I drive my yellow golf carefully through the heavy Joburg traffic. Not entirely sure of the way, I have my phone open next to me. My passenger, like the three others in the back, is fifteen years old, in red and gold sports kit, neat takkies with white socks, her smooth brown thighs spread out against the faded tweedy fabric of the seat. She has her own phone on her lap, and is looking out of the window, her thick ponytail of braids swaying as I pull off at last from a jam at a traffic light. The girls in the back throw the netball around, talking so loudly that I am tempted to ask them to stop. It is Zulu, I think, recognising a few words similar to the bits of Xhosa I learnt as a child in Cape Town. We are on our way to a match at another school. My whistle is around my neck, I have changed out of my teacher clothes into track pants and a T-shirt, and I am nervous.
I can do this, I think, as I park outside the smart entrance to the school. I’ve done it before. It’s not hard. But as the girls spill out, joining their teammates who have travelled in a hired minibus, I walk behind them and I am nowhere near confident. This school, this fancy institution where parents pay three times the value of my car for a year’s fees, will likely have career coaches umpiring the matches we are about to play. I am just a very junior teacher at a government school, armed with a certificate that proves nothing other than that I once knew the rules of netball, doing my extra-mural duty this afternoon when I would rather be getting through my endless piles of marking. I am newly married, eager to get home to my honeymoon-nest to bake or re-arrange the pictures in my wedding album. But I go over the rules in my head: contact, stepping, obstruction. Keep to your half of the court, blow the whistle confidently, keep score. I can do this.
I walk behind my girls towards the courts. I am not their coach; I am only the teacher in charge of their team, the one who gets to make arrangements and umpire when the coach is unavailable. I have enjoyed watching them play this term. They are a spirited bunch; all various shades of brown, all fit and strong and fast. They have won all their matches so far and are top of their under 16 league. Only this match remains, although today, they warn me, might be the end of their winning streak. This school, they say, is going to be tough to beat. I look around at the expansive grounds, the modern buildings, the BMW’s and huge SUV’s in the parking lot, and I understand. This place oozes privilege and wealth.
Mbali, who sat next to me in the car, has her phone out and is making a video of her friends. They flirt with the camera, sticking out tongues and pouting as they walk. We pass a cluster of tables below a sign for a popular coffee shop, and I do a double take. There’s a restaurant in this school? No tuckshop selling tuna sandwiches and packets of chips? I picture my mish-mash of rainbow nation students sipping lattes and eating cheesecake with forks during break time, paying with credit cards and leaving a tip, and I want to laugh. This is, in every way, a different world.
We reach the courts. The other team is waiting, and I shake the other umpire’s hand as my girls stand to one side. Mbali gets them into a circle and they begin to stretch and squat, reaching their strong brown arms over their heads, rolling their necks, rotating ankles. There is no laughter now. This is serious business. I take a look at our opposition. Except for two, all are white. Their skirts are short, their legs tanned and smooth, hair is scraped back into ponytails and serious topknots. As I turn to make my way to my team, I hear it.
We are so going to beat those little black chicks!
The malice in the voice makes me turn, looking for the source, but it could have been any one of the sleek, confident girls in front of me. Whoever said it does not notice that I have heard – either that, or she doesn’t care. They pay my team only the most cursory glances and carry on with their own warm up. The umpire, a short, powerful-looking woman with close-cropped hair, is in a huddle with the captain. She is clearly the coach, not just an impostor like me. I feel invisible.
The match begins. It is fast, and at first I am overwhelmed, running to keep up with the ball when play is in my half, craning my head to see what is happening. The ball goes out and I blow my whistle, stand with one arm up and one out to the side, go through the motions. When play begins again I am relieved when the ball passes into the other half. But then one of my girls stumbles, reeling from a push. Another player’s glasses fall off as an elbow makes contact with her face. Play continues, and I wonder why the other umpire hasn’t blown up the offenders in her team. Someone catches the ball and passes it on, clearly out of bounds. Their goal attack shoves our goalkeeper away, so shamelessly that I gasp, and they score. For the first time since the ball went out on my side, the whistle blows and the girls return to the centre, my team looking at me in confusion.
I don’t understand what is happening. It sinks in more slowly than it should: the other team is playing rough, and the coach is ignoring it. The rules mean that I am powerless; I cannot point out an error on her half. Play begins again. For a while we have an advantage and play moves to my half. One of their players obstructs a pass from one of ours, I blow the whistle and make her stand aside. But they defend with impressive skill and energy, careless of the rules. They are strong and fast, functioning as one mind, and before a minute has passed the ball has passed to the other side of the court. They seem to know there will be no repercussions for their behaviour, and the pushing and shoving continues. Arms reach up in front of surprised faces, ponytails fly, they catch the ball and run before passing it on. The umpire does nothing. When my girls make an error she is quick to see and penalize, but she seems blind to what her team is doing.
