Tag: juniorsport

Milo’s (very) brief foray into cricket

Milo’s (very) brief foray into cricket

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

For most Australian kids, even bookish chess-oriented ones, backyard cricket in the summer is a wonderful experience. And so it was for Milo this past summer. For weeks we played every evening with the cousins. Lots of bowling, lots of swashbuckling, care-free batting, lenient umpire-uncles, a little bit of fielding, usually a zooper-dooper appears or a sausage on a piece of bread. Heaven.

The warm cricket experience carried through to our return home, and the start of a new school year. We played in the driveway until late in the evening, and when the days got shorter we installed a flood light which made it wonderful to bat, but impossible to bowl. I could even see Milo starting to modify his game to suit the conditions, as all backyard (or driveway) cricketers do; gallant over the offside to the short boundary on the other side of the cul-de-sac, but cautious off his pads to the shorter boundary with the tall pointy fence and the dog on the other side.

One evening, as I walked in my crocs once more across the road to fetch one of my dispatched pies, Milo asked me “could I play for a team in Darwin?”. I was surprised, pleased at his interest in trying something new, but simultaneously apprehensive because actual cricket is pretty shit to play, not very sun-smart and really very shit to be administratively associated with in any way. But I answered as any semi-decent parent would; “I’ll google it”.

And so before long Milo had received some long nylon trousers and matching long-sleeved shirt, perfect for the tropics, a floppy hat, and in a mystery that I am sure will remain unsolved, I found myself on a team whatsapp group stocked with parents and administrative types.

After early introductions the club manager got right to the point, requesting volunteers for a coach and a team manager. Well, there her message sat, unashamed, unyielding, but also unanswered, for at least 36 hours, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I sent a private message to just the club manager saying I don’t know much about cricket and couldn’t commit to being a coach, but I would be happy to take on the noble burden of team manager, whatever that is. Within moments she had responded to the full group congratulating me on my appointment as co-coach.

Well played, I thought, and immediately ordered ‘Cricket Coaching for Dummies’ on Amazon.

So Milo and I arrived at his first training session, a balmy Monday evening, feeling bewildered and unsure about our recent choices. As we walked over to a group of adults who looked like they knew slightly more than me, I whispered to Milo that I was feeling as nervous as he was. He seemed to like that.

We followed their semi-instructions and soon found ourselves at one end of the nets, surrounded by small cricket enthusiasts, with balls pinging this way and that. A smiling other-parent introduced himself as the coach and said he was glad to have me with him this season. I think he believed me when I offered similar salutations and words of enthusiasm for what lay ahead.

Now, a ‘net session’, as it is known in cricketing circles, essentially entails one person putting cricket-armour on and the other 6 or 7 people (or whatever it is) taking it in turns to hurl cricket balls at you. When the batter is bored, or bruised or belittled sufficiently, they waddle back out of the net, take off their armour and commence hurling cricket balls at the next person. Milo had never seen a ‘net session’ before, and he didn’t much like the look of it.

He looked at me with those half-closed, suspicious eyes that he is fond of deploying and said; “do I have to put that stuff on?” Now, I know my child. Most kids facing this situation for the first time might be concerned about the isolation of it, or the potential to be hit in the many soft areas of the body that the armour neglects, or simply the daunting challenge of facing so many new ball hurlers he had never met before. I knew immediately what was on his mind. Sweat. And more specifically, other people’s sweat.

“Yup. But what you need to do is put your hand up to bat next and the gear will still be fresh and sweat free.”

His withering look remained; “but that girl is already wearing it.”

“Yes, true. But there is usually 2 or 3 sets in the kit and most of these kids will have their own. Go and tell the proper coach you want to bat next.”

So he did, and he did! And he batted pretty well. Although some of the older kids were quite brisk, nothing like Uncle David’s loopy left armers that are supposed to turn out of the rough but never do. Most importantly he avoided soft tissue damage… and sweaty gloves.

This luke-warm training session did, I must admit, make me somewhat nervous about our first match, which took place three days later. I was right to be nervous.

The 0730 arrival time did not please him, nor did the heavy, flammable uniform. The floppy hat was ruled out immediately. But it wasn’t until he learned that the game would take three hours, and that for most of that time he would be doing nothing but stand around in the hot sun with insects buzzing around him that he really started warming up his scowl.

Fielding first also didn’t help. In Milo’s age group the field basically cycles like a merry-go-round. After each over the fielders move around one position, clockwise, until they arrive at the bowling end, have a bowl and then keep rotating. So, for the first over Milo sat down at point, where everybody yelled at him to stand up. During the second over he sat down at gully, at which time everybody yelled at him to stand up. Then backstop where he sort of lay down and nobody said anything to him, and then around to square leg where he squatted and then kind of rolled down onto his forehead. He was quite excited to discover that his team had too many players so after square leg he rotated off the field for an over.

