The Newport Stars

 

 

At first glance, the Armstrong Reserve in Newport appears similar to any other suburban park. And in most ways, it is. There is a relatively new playground, tasteful landscaping, and metres and metres of tanbark around its perimeter, all the result of a council beautification process. Central to the reserve is a rectangular asphalt playing court, basketball backboard and hoop at one end, netball ring at the other. Most days this court is quiet, apart from the occasional neighbourhood kids playing one-on-one on its unforgiving surface. But if that court could talk, it would have a story or two to tell. For only a few short decades ago, it was on this court that a properly organized netball competition flourished. And it was on this court that my mother celebrated her greatest sporting victory, as a member of the Newport Stars.

I recall being more than mildly surprised when my mum mentioned that she was going to be playing netball for the first time. A few of the ladies at her mothers’ group had responded positively to an advert seeking teams for the lunch-time competition at Armstrong Reserve, and she had thought “Why not?” I was certain that my mum had never previously played sport of any kind. To fourteen year-old me she seemed kind of old to be taking up a sport as physically demanding as netball. Children have a simplistic, all-encompassing way of throwing all adults into the “old” category, so it is worth noting that at the time, my mother was the grand old age of 32.

Because it was an afternoon comp, played during work and school hours, the Newport Stars’ first season passed by without me witnessing a solitary game. But my mum assures me that I did not miss much. She and her cohorts were a bunch of first-timers who had barely even handled a netball prior to taking to the court, and the results fell accordingly. However, she notes that over the first season there was a definite improvement in the players’ ball skills and teamwork. They decided to play another season, but the demands of managing their time during daylight hours meant that their second season would be played in the tougher, more serious Wednesday evening comp.

It turned out that the teams scheduled for the first match of the evening were required to install the netball rings. On the first night of the new season, my dad and I were asked to fetch the poles and rings prior to play commencing. The poles, surprisingly weighty, were stored across the road in a dank old council building, which an old sign indicated was once a pigeon racing club. Lighting for the night matches was supplied by two inadequate floodlights which sat atop an old wooden telegraph pole beside the court. The corners of the court were bathed in darkness more so than light; the reserve beyond, stretching out to the old timber yard, was a pitch black no-go zone.

As the ‘GS’ on her bib indicated, my mum was the team’s goal-shooter. She was by no means tall, but her accuracy had improved markedly, courtesy of a makeshift practice ring which dad had installed in the backyard. The team was essentially the same group of mums from the first season, but with one important difference: a seventeen year-old schoolgirl named Lyn, who was the much younger sister of defender Marlene, was recruited to fill a vacancy. In their very first evening game, Lyn played in the centre and revealed herself to be a ‘gun’ netballer, her natural fitness propelling her up and down the court, her enthusiasm proving infectious to her older teammates.

The Newport Stars amazed their families, and themselves, by storming through the season and reaching the finals. The only team to defeat them – thrash them, really – was a group of seventeen year-olds called the Blue Wrens. At their first meeting, I was enthralled by the shortness of the Wrens players’ skirts and the startling length of their legs. I also noticed that they attracted a bunch of teenaged male groupies who supported them from the shadows, the lit ends of their cigarettes glowing in the dark night. Little did I know that in three years’ time hence, at the Langshaws Reserve netball courts in Altona North, I would be standing on the edge of the murky perimeter, my eyes chasing my first girlfriend while chased a netball about.

Mum’s team reached the grand final – and the resulting inevitable re-match with the undefeated Blue Wrens. The game was an exciting goal-for-goal thriller, played before an enthusiastic crowd of family and friends. On the sidelines, my dad was penalized for disputing a ref’s decision, to which he replied “What a load of bullshit! Aren’t I allowed to barrack?” The ref quickly shot back: “No!” The Newport Stars brought to the game a previously dormant physicality, and in the final quarter their younger opponents succumbed to nerves and wilted under the weight of expectation. For the first time, the Stars-Wrens match-up really did look like women playing against girls. My mum’s goal-shooting was peerless, and her good friend Chris, the team’s goal-keeper, dominated the Wrens’ tall, star (and leggy) goal-shooter.

But on grand final night, the biggest star in the Newport Stars constellation was young Lyn. She was dynamic, running herself ragged to all corners of the court. It transpired that she and all of the Wrens players were in the same year at school, but Lyn was uninterested in being a part of their ‘in’ crowd. My mum later explained to me that Lyn was determined to ‘prove a point’ to them all. And prove a point, she certainly did. Post match, the players and their families celebrated at the nearby Strand Hotel. They toasted the Newport Stars, toasted victory, and toasted their champion player Lyn, who was unable to attend as she had school exams the next morning.

The team never again took to the court. Mum hung up her netball bib, bowing out of the sport on the high of a premiership win. Only a few years later the competition itself was no more. The local council sold the old pigeon club, and it was demolished and re-developed. Yes, the Armstrong Reserve looks the same as many other suburban parks. The light post has long since been removed, but the netball court still offers a vague hint of what was once a thriving local netball community. There was no premiership photo, nor medallions placed around the players necks, but I will never forget the time my mum was a grand final winner with the mighty Newport Stars. And talking to mum recently about it all, I know that she won’t forget either.

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

To return to The Footy Almanac home page click HERE

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE