on innumerable occasions, flapped, squealed, been hit by a stick, taken a few more balls to the thighs, poured water onto my face in an attempt to hydrate through my cage, seen a man's nose broken in front of my very eyes, (no, I didn't do it), sweated a small river, broken a stick and realised that I am an absolutely hopeless hockey player – for now.

But on the plus side, I've done some sort of, okay things. I've taken the ball away from people a few times. I've gotten in the way – in a good way. I've learnt not to pass the ball directly across the face of my own net. I've learnt to eat a balanced meal beforehand. I've lasted a full session without feeling like I'm going to die. And most importantly, I've met some really great people. There's no doubt I need a LOT of practice. I’m most definitely a hockey novice once again. But I'm just fine with that. (And anyway, if I was good already I wouldn’t have further embarrassing stories to impart to you in future blogs, now would I? Check them out in the weeks and months to come…).

You too can try Dek hockey regardless of your degree of ineptitude – howay! It takes place most Sundays from 9:30 – 12:00 at Gateshead Leisure Centre. To find out more, follow NE Dekstars on Facebook or Twitter (@NEDekstars).

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Daylight Slayings: NRG Canny Belters v Glasgow Maiden Grrders – Part 2

The Main Event

After a triumphant opening bout, it was with some trepidation that fans of the Newcastle Roller Girls peered over the balcony as the Glasgow Maiden Grrders took to the track for their warm-up. These girls looked tough. Like they meant business. They had choreographed warm-up drills, some rather smart kit, plus their name alone was enough to inspire fear in us English softies. They must brush their teeth with Irn Bru. In all seriousness, on paper the home side would have a tough test, the Scottish side being the second string of a team of All-Stars containing no fewer than 11 internationals who had skated in the recent Roller Derby World Cup. But our Canny Belters are not easily intimidated, and as they took to the track to begin the bout if there were any nerves, you couldn’t tell. They looked fierce as always, and the crowd were ready to roar them to victory.

1st Half

And what a start they made, stamping their authority on the game from the off as Miss Wired took lead jammer and made two great passes, shimmying through the pack whilst Bettie BasHer performed her pivot work with style, the blockers for Newcastle knee-deep in complex tactics already, and the score rocketing up to 20-0. The next jam was a powerjam and Newcastle’s Überschnell fought her way through the pack defying gravity to stay on her feet and pick up 5 points.

Sarah McMillan took lead jammer in successive jams for the Maiden Grrders but called them off presumably for tactical reasons without picking up a great deal of points; Von Sleaze meanwhile had stepped in as jammer for the Canny Belters and was doing some fine work, taking their lead back to 20 points, which was immediately improved upon by Captain Brie Larceny who took lead jammer after the pack was destroyed and picked up a hard fought 8 points.

It was all going Newcastle’s way in the opening minutes, strong jamming and tactical blocking working for them, an expertly executed bridging move (yes, I spotted it) slowing down the winner for the best name of the afternoon, Glasgow’s ‘The Very Hungry Splatterkiller’, and preventing her from picking up any points on her jam. It occurred to me that I had never seen the Canny Belters lose a bout. I wondered smugly if I might be some sort of good luck charm.

Marie Bayonet and Glasgow’s Fighting Torque picked up 4 points each for their respective teams before Miss Wired defied the laws of physics, nimbly sliding through the pack like a spirit in the night to score a grand slam before calling off the jam, leaving the Glaswegian blockers wondering whether or not she was actually 2-dimensional. Von Sleaze followed up with a few points before she was called for a penalty. This led to a long and drawn out debate between team line-up manager Man-Shaped Dog and the referee. No-one really seemed to grasp what was going on but there was a fine display of moves going on down on the jam line, with both teams throwing some shapes whilst they waited to get on with the show.