He ran off the field and straight over to me where I was sitting in the shade trying to figure out how to score the game with a very confusing iPad app. He arrived, looked wordlessly at me for a moment, shook his head as if to say WTF is this? then asked me for his book. I handed it over and he walked off to sit in the grass next to the boundary and commenced reading.

Milo’s one over respite was over quickly but when the next player came to take his place he waved them off and kept reading. They were very pleased to rotate around to mid-wicket and so did not argue.

This was not going well.

After one more over the real-coach realised what was happening and beckoned Milo back onto the field. He complied, but took his book with him. The real-coach advised him that wasn’t a great idea because he might be hit with a ball if he read at mid-wicket. Milo thought about this for a moment, placed his book on the ground and walked slowly, very slowly, to mid-on. Later on he had a bit of a bowl which was okay, and then recommenced cycling around the field, sometimes sitting, often distracted and always displeased.

The great thing about cricket is, once you are done standing around (or sitting) inside the field not doing much for an hour or two, you then get to stand around (or sit) outside the field not doing much for an hour or two. Milo wasn’t sure whether to be confused, disgruntled or enraged. He settled on disgruntled and loudly advised the real-coach he wasn’t going to bat. The real-coach did a very nice job of coaxing and encouraging Milo who remained unmoved on the issue for the best part of 15 overs until his cousin convinced him to ‘pad up’, as they say, and waddle out to the middle; no mean feat, and a fine demonstration of the true power that cousins possess over each other.

So he batted, was non-plussed by the whole thing, ate some grapes, received a Happy Meal voucher for ‘player of the game’ (again the real-coach did absolutely everything he could to enamour Milo) said goodbye and we drove home.

Of course on the drive Milo said he never wanted to play again, and he seemed more baffled than anything by the whole experience. I chose not to play my hand while Milo still had other people’s helmet sweat on his brow, but later in the week I picked my moment to tell him that he would need to ‘give cricket a proper go’ before he could quit ‘to make sure he was making the right decision’. Two games and two trainings was the arbitrary number I came up with. Why? Why is two the right number?

I must have caught him off guard because he agreed, and the following Monday we found ourselves back at the nets. Once again he didn’t bat and patted dogs for most of the session, and on the way home he said he didn’t want to play two more games or in fact any more games of cricket. Ever.

Trying my best to parent, I explained calmly that he had made a commitment and that he ‘owed it to himself and his teammates’ to give it a proper try. Unsurprisingly this approach was not well received but I shut the conversation down, not wanting to have the final showdown so early in the week.

Before I get to the last part of this story, I think it important to reflect on the fact that he doesn’t want to play cricket and nor do we want him to play cricket. Cricket is an odd, slow, boring sport that, if allowed to develop unchecked, will consume our weekends and then our lives, and then give our child basal-cell carcinomas in his 30s.

And yet…

I chose Friday evening to remind him that the following morning he and I would be going to cricket. He was playing Nintendo and, although he did not look up and arguably thought I asked him if he wanted a slice of toast, replied ‘ok’. I took this as a small win. It was not.

Saturday morning I woke Milo just after 0700 and reminded him of his solemn commitment to the cricket Gods, and finally it all unraveled. Once in full flight Milo is something to behold and he and I were flying high together.

There were pink faces and clenched fists and squinty eyes and lofty statements from me and tears and mucous… and finally, I slammed the door and drove by myself, to umpire a game of junior cricket in which my child was not playing, for three hours, without enough water.

I arrived home around lunchtime and we were both feeling far more relaxed about the whole thing. He asked me, with a slight grin, “what are you going to do now dad?” I explained that I had made a commitment to the team so I would continue pseudo-coaching for the rest of the season which is about 10 weeks, I guess to demonstrate good behaviours to my children?

So now, each Saturday morning I fill my giant Yeti water bottle, apply sunscreen, wave goodbye to my family at around 0720, and head off to some patch of grass somewhere or other to stand around not being all that useful to anybody. My family, comfortable in their pyjamas, look up from their breakfast, wave back and wish me luck. And just to demonstrate how ludicrous this situation has become, this week Kuepps was interstate so we paid a babysitter $125 to look after the boys for the morning, which is more than the cost of the entire season’s registration.

So here’s the thing; when I look back at all the individual decisions that led us up to this point, they all seem quite reasonable. And yet, the sum of those many reasonable decisions is well, quite unreasonable, and I haven’t even been on orange and grape duty yet.

Sometimes it does get tiring to be so constantly reminded how much we still have to learn about parenting.

When cricket could be played in 20 minutes, and in pyjamas
NBA2K – A dangerous gateway to exercise, friendships and new skills.

NBA2K – A dangerous gateway to exercise, friendships and new skills.

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 1 Comment

I’m confused.

Clearly parenting is baffling. We are making it up as we go along for the most part; building the plane as we fly it, as they say. But I always thought there were a few fundamental planks upon which we could rely. For example:

  • Broccoli is always good;
  • Screen time is always bad;
  • Dogs licking your children in the face is good or bad, depending on tongue length and intent, and whether you prioritise a strong immune system or an absence of bum worms.

