For all the early mornings in that tiny little skirt,
the icy wind cuts through you but it doesn’t even hurt,
wrapped in tracksuit and a blanket you eye off your opponent,
and as you take the court, with beating heart, your breath catches in the moment.
For all the girls who’ve pushed and shoved and always stood their ground,
who’ve fallen hard upon the court and not made the slightest sound,
for those who’ve picked the gravel from their badly bleeding knees,
who’ve run through pain and got up again, so determined that they’ll please.
For the siren and the half time huddle and the coach who gives their speech,
that defense stuck close and attack held leads was what they would beseech,
to those who ate their oranges and those who had a bitch,
to those who strapped their ankles and the girl who had a stitch.
For the ones who slapped each others back as they jogged back onto court,
the last minute words of encouragement that gave some food for thought,
from the pocket rocket who stuns us all and quickly takes possession,
to the giant whose practice shots become her daily routine obsession.
For the siren that called the final score and the umpires persistent whistle,
the opponent who throws her sharpest words and causes you to bristle,
the early games and the late training in sun and pouring rains,
the broken bones, the grazes, the aches and the ever common sprain.
For those who knock the game we love and try to bring it down,
it’s a passion, it’s a lifestyle, it’s more than throwing a ball around,
we were hip height when we started and now we’ve grown to something more,
it’s not just the game, it’s bigger than that, far greater than the score.