The break in play seemed to unsettle the Newcastle girls and despite some great blocking from both Kalamity James and Lone Danger, both were eventually sent to the penalty box leaving the Canny Belters short and facing their first real test, sustained pressure from the Glasgow jammer allowing the visitors to almost double their points total in a short space of time. The game proceeded in fits and starts, with time outs and stoppages, Von Sleaze and Miss Wired jamming for NRG both picking up a few points, but whenever the home side stretched their lead the Scottish visitors would close the gap, Sarah McMillan picking up four points for the Maiden Grrders despite a superb backwards bridge from the NRG pack. The score was 63-39.

The momentum was definitely swinging in a northerly direction at this point, the Grrders clawing back more points through lead jammer Rogue, before the slippery Miss Wired made another great breakthrough but found herself unable to accrue any points as confusion reigned, a miscommunication over whether or not her jam had been called off leading to the opposing jammer taking lead; the crowd was mystified. The points board appeared to be experiencing similar bafflement as it kept changing, and I struggled to keep up with the points being scored as they racked up on both sides, but the Maiden Grrders appeared to be taking a firmer grip on the bout and the Canny Belters' lead started to slip away, and was all but gone as a great jam for Rogue brought the visitors within 3 points of their hosts despite even more great pack work from the Belters who managed to slow her down rapidly with the bridging tactic.

Although the lead was trickling away, it could have been a lot worse as the blockers’ excellent discipline had minimised Glagsgow’s scoring opportunities and the Canny Belters were given a massive boost just before half time, as Überschnell had a powerjam and clearly thought ‘have it’, making a series of passes and picking up a fantastic 16 points to register treble figures for the home side and give them a real boost going into the break.

Half time score: 104-75

2nd Half

The second period began in much the same way as the first had ended; with NRG in the ascendancy. Von Sleaze and Miss Wired both picked up points. A jam later saw both ladies in starry helmets collapsing in a heap, Fighting Torque somehow picking up lead jammer and Überschnell being sent to the sinbin. The resulting powerjam was costly for the home side, as the Maiden Grrders pack slowed almost to a halt to let their champion past as many times as possible, and despite a sterling effort from the Canny Belters, in particular the imperious Kalamity James, Glasgow’s girls picked up almost 20 points.

111-95 was the score and a grim war of tactical attrition saw the points scoring slow right down. The Maiden Grrders took the knee on the jam line, but some strong blocking and the return of the hitherto banished Überschnell meant that scoring was kept to a minimum. Fighting Torque had another turn as lead jammer, calling off her jam before NRG’s Bettie BasHer could catch up.

This was a war of nerves, as Glasgow picked up a point here and there, and did their damnedest to stop NRG doing the same, their jammers not giving an inch and forcing NRG’s jammers to call off jams early, eking away at the deficit between the teams and driving in a wedge of uncertainty – they were turning the screw. Captain Brie Larceny took control as pivot, abandoning the high-scoring but dangerous knee start in favour of a rolling start, moving her pack off at speed to see if this could help shift momentum back in Newcastle's favour.

Another long timeout was followed by a hard-fought battle for lead jammer which was won by Sarah McMillan, who proceeded to make a full grand slam pass and pick up 5 points. 112-107 – the tension was building and it was palpable all around the building. Vice Captain Von Sleaze took her turn but was declared ‘not lead jammer’ to everyone’s surprise, however NRG blocker Sniper Viper did some great work to allow her jammer through second time around, this time to take lead jammer and 5 points. Touché.

There were some more cagey jams, keeping the score poised agonisingly with less than 10 between the two sides until Miss Wired and Von Sleaze again added to the points total, the latter despite NRG being a blocker down but ably assisted by two of the remaining pack members who made a bridge to allow her through to pick up 4. Then the Very Hungry Splatterkiller, despite awesome name-selection skills, was not able to beat Kalamity James to lead jammer, the latter picking up 4 points thanks in no small point to some further tactical excellence by the Belter blockers (they sound like heart medicine – and you’ll need some after you’ve messed with them! HA!)

The feisty Fighting Talk beat our own Miss Wired to lead in the next jam and despite a formidable hipcheck from Big Smack and Fries she went on to grab a fistful of points, the Canny Belters’ lead hanging by a thread and made even more precarious when Miss Wired was sent to the bin putting the Grrders on the powerjam – the scales tilted and suddenly the visitors took the lead after a massive jam – it was 129-135. A much needed time-out was taken to settle the jangling nerves.