Recently, for us, this second plank has been thrown into disarray.

Milo had a brief foray into basketball a few years back; enjoying a memorable season with the Hellratz (you can read about it here). Monty has steadily chipped away at Aussie Hoops; perfecting his dribble handoffs, bounce passes, and absent-minded dancing during layup drills, but with minimal ambition to actually play a game, or bump into anybody, or be involved in any aspect of an ‘alley-oop’. Milo (who is an all-in or all-out kind of human) has also exhibited zero basketball ambition in recent years; seemingly leaving basketball in his rear-vision mirror in order to turn his attentions towards other worthwhile pursuits.

However, this year, things have changed.

Summer means cousins; and cousins mean new games, new rules, new horizons, and new zooper dooper flavours – like blue raspberry, which for me seems a dangerous manifestation of consumerism and a waste of chemical lab research funding. This past summer our boys enjoyed a lot of cousin time, and their cousins are basketball fanatics. Of course, the outcome of this was numerous games of 3 on 3, and 4 on 5 and 7 on 6 and other permutations; but the most impactful outcome was an introduction for our boys to the classic console game NBA2K – in this instance, 2K24.

For the uninitiated, NBA2K is a popular basketball series that let’s you play as any NBA or WNBA player from history, or even invent your own improbably proportioned player and lead them through a ‘career’ that spans carrying the team kits bags as a rookie, All Star fame and fortune, and finally the twilight years spent in the Taiwanese professional league playing for a beer company (like a real life Boogie Cousins).

It took no time at all for Monty and Milo to start quoting the stats and relative merits of Bob Cousy, Hakeem Olajuwan, John Starks and Kevin McHale. For some reason Monty has a real affinity for the Minneapolis Lakers legend George Mikan, who plied his big-man trade between 1947 and 1956. And of course, we have now prosecuted the Lebron vs MJ GOAT conversation from every angle, a topic that was simply not on the agenda before the summer.

So that’s fine, and quite predictable. But what happened next surprised me. Of course, once we returned home from the summer spent with cousins, we purchased NBA2K in the post-Christmas sales. Monty and Milo built their own players, Abdul Cicaman and Nikheil Gronko respectively (falling into the age-old trap of making their guys waaaay too tall with improbable wing-spans and then becoming disgruntled that they can’t run or dribble) and then began to play together during most weekend Nintendo sessions.

But, once Nintendo time was over they would not mooch around wondering what to do with their lives, they would instead almost always drift outside to the driveway hoop and shoot free-throws like Steph, or dunk on the trampoline hoop like Vince Carter, or snatch blocked shots out of the air like Shaq, or set precise screens like Nikola Jokic (it is odd to watch them practice this skill).

The driveway has also now led to Milo rejoining a basketball team, training and playing weekly (I am considering re-introducing a Hellratz style match-report for his new team ‘Thunderdome’, stay tuned for that in coming weeks) and Monty graduating from Aussie Hoops to the local half-court league (which he calls ‘Crazy Apes’).

They are running, and sweating, and playing together, and meeting new people, and trying new things, and grazing their knees, and jarring their fingers, and losing balls over the neighbours’ fence and making me turn on the car headlights after dark so they can keep shooting.

And what do I make of it all? I really have no idea, and to be honest I am a little lost. Clearly NBA2K is a dangerous gateway to exercise, and new skills, and wholesome activities. Maybe we should ban broccoli? Or open the flood gates on Kandy Krush and see if they become confectionary moguls? Or remove all restrictions on Cookie Clicker and, I don’t know, see if they invent some cool new cookie.

Or maybe we should just hand in our parenting badges and motivational sticker charts and just accept we have no idea what we are doing, that parenting is really hard, and be grateful for the small wins when they materialise, even if we have the Nintendo corporation to thank for them.

Monty’s favourite, George Mikan

Test Match – The only board game that has NEVER been finished

Test Match – The only board game that has NEVER been finished

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Although they share some of the same esoteric idiosyncrasies – monotony, inane tradition, confusing timeframes – I am not talking about real-life Test Match cricket, the pseudo-sport played by slightly out of shape men and women, walking back and forth and back again without purpose for hours and days at a time, I am talking about the boardgame of the same name; ‘Test Match’ – The Authentic All Action Cricket Game! invented by Crown & Andrews in 1977 and a summer mainstay of beach houses, caravans and rumpus rooms in Australia for over 40 years.

If you grew up in Australia it’s pretty likely you had a copy on your shelf, or your cousin did, or your dad’s mate whom you visited on Boxing Day for some reason. It holds a nostalgic association with summer time, and sandy feet, and long hot evenings, and water slides and left over ham in a pillow case.

But unfortunately, like many things that live and glow in that nostalgic little corner of our brains, like the coloured nose on a Bubble O’ Bill… it’s just a bit shit.