Play comes to my side of the court only a few times. I stand in the middle, my outrage growing. It is so blatant, so mean, so unfair! When Mbali goes flying after a blatantly illegal jump, I can’t be still any more. Her teammates help her up as she wipes the blood dripping from her knee with her hand.
I blow my whistle. That was contact, I say, feeling heat rise to my face. Are you seriously allowing that?
This is my half, says the woman. She is instantly defensive, even angry. You can’t blow for my half. She flicks her hand, dismissing me.
I know, I say, helplessly. But – She walks away, blowing her whistle to restart play, drowning me out.
All right, I think. Just you wait. Wait until your team want to score on my half. Let’s see how you like that.
We score a few goals but they are in the lead by far. Mbali’s knee drips blood, and someone else is nursing a swollen finger. At half time they are furious, some teary and emotional. These girls are so rough, Ma’am! Did you see how that blonde one pushed me? My glasses are broken!
Don’t worry, girls, I say. You keep on playing the way you know is right.
We can’t beat them, Ma’am! It’s pointless!
It’s not pointless, I say. They are breaking the rules and they know it. We must be better than that, even if we lose.
They drink their water and eat the neat orange segments provided by the host school, brought to us on a paper plate by a sour-faced girl in a tracksuit. I take a deep breath. I am not confident about my umpire skills. I am not confident that I will see all the errors or that my instincts are quick enough to be entirely fair. I don’t love this part of my job at all – I would far rather be in a library or directing a play. But as I take up my position again, I clutch my whistle tightly in my hand and I know that this is just another way that being a teacher is more than the subject or the sport. I am their defender. I am their example. Right now I stand between my girls and humiliation, and I will not lose my nerve.
The next twenty minutes are a whirlwind. I run, I blow my whistle, I raise my arms, I shout out the words. I stop play five times before anyone scores a goal. No one gets away with obstruction, contact, shoving or hair-pulling. A red-haired girl with smudged mascara leaps up and down in front of our shooter like a crazed cheerleader, trying to put her off, but the minute she crosses the line I blow and she is penalised, standing quietly beside our girl like a kid in the naughty corner as the ball flies seamlessly up and through the hoop. I am tough as nails; I take no prisoners. I even mediate a toss-up when an out-of-bounds decision is not clear. My girls are not spared either; in their eagerness to win they are making mistakes too. We score more than we did in the last half, but they are too much. When the time is up there are no more skinned knees or broken glasses, but they have won by more than a few points.
My girls shake hands and congratulate as they have been taught. The other team accepts the handshakes and grunt a few thank yous but they are too busy high-fiving each other, making a show of their victory, glaring hairy eyeballs at me. I do not react; I have only enforced the rules and they know it. The coach disappears and I have to ask one of the players to find her to sign my match form. When she returns she shoves the paper into my hand without saying a word.
Back in the car, we get out the first aid kit and mop up knees and elbows. The broken glasses are put away, their owner concerned that her mother will be angry.
Thanks Ma’am, says Mbali, as I pull out of the school, wincing as she moves her bandaged knee. The traffic is going to suck and I have a headache from all that concentrating.
I reach over and pat her arm. You did good, I say. You did your best.
She shrugs. That school is always a challenge, she says.
You guys were the better team, I say. I’m proud of you.
She nods, looking at me sideways. I know. There are different kinds of winning, right?
I smile, thinking of how nervous I was at the beginning, so worried about looking amateur, about making mistakes and embarrassing myself.
She lifts up her phone as we halt at a traffic light, snapping a selfie. Later she posts it on the group chat, and as I sit down at last at home that evening I see it. Every girl is smiling, arms around each other, fingers twisted into heart signs. I am there too, my face a sweaty, pale smudge in the corner. The caption: #winning! I listen to my husband tell me about his day in the corporate world and although I am tired, although the day wasn’t pleasant I am glad that I was there with them today. Tomorrow I will get into my yellow golf, make my way through the traffic and stand in front of my classes. There will be conflicts and unpleasantness and sadness. There will be “aha” moments and laughs and celebrations. I will teach, and I will learn. My door will be open, and so will my heart. I will be there for them. I will advocate for them. I will be a little light in the murky maze of obstacles and hurdles they must navigate every day. #winning, kids, I think, as I lean my head against my husband’s shoulder and thank God I don’t have to do his job. We can so do this.