The sinbin started to fill up with NRG skaters, as they tried desperately to limit Glasgow’s burgeoning lead, but the resultant no-pack situations just gave rise to further penalties and it threatened to spiral out of control. Von Sleaze and Überschnell steadied the ship, both taking a turn as lead jammer, and the hapless scoreboard official struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace of the game, rendering me completely unable to write down the correct score and keep track of the action. It was 132-162 in favour of the Grrders when NRG finally returned to full strength. I think.

Miss Wired and Bettie BasHer both collected a couple of points for the Canny Belters as they tried to sneak their way back into the bout in the closing minutes. The comeback was on – but would there be enough time? Rogue could not extend the visitors' lead as she was pegged back by her opposite number Von Sleaze who made a perfect hit, forcing Rogue to call off the jam. Überschnell took lead jammer next and in a last ditch attempt to draw her side level, tore through the Maiden Grrders’ depleted pack repeatedly, the crowd roaring her on, calling off the jam at the perfect time – 155-164.

There were just 9 points in it and it would go down to the final jam, in which Kalamity James did incredibly well to stay on her feet but could only increase the home side’s tally by one as the Glasgwegian blockers made her life difficult and with a few seconds left on the clock, it seemed to be over. It wasn’t actually over though. Or was it? Nobody seemed to know. Not for the first time that afternoon, confusion reigned. It was an anti-climatic end to what had been a rip-roaring clash between two fantastic roller derby sides but it sadly ended in defeat for the Newcastle Roller Girls, by just the slimmest of margins, the final score 156-164.

Mission accomplished? Did I sound like I knew what I was talking about? I'm not a lucky charm, as it turns out, but it was canny exciting, as they say up here in the north-east, and I urge you to get your fine behinds down to the next bout as you don’t know what you’re missing. Or actually, perhaps you do, seeing as I’ve just told you. But to re-emphasize: hot girls, hotpants, fishnets, roller skates, hits (totally legal and non-rule-breaking ones), excitement, tension, cake, music, popcorn, frivolity and even beer if you care to partake of such things. Nice!

Photos by me! For a change!

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Daylight Slayings: NRG Canny Belters v Glasgow Maiden Grrders - Part 1

Preview
It was a few weeks prior to my third live roller derby experience, and I was starting to feel like a bit of a failure. If you included the B team bouts, I’d technically received four whole competitive roller derby-ing’s and I’d even had a go at it myself (albeit that was mainly just the trying to stand up on wheels part of the game). I wasn’t a newbie anymore – I should be some sort of expert by now, surely? Slightly alarmed by the fact that I still didn’t know what the blithering hell was going on for much of the time and with a pathological need to know more about sports I joined the ladies at their pre-bout training session to be put through my paces by senior team member Kalamity James, who schooled me on rules and tactics, and left me feeling like a bit more of a roller derby geek, armed with such phrases as ‘taking the knee’, ‘man on’ and ‘bridging’. I will be eagle-eyed and on the lookout out for these plays on Saturday and with my new-found understanding of the depth of the game (three days revision dependent) I shall bring to you in glorious technicolour the blow-by-blow account of the action between Newcastle Roller Girls and their Scottish opponents.

Oh and I also got a sneak preview of the team intros as they choreographed them before my very eyes. The news is, they’re pro’s even when they’re not in the public eye. But then, you’d never have any suspected less, would you.

I even went above and beyond the call of duty, reading and digesting the admittedly slim 43-page rulebook prior to the bout. I’ll be honest, I haven’t read the official rulebooks for many sports, but I’m sure it has to be the only serious sporting rulebook that contains multiple uses of the word ‘booty’, feels the need to actively define choking, biting and kicking as illegal moves, and seeks to penalise someone who is the victim of being tripped or pushed over, merely because they land in a sprawling position. Heaven forbid! Also illegal, apparently, is extended touching to an opponent’s illegal target zone. Oo, and indeed er. This sport is pure filth. Nevertheless I found it thoroughly enlightening, plus it had a glossary to which I will be referring frequently in my post-bout write-up. So expect to hear things that make me sound like I know what I’m doing!