Essentially, you roll out this mini cricket oval made of green felt, about the size of a small coffee table then arrange little plastic fielders around it. There is a batter attached to a long plastic arm and an elbowless bowler, spring-loaded at his waist who hurls beamers or grubbers, but nothing in between.

This is a quote from the official rule book: “When you first take the playing pitch out of the box it will have some creasing from where it has been folded. If you lay the pitch on a flat table, smooth it out and leave if for a while, the pitch will flatten out. You can also give it a gentle iron.”

That is a lie.

30 years after you first unboxed this game the green felt will continue to undulate dramatically; hillocks, ravines, impenetrable chasms. If you try to pull one section flat another will bend and twist upwards. And if you ever try to iron that flammable green felt, even ‘gently’, it will catch on fire immediately. No, a lumpy, completely unpredictable playing surface is a timeless and unavoidable element of this game.

The rules boast that the game can be played by 2-24 players. By this they presumably mean that one could assemble 21 of one’s best friends or cousins and form two teams of 11. Each person would presumably then sit patiently, watching the riveting action unfold, while waiting for their turn to bat or bowl. The rules even suggest the poor suckers who arrive number 23 and 24 could fill the coveted roles of umpire and square leg umpire. Taken together, these are the worst ideas any boardgame manufacturer has ever had.

Crown & Andrews also obliquely claims that one can ‘PLAY ALL FORMS OF THE GAME’. It’s not completely clear what is meant by that half-sentence, but notably the manufacturers remain silent on the far more salient question – which is should one play any form of the game. The answer to that question is obviously no, which every person who has ever played Test Match Cricket discovers in about 8 minutes.

And so the game begins, with much misplaced excitement and hope.

This is how the field generally looks in preparation for the first over.

Sensible field, offering good support to the bowler but not overly aggressive – designed to entice stroke-making.

Now, deliveries don’t take long to bowl in Test Match Cricket so it takes a little more than an over to make a drastic fielding change, but never any more than three. It takes about 18 deliveries to realise it is extremely difficult for the batter to get the ball in front of square, and completely impossible unless they are prepared to bravely meet a full toss with their face.

In the 40 year history of this game being played, a batter has successfully struck a drive off the bat in front of square on exactly fifty-nine occasions. Of those fifty-nine, the ball has been directed into that tiny little catching pouch between the fielder’s legs seven times. On each of those seven serendipitous occasions the miniscule force of that tiny little red ball has immediately flung the fielder to the ground, and the ball has then rolled gently for two. I am quite confident in my assertion that nobody in the history of Test Match cricket has ever been caught out in front of square.

So, this is what the field looks like after three overs.

A few catches are taken by those crouching down guys over the next three overs, but most deliveries go for 4 leg byes. And boredom is setting in.

This is how the field looks after another three overs.

This setup probably only lasts another 4 or 5 deliveries, and by now the scorecard looks like this.

3/134 after 9.5 overs. Ten runs taken off the bat. 124 total sundries including a whopping 76 combined byes and leg byes.

There is only one more step here before the game is completely abandoned, and that is to see how many of the crouching down guys can be knocked over in a row by paddling their bums (5 is the most, but 1 is the most fun).

And that’s it, the entire game. Absolute proof that the Crown & Andrews boardgame Test Match Cricket has never been completed in its 40 year history. And perhaps proof that games don’t really need an objective or purpose, much like the real life ‘sport’ from which this game drew its inspiration.

An abandoned pitch is a fine place for a lucky cat to groom herself.

Match Report 3: Hellratz vs The Doogs

Match Report 3: Hellratz vs The Doogs

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

The Doogs came to play.

From the south side of the river, this crew wouldn’t know an organic spinach leaf if it gently slapped them in the face, their parents cook with cubed rather than natural, home-rendered liquid stock, and some of them are even subjected to pasteurised rather than the more gut-friendly cold-pressed milk. In short, they were hungry, tough and high on lactose. A force to be reckoned with.

Led by their talismanic captain, number 80 with his electric mop of blonde hair, The Doogs stifled the Hellratz flow. Known down south as Funk-Yellow, number 80 was everywhere in the first half; slapping, scratching, scoring, and the Ratz had few answers. The loyal Hellratz supporters could only marvel at Funk-Yellow‘s tenacity and commitment and wonder aloud how much more dominant he could have been had his hair not obscured 80% of his vision.

The Hellratz limped to half time with no notable highlights to report. The score was tied 10-10, a fact known to nobody but this reporter because apparently keeping score in an under 10s game leads to hyper-competitive play, sideline arguments and a diminishment of the purity of the game. That’s loser talk, but to avoid developing a ‘tiger parent’ reputation I still surreptitiously keep score on a tiny notepad while pretending to check my WhatsApps. Keeping score and checking WhatsApps mid-game are both scorn-worthy activities for a sideline parent in 2022, but on balance score-keeping is the greater evil.

