know you all have somewhere else to be right now.’
There is a collective groan as everyone starts
to file, slowly, out of the room.
Todd waits until all the students have gone,
then he turns to me.
‘Didn’t mean to do your job for you, but I tend
to take it personally when the students don’t want to go to sport.’
‘Hmm. Taking things personally is a disease, you
know? Better get it checked out,’ I laugh.
‘I know. I’ve been fighting it for a while but I
just can’t help it. I luuve sport,’ he responds with a smile.
We wander out into the hall and head towards the
gym.
‘Ready for this?’ Todd asks.
‘Sure. I mean, how bad can it be right?’
‘Trying to interest a bunch of kids who’d rather
be anywhere but here? Nah, that’ll be a piece of cake.’
‘You forget. I teach English. I deal with that
on a daily basis.’
‘Don’t we all.’
Outside the gym is bustling when we arrive.
Students from every year are milling around, their coloured shirts making a
rainbow. Peter Stewart has informed me that the four sporting Houses at the
school each have a designated colour – red, blue, yellow or green. I’m not sure
how the selection process works, but the hundred or so kids in each year are
evenly distributed between the Houses. When it comes to individual sports the
coloured shirt represents nothing more than a uniform. But during any carnival
events, athletics or swimming, the Houses will compete. And according to Peter
Stewart, it is all taken rather seriously.
‘It’s a rainbow lollipop out here,’ I say to
Todd.
‘Yep,’ he laughs. ‘Now listen, the teachers’
change rooms are just there. Meet me back here in ten, OK?’
‘Sure.’
I take the stairs to the female change room and
push open the door. Inside is a row of cubicles with blue doors. The two at the
far end are showers, the rest toilets. A suffocating perfume lingers in the
air. It might be the one Beth uses. Or that other woman, Jody is it? I try to
force the smell away by waving my hand in front of my face but it does nothing.
Running along the opposite wall is a wooden
bench. I drop my bag onto it and pull out my running gear. Black tracksuit
pants and a plain grey T-shirt; my most conservative, and non-figure hugging,
outfit. I quickly change into them and jam my feet into my trainers; I never
bother to untie the laces anymore. I pull my hair into a ponytail, grab my bag
and leave, resisting the urge to check out my butt in the mirror.
In the meantime Todd has managed to move most of
the students on to their respective sports, but eight kids are waiting with him
when I emerge from the change rooms. I recognise most of them from my Year
Twelve class.
‘Hi Mrs Fox. Do we have you for running now?’
‘Hello, Melanie. Yes I’ve taken over the team
from Mr Witton.’
The three girls look at each other and nod
approvingly.
‘Sweet as,’ says Melanie.
I notice one of the boys is smirking at me.
‘Is there a problem, Matt?’ I ask.
‘No, Mrs Fox,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Everything’s
cool.’
I stare at him and wonder what it is he finds so
funny.
‘There’s a couple missing but we don’t have time
to wait for them,’ says Todd. ‘Let’s get down to the oval. If they’re coming,
they’ll find us themselves.’
We all follow him down the long cement staircase
that is built into the side of the oval. The bank is elevated to facilitate
spectators on carnival days. From the stairs you can clearly see the wide
expanse of the oval with its faded cricket pitch in the middle, rugby goalposts
at either end, and seven white-chalked running lanes curving round its
perimeter. I can smell freshly-cut grass and that fertilizer that stinks of
chicken shit. The rugby boys are already mid-way through their warm-up jog and
a couple of them wave at us. Todd turns to me and points beyond them to a
second, smaller oval.
‘You’ll be training on the bottom oval,’ he
says. ‘Mind if I leave you here?
There is a collective groan as everyone starts
to file, slowly, out of the room.
Todd waits until all the students have gone,
then he turns to me.
‘Didn’t mean to do your job for you, but I tend
to take it personally when the students don’t want to go to sport.’
‘Hmm. Taking things personally is a disease, you
know? Better get it checked out,’ I laugh.
‘I know. I’ve been fighting it for a while but I
just can’t help it. I luuve sport,’ he responds with a smile.
We wander out into the hall and head towards the
gym.
‘Ready for this?’ Todd asks.
‘Sure. I mean, how bad can it be right?’
‘Trying to interest a bunch of kids who’d rather
be anywhere but here? Nah, that’ll be a piece of cake.’
‘You forget. I teach English. I deal with that
on a daily basis.’
‘Don’t we all.’
Outside the gym is bustling when we arrive.
Students from every year are milling around, their coloured shirts making a
rainbow. Peter Stewart has informed me that the four sporting Houses at the
school each have a designated colour – red, blue, yellow or green. I’m not sure
how the selection process works, but the hundred or so kids in each year are
evenly distributed between the Houses. When it comes to individual sports the
coloured shirt represents nothing more than a uniform. But during any carnival
events, athletics or swimming, the Houses will compete. And according to Peter
Stewart, it is all taken rather seriously.
‘It’s a rainbow lollipop out here,’ I say to
Todd.
‘Yep,’ he laughs. ‘Now listen, the teachers’
change rooms are just there. Meet me back here in ten, OK?’
‘Sure.’
I take the stairs to the female change room and
push open the door. Inside is a row of cubicles with blue doors. The two at the
far end are showers, the rest toilets. A suffocating perfume lingers in the
air. It might be the one Beth uses. Or that other woman, Jody is it? I try to
force the smell away by waving my hand in front of my face but it does nothing.
Running along the opposite wall is a wooden
bench. I drop my bag onto it and pull out my running gear. Black tracksuit
pants and a plain grey T-shirt; my most conservative, and non-figure hugging,
outfit. I quickly change into them and jam my feet into my trainers; I never
bother to untie the laces anymore. I pull my hair into a ponytail, grab my bag
and leave, resisting the urge to check out my butt in the mirror.
In the meantime Todd has managed to move most of
the students on to their respective sports, but eight kids are waiting with him
when I emerge from the change rooms. I recognise most of them from my Year
Twelve class.
‘Hi Mrs Fox. Do we have you for running now?’
‘Hello, Melanie. Yes I’ve taken over the team
from Mr Witton.’
The three girls look at each other and nod
approvingly.
‘Sweet as,’ says Melanie.
I notice one of the boys is smirking at me.
‘Is there a problem, Matt?’ I ask.
‘No, Mrs Fox,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Everything’s
cool.’
I stare at him and wonder what it is he finds so
funny.
‘There’s a couple missing but we don’t have time
to wait for them,’ says Todd. ‘Let’s get down to the oval. If they’re coming,
they’ll find us themselves.’
We all follow him down the long cement staircase
that is built into the side of the oval. The bank is elevated to facilitate
spectators on carnival days. From the stairs you can clearly see the wide
expanse of the oval with its faded cricket pitch in the middle, rugby goalposts
at either end, and seven white-chalked running lanes curving round its
perimeter. I can smell freshly-cut grass and that fertilizer that stinks of
chicken shit. The rugby boys are already mid-way through their warm-up jog and
a couple of them wave at us. Todd turns to me and points beyond them to a
second, smaller oval.
‘You’ll be training on the bottom oval,’ he
says. ‘Mind if I leave you here?
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