Now, on with the action!

So two more good hard roller derby’ings were about to be administered to my delicate self, but boy did I feel ready for it this time! Armed with my awesome bits of stuff courtesy of my extra-curricular roller derby activity, I was ready to take on the world, one jam at a time.

B Team Bout: Whippin’ Hinnies v Furness Firecrackers

In a sport as relatively new as roller derby, rules are being challenged and subverted at all times, and the migration of the pack back from the pivot line to the jam line is one key tactic which seems to be deployed by all teams, A, B or C. Having had the ‘team photo start’ explained to me fully I now knew what to expect and the Whippin’ Hinnies made full use of it in the opening jams of their bout, ‘taking the knee’ on the jam line to get the advantage over their opponents and get their jammers off to a flying start. They had it down to a fine art in fact, and so well drilled were they that their first three jams were without reply, jammers Penny Bizarre and Carm Like A Bomb picking up four points each in turn to take a commanding early lead 12-0.

The jams kept on rolling for the Whippin’ Hinnies and they extended their lead to 20 points without reply, playing a simple tactical game, picking up lead jammer and making one full pass of the pack to gain four points before calling off the jam. They were clearly sticking successfully to their game plan, the first deviation coming when the Firecrackers finally picked up lead jammer, but she proceeded to fall and was unable to pick up any points, Carm Like A Bomb pouncing and picking up another 4 to punish her opponent’s mistake.

The bout kicked up a gear, as a no-pack situation caused by Furness allowed Guinefear of Jamelot (fabulous name) through to lap the opposing jammer and score five points to the Firecrackers’ 1. 37-2. The first full two minute jam came shortly afterwards, Penny Bizarre making two successful passes, slowed by the opposing blockers on her third but still crashing through, picking up 15 points and allowing the Hinnies to storm into a 46 point lead. Some feistiness started to creep in and penalties began to be dished out, and the home side showed their first signs of weakness, no-pack issues allowing Furness to pick up four points to take their score into double figures. However with Carm Like A Bomb picking up lead jammer on the next jam any worries were soon laid to rest, one of the blockers laying a good hit on an opponent to allow her teammate through to take the score to an impressive 65-11, Carm calling off the jam before Furness were able to pick up points. Some good blocking from Newcastle minimised the visitors’ chances to extend their lead and despite the jammers trading penalties just before half time, both teams were able to pick up a few more points each to go into the break 74-16.

It would take some sort of monumental collapse for the hosts to lose this, surely? You would think, but nothing can be taken for granted in roller derby where a good jam can see a team pick up 20 points or more, so the Hinnies would need to be careful and continue to stick to their so far very well-executed game plan. The teams traded points early in the second half, Furness with a couple of powerjams, some selfless blocking from Meli McSly leaving her on her way to the penalty box but preventing the Firecrackers from a rout of a jam as they started to creep back into the contest. That's taking one for the team if ever I saw it.

The score stood at 82-34 and Furness were chipping away at the deficit but the Whippin Hinnies took control once again, the omnipresent Carm Like A Bomb scoring a ‘grand slam’ on her jam (5 points, as she also lapped the opposing jammer) and continued sterling work from the blockers keeping the Firecrackers’ scoring down. There was no doubt the teams were more level second half, the visitors cottoning on to the taking the knee start, managing to use it to their advantage on a number of occasions, and the scores increased on both sides of the scoreboard. Jamming for Newcastle, Indijo was tripped by a Furness skater but managed to rack up four points, and Dollface Dynamo picked up a few more. Furness were about to take lead jammer but a great take-out from the Hinnies allowed Carm to get through instead and take the home side’s score to three digits. 101-46.

A rare two minute jam saw a raft of points for Furness jammer Hell for Heather, but the Hinnies picked some up too and it looked unlikely that the Cumbrian girls would be able to oust the determined Newcastle skaters. Their heads dropped and the unassailable lead grew and grew, a final jam seeing Penny Bizarre make pass after pass, picking up an incredible 23 points. Final score 137-57. Much love and cuddles ensued.