Regardless, as the Ratz sat on the bench at half time sipping water and talking about Minecraft they knew they were in a battle. The Boss and The Prodigy knew it too and so attempted to motivate their warriors with a stirring half-time speech. As all great coaches do when their backs are against the wall, they reverted to defence, defence, defence. And scoring slightly more than their opponents. For the first time this season The Boss produced a mini whiteboard complete with basketball court line-markings. As her marker danced this way and that with arrows and xs and swirls and loops the boys looked impressed and bamboozled, and then bored.

Early in the third quarter, motivated by the halftime Minecraft chat, the momentum shifter came from an unexpected Ratz player – Smilez.

Funk-Yellow was deep in the paint, doing his thing; jab step, dribble, small travel, pump fake, small travel, jab step. Smilez, seeing an opportunity, lunged at the ball. With surprising strength Smilez latched on and wouldn’t relent as Funk-Yellow shook and lurched like a tethered crocodile. Smilez was eventually flung out of bounds, but not before the whistle had blown for a tie-up. Smilez sprang to his feet, smiling, and received the hugs of gratitude he deserved.

Well, that singular effort turned the tide. Perhaps simply due to an increased level of effort, but also perhaps because of the low GI white bread The Doogs had enjoyed for breakfast, the Hellratz found their shape and intensity in the second half. Back and forth we went, basket for basket, and in the last minute the score was locked at 20-20.

Nobody on the court, or on either bench was aware of this of course so there was no alteration in strategy, effort or vigour. As chance might have it the Hellratz were on offence; pivot, pivot, pivot, small travel, pass, air-ball, rebound, pivot, small travel. As the clock ticked below 10 seconds I, alone, was on the edge of my seat, beyond the edge even. The Baby-faced Assassin had the ball in his hands, on the baseline about 10 feet from the basket. Any advanced metrics would tell you that for such a game situation BFA with the ball in that pocket of the court is precisely what you want. The Boss could not have drawn it up better on her little basketball court whiteboard. And yet it appeared as if The Assassin was just going to let the clock run-out. But then, pulse maxing out at 57 bpm, BFA glanced up at the hoop, squared his feet and stroked the ball into the air. Front rim, backboard, net.

As the clock ticked down to zero, I stifled a fist pump so as not to give away my contraband score card then, as the players walked languidly off the court I etched two more to the Hellratz tally: 22-20. It was then that I looked up and briefly locked eyes with another dad who was doing the same. 22-20? I mouthed to him. He nodded wisely at me and we both went to congratulate our non-plussed children.

I glanced over at Funk-Yellow who looked exhausted and still unable to see much. I am sure he was thinking… if only my mum had eaten my dried placenta in powdered form straight after I was born in order to transfer those dense nutrients to me. Imagine the player I could have been…

Match Report 2: Hellratz vs Wyld Stallyns

Match Report 2: Hellratz vs Wyld Stallyns

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

The Hellratz started the match with 4 players, a classic Alpha move. In fact for a brief period there were more grandparents in attendance than players. Milo arrived 5th and so strolled directly into the starting 5 (after hugging his grandma).

Hellratz were without Stretch for this one, but with the Wyld Stallyns small, slashing line-ups the analytics probably would have pointed to extended rest for the lanky rim protector anyway. In his place we welcomed back Smilez, another junior member of the squad growing in confidence week by week. Don’t let the perpetual smile fool you, he is ready to do whatever is necessary to get a Hellratz W, including cuddling the opposition.

The most noteworthy aspect of the Stallyns unit in the early going was their coach. Some people might say his approach was somewhat more direct and forceful than is required for the world of under 10s basketball.. But those people would be losers. Coach Stallyn knows where he wants his squad to be and Coach Stallyn is prepared to make the aggressive, outlandish, arguably abusive public pronouncements required to get them there. Coach Stallyn was wearing red bike shorts under his other, also athletic shorts and a Woody Harrelson-esque tank top which suggested he had just come from his game, or was on his way there after dealing with the upstart Hellratz. Although I fear it was neither.

The Hellratz quickly established their groove, raining buckets on the Stallyns like there had been an explosion in a nearby bucket factory which caused many of those buckets to be flung into the air, only to shortly thereafter rain down on people standing around in the nearish vicinity.

Although I did not attend training this week in either a journalistic or ‘hanging around waiting for my son’ capacity, it is clear the theme of the week was pivot foot. One, two, sometimes seven times the Hellratz propped and pivoted, this way and that, flouting the three second rule, bamboozling the Stallyns. “Take it! Take the ball Keith!” Coach Stallyn would yell with increasing ferocity. But Keith could not take the ball. He slapped helplessly at air as Smoov and The Big Fundamental pivoted around, sometimes in a full circle, before making the perfect pass for The Magic Man or Pocket Lightning to finish in the lane.

Towards the end of the second half Milo found himself the recipient of one such pass; a crisp, wrist snapper from Smoov. In a classic example of Squircle Offence Milo was perfectly positioned somewhere towards the middle of the key with his back to the hoop.

