My rookie era: I signed up for over-40s football – it’s liberating to spend hours focusing solely on a game

I’ve spent decades on the sidelines watching my kids playing football, envying the laughter, mates and sense of belonging that are the companion to competition.

I’ve never played team sport, instead choosing solo adventures like running, bushwalking, swimming and surfing. A friend almost talked me into signing up a few years ago but I was put off by stories of injuries – achilles, ACLs, ankles – and the logistics of fitting in my games, as well as the games of my three kids, every Sunday.

But the kids are older now. I no longer have to plan my weekends like a sports carnival schedule; instead, I sometimes find myself floating around, waiting to be needed. I decided I’d rather use that bonus time for fun and friends than getting on top of the garden.

So for Mother’s Day this year I bought myself an early present: shin guards, shiny new boots and a registration for over-40s football with the Seaforth Bombshells.

On the day of my debut match, I celebrated by spending the afternoon sprinting up and down the wing, trying to work out what I was doing. I stuck rigidly to my opposite number, panicked whenever the ball came near. I discovered that what looks easy from the sidelines is much harder when I’m on the field, legs and lungs screaming as I try to run and kick and work out where and when to pass. It turns out that football skills don’t come free with your knee-high socks.

View image in fullscreen

The coach of the mighty Bombshells called our tightly fought 2-1 “our best loss ever”, as a mob of awesome women drank champagne on the sidelines, talked up missed chances, fine play and our path to the finals.

After my first couple of games I limped into bed, exhausted. But instead of sleep, I got a personalised bloopers reel. Featuring prominently was my run down the wing in my second week, the team going wild. What I took for excitement at my prowess was actually them trying to remind me about the offside rule.

But one game, as I ran on, our coach said, “Turn off your brain.” So instead of thinking, I now just try to play: attack the ball, find space, run fast, forget about mistakes and move on. It’s liberating to spend hours focusing solely on a game, and missed tackles are great training for not dwelling on what you can’t change.

I’m amazed by the physicality of it; was shocked the first time I was shoved. I’ve had some spectacular stacks but no injuries so far. Teammates have had concussions and sprains, twinged knees, strained hammies. In my third game, an opponent went in for a dangerous tackle and ended up lying on the ground, screaming, her leg broken. We sat on the field in the rain until an ambulance scooped her up, then returned a fortnight later to replay the match. That week I did question whether football was really for me.

View image in fullscreen

Now I wake every Sunday feeling nervous and slightly queasy, and every Monday my legs are sore in new and exciting ways.

Winning matters but it’s not the point. It’s about competing and improving, using the odd passage of beautiful play to counter fluffed passes and air swings. No one likes to be crap: as a rookie, this is a hard mindset to find.

But I’ve discovered all my running means I’m fit and fast and can usually get to the ball first. Eventually I’ll work out what I’m supposed to do next.

Six games in as a Bombshell and I’m playing better every week. Plus I’ve found a diverse, eclectic friendship group. I’ve been let into bawdy WhatsApps and inside rivalries, danced at a brewery while eating cake decorated as a football pitch. Team members are aged from their 40s to mid-60s, with some stalwarts playing together for almost 20 years. They’re teachers, marketing managers, consultants – bonded by 90 minutes of game time and drinks afterwards.

My family join our support squad on the sidelines, with the kids equal parts proud, kind and patronising.

I’ll keep playing, for this season and beyond, tweaking our family schedule to make Sunday matches work. Because if I can make it work for everyone else, I will make it work for me.