Newcastle’s B team go from strength to strength giving the team one of those very nice dilemmas – who to select for the A team? Carm Like a Bomb and Penny Bizarre both stood out and will give Captain Brie Larceny a selection headache during future bouts. Well done to all of the Whippin' Hinnies on a well-deserved victory!

Join me later for a play-by-play review of the action in the Main Event!

Photo by Idene Roozbayani

Wednesday, 21 March 2012

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

So last September, I popped over to America. And while I was there, I happened to take in a top level sporting occasion, as famous baseball rivals LA Dodgers took on 2010 World Series Champions the San Francisco Giants. ‘What?!’ I hear you cry! ‘You paid good money to see a glorified version of rounders played by a bunch of overpaid fat blokes? You weirdo!’ Well, yes. That’s exactly what I did.

I’ve had my ups and downs with American sports over the years. I’ve always thought baseball seemed like a crass version of cricket without any of the intricacies or skill of the latter, and that it seemed interminably boring. During my time living in the States I maintained a mild interest in American football and even got to the point of understanding some of the rules. I watched high school basketball. But I quickly lost interest in both once no longer surrounded by them. Football is LONG. I mean, it takes a really long time to accomplish anything. Gameplay occurs for just a few seconds at a time and is punctuated by long periods of time where teams change from offence to defence, discuss tactics, and generally just fart about. And there’s SO MANY of them. Squads of 100 players appear from the benches once a game is over to slap each other on the behind, and for the amount of play that actually goes on, that’s just too many.

Basketball is the polar opposite. It’s fast, fluid and the squads are small. It has much more of a purity about it. But despite the fact that I think it is a far more athletic and skilled game than football (aside from the quarterback and running back positions who I accept require a modicum of speed and talent) it bores the trousers off me; it’s repetitive and so high-scoring the results often seem arbitrary. Plus the sheer absurdity of the physical dimensions of the folk who engage in the sport at a top level is so mind-boggling it's hard to feel any empathy for them as athletes.

(NB I’m not going to comment on ice hockey in this post; I don’t consider it one of the true American sports, what with it being Canadian and all that, plus I believe the brilliance of it as a sport lifts it right out of this sort of a discussion anyway).

So I chose baseball for my live sporting experience. Something about the idea of seeing a game live had real appeal: beer and hotdogs, sitting in the bleachers, trying to catch a ball when someone hits a home run; it’s the stuff movies are made of, the real authentic American sporting experience, and I wanted me a piece of the action. The timing couldn’t better, with just a couple of weeks to go in the regular season, and my visit to San Francisco coinciding with a three-game series with their long-time rivals the LA Dodgers.

My First Baseball Game

The first two games of the series had not gone the Giants way. They were low-scoring and both went in favour of the South Californian side. It wasn’t looking promising. Having spent almost three weeks travelling around the US I had had a chance to learn my stuff. And learn I had. Sports bar after sports bar I visited, selflessly, all in a bid to ensure readiness for my mission – to understand the rules by the time game day came. I was of course forced to purchase beer products from these establishments in order to spend time utilising their television facilities, but I put myself through this physical abuse in the name of learning. I even did some extra-curricular studying, sitting on patios with even more beer products (forced upon me by local store owners, I hasten to add – you just can’t say ‘no’ to these people!) studying rules on Wikipedia and scores on the MLB website. And so I was ready.

One of the first things you notice about large groups of sports fans in America is the level of general optimism. It could be argued it’s to do with the ridiculously high amount of sugar and E numbers rushing around the bloodstreams of all Americans, but I don’t think so. The quintessential American sporting experience is a much more chipper affair than a dreary Saturday afternoon in November watching a football match, surrounded by a bunch of grumpy blokes whinging about the quality of the pie-filling and shouting abuse at referees. Being a British sports fan can quite often be a depressing experience. In San Francisco by contrast, despite coming off the back of two straight defeats to their arch rivals, you still get a stadium full of happy, friendly people, who want nothing more than to enjoy a nice day out with a vast array of heart-attack inducing snacks and beverages. It’s refreshing.