He was wide. open.

In one smooth motion Milo spun around and caressed the ball into the air. Up, up it went with an atypical sideways rotation. The crowd gasped, Milo held his breath, Coach Stallyn yelled and then, just as it reached the climax of its journey, I am pretty sure the ball looked at me and winked before splashing through the twine.

Well, the roof of the stadium literally turned into confetti and tumbled down upon us all as the multiple grandmas roared in unison, the disgruntled siblings looked up from there ipads and smiled and even Coach Stallyn nodded with a you did good look of respect. The rest of the Ratz, intuitively understanding the gravity of the moment turned towards Milo and celebrated with him, The Big Fundamental even reaching down to give him a cuddle at the free throw line. Delightful stuff.

The second half saw the Stallyns increasingly ignore their coach’s carefully considered directives “Run! Make Space! Help him! Spread out! Run!”, and they did so to their detriment. Due to their lack of running, space making, helping, spreading and running the Hellratz ran riot. It must be said Milo missed several defensive assignments in the second half due to his skipping and double arm windmilling but he can be forgiven for this week only. He will need to quickly put that swish behind him and look to next week as the match-ups get tougher, and the coaching more nuanced.

One small postscript; in the dying stages, with the game well under control there was a moment of exasperation between The Baby Faced Assassin, not known for gesticulation or indignation, and Magic Man. Magic, dribbling at full speed on a fast break missed an opportunity to feed the ball to the Assassin for an easy lay-up and instead faded out of bounds and hurled the ball into the side of the backboard. Magic Man, to his credit, acknowledged his error, but this is something we will need to keep an eye on in coming days and months.

Final score, Hellratz 26 – Wyld Stallyns 10

Subscribe for more Hellratz updates as the summer season hots up.

Match Report 1: Hellratz vs The Deadly Dojo

Match Report 1: Hellratz vs The Deadly Dojo

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Welcome everybody to another season of Hellratz basketball. The team looks rested and feisty after a short break and ready to take on the challenges that await them in this shortened summer season. There’s no doubt the Hellratz surprised a lot of pundits during the long, arduous winter season, during which undershirts and in-game tracksuit pants abounded, but there will be no surprises this time around. Everybody knows what the Hellratz are about and the whole league will be out to knock them from their lofty perch.

Critically the front office has done a wonderful job of keeping the group together so we will be running it back as they say, with the same line-up that the loyal group of sideline-parents and disgruntled younger siblings in attendance against their will have come to know and love. By way of quick recap here is the unit on hand for round 1:

The Magic Man – Audacious, competitive. Never saw a shot he didn’t like, or couldn’t make.

The Big Fundamental – All foot-work and focus. Not afraid to put his body on the line for the Hellratz.

Baby-faced Assassin – Smoothest jump-shot in the comp. Heart rate oscillates between 55 and 57 bpm.

Smoov – Sideline parent favourite. Effective, unpredictable style. Hyper cool flowing hair.

Stretch – Intimidating length, calm and reliable. A feared inside presence.

Pocket Lightning – His age is a mystery. Legend has it not yet 5, but absolute electricity across the pine.

The Boss – Representative player and coach. She demands excellence and receives it.

The Prodigy – Assistant coach, mentor, hype-guy.

Milo – The protagonist of this story, and one of the junior squad members. Given the Hellratz rookie squad is under 10s Milo has a full 5 more seasons to compete at this level. He and Pocket Lightning are undoubtedly the future of this franchise and, pending injury and general disinterest, could form a special combination for years to come.

Match Report

Well, the Deadly Dojo looked sharp in the warmups. Despite their legendary focus and professionalism, the Hellratz couldn’t help but take an envious look down the court. Really nice Dikembe-era Hawks-like uniforms, and multiple flash haircuts including undercuts, mini-mullets and arguably even a squirt or two of hair gel. The Hellratz unis are mining-industry orange interspersed inexplicably with multiple shades of blue. Yuck.

Smoov aside (whose style is irrepressible), top to bottom utilitarian haircuts under the Hellratz hoop. Deadly Dojo won the early instagram battle.

Once the ball was tipped (or gently passed in from the sideline as is the practice of our times) it was clear there is to be no season 2 hangover for the Hellratz. The Magic Man took over early, relentlessly dribbling this way and that through the entire Deadly Dojo squad, launching high arching bombs from all corners, delivering his signature ‘come and get it’ hand-gesture celebration. The Baby-Face Assassin, looking passive and possibly asleep swished everything he touched, involved team-mates with crisp passing and suffocated his man on defence.

When he wasn’t comparing heights with Milo (he has grown a little in the off season) Pocket Lightning was everywhere, leaving little tracks of fire behind him as he burned around the court, stealing, dribbling and generally terrorising everybody. Pocket Lightning’s signature moment came in the period shortly after the half time siren had sounded. Deadly Dojo’s power forward had not heard the siren, was delighted to see a wide open lane appear in front of him and dribbled apace towards the hoop. Pocket Lightning, giving up three quarters of a body length in height, pursued and harassed him for 15 seconds, achieving a held-ball while everybody else had already sat down for half-time water and Minecraft chat.

