The Wrong Lines
I was really only there to kill an hour.
The rugby did not start until later in the afternoon, and street hockey at Sydenham fitted neatly into the gap. I had been once before, enjoyed it, and an hour sitting beside a suburban basketball court watching Flow play the Chooks seemed a perfectly decent way to wait.
There was just one problem. It was hot.
The forecast was for 36 degrees, and Sydney Basketball Courts offered very little protection from it. I sat on a bench on the neighbouring court, side-on to the game and completely exposed to the sun. A couple of small trees provided enough shade for some spectators on the grass. One person had found an even smaller refuge, sitting in the narrow shadow cast by a basketball backboard and shifting position as the sun moved.
The organisers had put up pop-up gazebos, and the players were making regular trips towards them. Even early in the game, shifts seemed short. Players would skate hard for a minute or so, come off, drop to the ground and reach for water. More experienced players kept reminding everyone to drink.
I was hot just sitting there. At least I had the advantage of doing absolutely nothing.
The hockey itself was entertaining without being particularly remarkable. Flow won 14–10, and the game stayed close enough to keep things interesting.
Mostly, though, I found myself watching the way they moved.
This was my second time at Sydenham, but I was sitting in a different position. Last time I had been closer to one of the ends. This time I was around halfway, and from side-on I could see the longer movements up and down the court.
I am also starting to notice some of the differences between this and the ice hockey I have watched. Here the movement seems more continuous. The skaters carry their momentum differently, and the puck behaves differently too. Hit the fence around this court and it does not come flying back into play. Sometimes it just dies. Occasionally it gets stuck underneath.
But something else was bothering me.
The court was almost too good.
A lot of suburban basketball courts are rough. Some are basically tarmac with lines painted on them. This one was remarkably smooth. The rollerblades travelled easily across it, and the puck moved cleanly rather than bouncing and jumping across an uneven surface.
Then there were the lines.
Basketball markings I understood. These were different. Large oval markings stretched across the courts, and once I started looking at them properly I couldn't work out what they were doing there.
During one of the breaks between periods, I had enough time to pull out my phone and start searching.
Roller derby.
Suddenly the court made more sense.
The hockey had not simply found an unusually convenient suburban basketball court. Roller sport had already been deliberately accommodated there. The strange markings explained why this otherwise ordinary collection of courts worked so naturally for what I was watching.
A couple of families arrived during the morning, and some kids tried the game using borrowed equipment from the regular players. They weren't joining the organised match I was watching. They were there for the all-in game afterwards, where anyone interested could turn up and play.
I had come to Sydenham because I had an hour to fill before going somewhere else. An hour later, that was basically still what I had done.
I had watched some enjoyable hockey, got considerably warmer than necessary and learned what the strange lines on the court were for.
Not a bad way to kill an hour.