Oh, and may I say, what a stadium. Just, wow. The AT&T Park is like some kind of weird reverse tardis. It looked massive from the outside but felt perfectly intimate within. It was open and yet enclosed. And the grass!! Okay, it probably wasn’t real. But the green-ness was a breath of fresh air. I came over a bit Charlie Dimmock before I remembered I was wearing a bra and all similarity was lost.

I can’t fail to mention that the date was 9/11/11, exactly 10 years after the terrorist attacks on the USA, and there was an appropriate amount of respect paid, with flags, banners, relatives of some of the victims, soldiers, a flyover, and a great many nationalistic songs. I would normally be gently scathing in my reaction to Americans, well, being American, as British people tend to be to overt acts of nationalism on home soil, but this was something else, and it was moving to be a part of it all.

The game itself got underway in a massively understated way. Two pitches had occurred before anyone really realised it had started and I was keen to get involved straight away. I paid full attention and was thrilled to discover I actually knew what was going on. The studying had paid off. The first innings passed by without any scoring and I felt fully acclimatised (or ‘acclamated’ as the Americans say. Mystifying). The fans in the bleachers were friendly and the atmosphere was buoyant, if not particularly boisterous. One thing we DO do better is chants. Crowd singing didn’t extend beyond ‘let’s go Giants’ and ‘Beat LA’, but there was plenty of music played over the tannoy along with the traditional Hammond organ, and plenty of ‘audience cam’ amusement including the most bad-ass grooving popcorn-seller I’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. There were games, highlights from other matches, players stats and even an adorable piece in which the home players described their own personal anthems, which even featured some singing from one of them – a really nice touch.

In the second innings, I wondered why it was the second innings, as nothing discernible had really changed to speak of – I’m still to figure out how and why innings start and end. Some seemed to go on for an age and others flew by. Both teams scored in the second and the atmosphere picked up. The Giants’ pitcher seemed to be doing a fine job at not letting the batsmen hit many balls (get me totally being down with the lingo!), and also in his favour was the fact he was named Madison Bumgarner. Yup. Ah who am I kidding, I’m not going to go into any detail about the actual game as I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, plus almost half a year has passed since the game, but I’ll cut to the chase and tell you that we won 8-1 (yes, WE – I’m a Giants fan, dontcha know).

We absolutely crucified them!! It must have been me. They were miles better than LA who couldn’t score to save their lives and whenever they did get a good hit were despatched clinically by an almost faultless fielding performance by the Giants. Their pitchers struggled to contain the Giants’ on-form batsmen despite trying some cynical tactics which massively backfired on them, (‘walkin’ ‘em in’ according to the bronzed biker dude next to me who seemed quite happy to adopt us as fellow fans despite our total cluelessness). It was a schooling, plain and simple. How this team had lost the two previous matches to this bunch of no-hopers was beyond me!

I don’t know if I’d necessarily call baseball players ‘athletes’. There are certainly a number of them who ran pretty fast. There are others, equally, for example the popular Pablo Sandoval, who are how shall I put this? A tad rotund. He sort of walked fast, from base to base rather than ran. But he scored points so who am I to argue? Their bodies may not be their temples, but they can sure throw fast and sport a baseball cap jauntily. So from the interminable yet exciting 5th and 6th innings, suddenly it was the 7th innings stretch – I still can’t figure out what THAT was all about other than everyone got up and danced. The last two innings flew by, people left, we were sunburnt, the place was a total trash can, the sun went down, we went out for beer. A good day was had by all. Except the LA Dodgers.

To conclude, I’ve no idea why it’s taken me this long to publish this other than that I returned to normality, ice hockey and to a lesser extent football took over my life once again, and I immediately lost interest in anything baseball-related. Would I go again if I was over in the States? Absolutely. Do I actually care what’s gone in in the MLB since, or will go on this season? Not a jot. But I sure as hell enjoyed being a part of it for a short while.