Interestingly, not content to rest on their season 1 success, The Boss and The Prodigy have implemented two significant tactical amendments to the summer game plan. Firstly, in the half court the Hellratz have adopted the legendary 90s Bulls-era triangle offence. However, the structure has been astutely modified to better suit the Hellratz style of play. Rather than a triangle they form more of a flattened squircle around the three point line which moves and oozes this way and that until somebody decides to jack up a shot. Borderline unstoppable.

Secondly the Hellratz have taken on a straight line Uruk-hai inspired defence, with devastating effect. They form a straight line, spread out across the width of the the court just their side of half-way. There they lie in wait for the opposition to dribble tentatively forward. As soon as the poor ball handler crosses that half-way line there is no going back. The Hellratz descend, hollering and waving their arms around, and amidst the ordered chaos the ball-handler is overwhelmed, generally flinging it to The Magic Man or Pocket Lightning who finish things off at the other end. It is like a half-court trap with more terror, and may revolutionize basketball.

Well, the second half was more one way traffic. The Big Fundamental took over as he usually does when energy begins to flag and discipline evaporates. Fundamentals deliver in the 39th minute as they do in the 1st. Jump shot, lay-up, jump shot, including a beautiful swish from 15 feet into the opponent’s hoop. The Big Fundamental was somewhat dismayed by his oversight but he needn’t have been, it was yet another glorious display of technique and focus.

Any opportunities that the Deadly Dojo briefly identified in the second half were hunted down by the prowling pair of Stretch and Smoov, and snuffed out by superior length and athleticism.

A final note on our protagonist. It would appear Milo has de-prioritised tucking his arms inside his singlet for warmth this season and is starting to deliver on his significant potential as a feared defensive stopper. His focus and increased confidence were notable, involving himself with timely passing and smothering, demonic efforts on the defensive end. Milo scored two baskets in his debut season and is hungry for more this summer. Based on what we saw in game one, Milo would be a strong overs bet and the future is bright.

Final score, Hellratz 33 – Deadly Dojo 10

Which shows length and switchability on the wings will beat sweet haircuts and classy uniforms every day of the week.

Subscribe for more Hellratz updates as the summer season hots up.

The irresistible trap of mini-golf parenting

The irresistible trap of mini-golf parenting

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I challenge you to play mini-golf with a child and not give them tips on their game. Like singing the chorus to Informer by Snow, or saying no to an arancini ball, it’s impossible.

My brother and I, who would both like to think of ourselves as relaxed, non-obsessive dads, recently played a round with our four boys, and by the third hole we had both fallen into the irresistible trap of mini-golf parenting.

The problem is little children suck at mini-golf. They hold the club around the wrong way, they constantly forget if they are left, right or one handed, they swing wildly and aggressively with absolute disregard for Newton’s Second Law of Motion, they mix their grips up so their hands are crossed over like they’re in a straight-jacket, they push the ball along like they are brooming leaves, they constantly stand directly in front of each other, they take absolute liberties with the ‘club-head away from the edge’ rule, and sometimes it just seems they have completely forgotten the basic premise of the game. They suck.

And an adult can only abide such mini-golfing atrocities for so long.

We restrained ourselves for three holes but eventually a supportive parent seeks to correct and improve via unsolicited feedback; in a gentle and constructive manner of course.

“Hey, maybe look at the ball while you are swinging aggressively in its direction.”

“Have you thought about pointing the club away from your foot?”

“Weren’t you right-handed a minute ago?”

“Woah, probably would be easier to hit the ball if your hands weren’t crossed over like an octopus.”

“Why are you standing on top of the concrete Statue of Liberty?”

“Isn’t the hole that way?”

“Did you not see your cousin standing directly in front of you as you were bringing your club head back like a champion wood chopper?”

“Did you not see your cousin bringing back his club head like a champion wood chopper? Why are you standing directly in front of him?”

“Do you remember the basic objective of this game?”

“Do any of you care about your handicaps?”

We told ourselves the feedback was for them, not us. They would certainly enjoy themselves more if they played a little better, right? Then they would have more fun! Yes, fun is the objective. There is no chance any of them are going to join the Vegas mini-golf tour with its lucrative powdered orange juice endorsements and its all-you-can-eat frankfurter buffets, right? So what else is there but fun?

Well, they did not appreciate our feedback.

By the 5th hole they were grumbling and telling us to be quiet and by the 7th we had a full mini-golf mutiny on our hands.

“Yes I prefer playing with one hand!”

“No I don’t want to line up my club head perpendicular to my shoulders!”

“You’re not a mini-golf professional anyway so what do you know?!”

