Saturday at 8

I can see my breath. Float out, then disappear. My hands are cold and my face. I have gloves on and hands in puffer jacket pockets, a beanie on my head, and my thick gumboot socks on my feet. My eyes are cold too. But the sky is clear. 8am Saturday morning. July. Whistles blowing ring out into the still morning and get lost among the birds.

Go Lucy! Pass left, dodge into the circle, bounce pass, hands up, follow the ball into the hoop. Bare legs, singlet tops, goosebumps, even though they're running around. I'm cold, freezing. It's almost half time. Shivering something chronic. I'm wearing five layers on the top, singlet, thermal, t-shirt, polar fleece and puffer jacket. An two layers on the bottom, thermal tights and trackies. Cold. Cold. Cold. Freezing.

Its almost half time. They're still up by miles. They're good, they always win. I always watch, and it's mostly always cold. I can see the mountain from the courts, I look at that when I'm bored of watching the netball. Peeeeeeep.

Dad slips some cold coins into my gloved hand. I run off. Two large hot chocolates and one large flat white, from the red coffee van parked by court 11. They're warm, so, so warm. Then follows a careful balancing act back to court two.

Now it's wrapped in my hands, I can feel the warmth seeping through my gloves. I put it against my cheek. So good. I lean into dad, he's sipping his hot chocolate too. We're less cold. Slowly thawing from the inside out. It's sweet and warm and slips easily down my throat. I savour it, and I usually don't remember the third quarter. The hot chocolate has my full attention. The cup's getting lighter, and I'm getting warmer and fuller, a large hot chocolate in an eight year old's tummy. There's almost nothing left. I tip the cup all the way up, the silky marshmallow slips out into my mouth. I hold it there, savouring it, letting the warmth and sweetness linger. Lucy got another goal. The marshmallow dissolves. I'm warm.