“You are the worst dads we have ever had!”

etc etc

To avoid a complete walk off we agreed to withhold our constructive feedback for the rest of the round, and for the most part we did. We focused on our own scores and passively watched them bumbling around the course; spanking their balls onto the footpath, brooming this way and that for 12s on par 2s, periodically whacking each other in the shins, helicoptering their clubs around single-handed, playing holes backwards and some of them not at all. Not once did any of them even attempt one of the 7 classic putting grips as laid out in the PGA handbook.

Their scores were atrocious and barely warranted tallying. But I must admit they did appear to be having a lot of fun.

So, now I can’t shake the slightly uneasy feeling that my mini-golf feedback may not in fact be confined to the hallowed astro-turf greens of the Holey Moley links. It is decidedly possible that we are constantly dispensing enthusiastic, perhaps over-earnest advice that is at best unnecessary, and at worst unwanted. It is possible we are diminishing their fun.

It seems unreasonable and unfair that parenting should be so complicated, that even our best-intentioned efforts could prove counter-productive. So what are us parents to do?

I think, in fact, that simply being there on the mini-golf fairway with them is the best our children can hope for, and the most we should expect of ourselves. And if they choose a lifetime of mini-golf mediocrity, and they never get to taste the sweetness of a free frankfurter buffet, then that is their misguided choice to make.

Mini-golf mutiny
The 3 types of junior sport participants… and their parents

The 3 types of junior sport participants… and their parents

by Jupiter and Sons ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Our first two efforts at encouraging Milo into organised sport were not successful. First was soccer; he picked up the ball mid practice because I failed to brief him on that whole key tenet of soccer. Coach wrote him off as a trouble maker and the whole thing spiraled from there. I must accept my portion of blame for that. Second was karate; Milo waited until he had the sweet uniform then quit. Well played Milo.

Attempt number three is basketball and it seems to be going well so far. In Australia junior basketball is affectionately known as ‘Aussie Hoops’. This is entirely non-competitive, learning the rules and skills and hugging each other, and buying merch. Great.

Even within this benign environment I have already noted several categories of both participant and parent. This is what I have learned so far:

Participants

There are three types of participant, as follows:

Flossing Kid

The Flossing Kid is either flossing, or thinking about flossing, or chocolate milk, or comparing their height to the other kids, back-to-back. Basketball has occurred to the Flossing Kid zero times and he or she is the most likely person in the gym to cop a basketball to the ear. Flossing Kid does not seem to mind when this happens.

Cheaty Kid

Cheaty Kid has incorrectly deduced that the objective of each drill is speed. Cheaty Kid will carry the ball and run if he or she thinks the coach is not looking, Cheaty Kid cares not for the violation that is double dribble, and Cheaty Kid will slide gently ahead of other patient participants in the lay-up queue if they are distracted by Flossing Kid requesting a height comparison. Cheaty Kid would actually be pretty good at basketball if they focussed on the fundamentals.

Bewildered Kid

Each week Bewildered Kid seems genuinely surprised to be at Aussie Hoops. This is what Bewildered Kid’s eyes say “Oh, I have the ball. That’s interesting. Oh, do you want the ball? What’s that? Oh, I should… I should keep the ball? OK, I’ll keep the ball. OK we’re sitting down now. OK now I’m sitting down.”

Parents

As far as I can tell there are also three categories of parents.

Volunteer Coach

Volunteer Coach played division 2 basketball at school. They have a Fleer Ultra Michael Jordan Rookie Card in their top drawer. They think it’s worth $20,000, “at least”. It’s not. Volunteer Coach mingles around with the kids at shoot around, occasionally dunking on the 8 foot hoop and returning rebounded shots, snapping their wrists properly and thudding the ball into their appreciative 7 year old’s chest. During practice Volunteer Coach yells out helpful guidance like “Keifer! Dribble hand off! Dribble hand off like I showed you”, when the drill is pass the ball gently to the small child you just met and ideally don’t make them cry. Volunteer Coach would be drinking Pepsi through a straw if Volunteer Coach was not wearing a surgical mask.

Instagram Parent

Instagram Parent is only waiting around because the stadium is in the middle of nowhere, the session is only 45 minutes and there is not enough time to go anywhere interesting and besides it is really hard to reverse the SUV out again with all those little kids everywhere. Instagram Parent scrolls their phone and is the second most likely person in the gym to cop a ball in the ear. Instagram Parent certainly minds if this happens.

Aggressively Supportive

Aggressively Supportive yells out non-sensical votes of encouragement like “Oh beautiful jump hop Prudence” and “wonderful posture Mikey. Daddy loves you!” Aggressively Supportive will build rapport with the teenage coaches after the session and buy ice cream on the way home.

Interestingly the participants and parents don’t seem to match up exactly as you might imagine. For example, Cheaty Kid doesn’t seem to go home with Volunteer Coach in a Ford Ranger as often as you might think. So far my favourite combination is Bewildered Kid with Aggressively Supportive.

More to come.