The humble (or not so humble) sports exchange

Do you know what I've been thinking about lately and really, really missing? School sports exchanges. In the three weeks leading up, that was all our hockey team would talk about, 'the college match' as our coach would call it. We'd talk what players they had, what players played for the NZ age group team, who played for the regional team (who was and... wasn't good, who we thought was over-hyped). We'd talk game plans, strategies, who we needed to mark out of the game. We wondered who would be billeted with who when we went away, what family we'd stay with, whether they'd be good cooks or would just order takeaways. (Would we be grilled for our strategies and game plans, and who to watch out for? Which we definitely wouldn't say).

The level of excitement in those weeks was unbelievable. Through. The. Roof. We'd complain about the long drive in the rickety vans. But really the drive was the best. We'd sing until our voices were hoarse, and until we'd fallen fast asleep from the adrenaline wearing off.

The buzz at the turf grew and grew at trainings, until we'd definitely worn that conversation to the bone. But at school we'd still see each other around and say, 'are you ready for tomorrow?' and the other person would start talking a million miles an hour about all the things we were excited for, and had already talked about again and again. But were still just as exciting.

Then there was the early morning wake up, having to be at school at 6:45am. Far too early for most people. We'd be crowed into the old stadium at school, wrapped in blankets, puffer jackets, trackies and hoodies. Until the teachers came along and told us to look respectable in our uniforms. We'd get in the van and put it all back on again anyway, (then sometimes, or not, take the forbidden hoodies and puffer jackets back off when we got there). You could feel the excitement in the stadium trying to get out the doors, you could feel the buzz before you were even in there. It was like confetti, on the cusp of bursting everywhere. There were bags of footballs, netballs, hockey balls everywhere. There were hockey sticks and rugby boots scattered. There was the general smell of shoes and shin pads rising up with the dew on those cold, wintery mornings. Usually we would never want to be at school at that hour, but it was different. There was a calm outside, only the groundsmen walking around, keeping busy. There weren't any year 9 screams. There was just a hustle and bustle near the stadium, like a little beating heart, a little bird starting to stretch before it flew.

The build up to these matches was almost more exciting than the game itself. But the game was pretty exciting. Once we'd got there, flopped out of the bus, then perked up at the mention of pizza in their school hall. The excitement from the past three weeks had started to bubble up again. We got billeted, nervous at first, then soon settled into our little room for the night. Sometimes we got to stay with a team mate, other times we got billeted by ourself, generally the seniors who were supposed to be the more mature ones, able to more easily make friends with the opposition we were staying with. Soon enough they were our new friends, who we still talk to and see at tournament and cheer absurdly loudly for, when they're playing on the turf before our semi-final.

When we finally got to the actual game, we tried to remember plans and strategies and who we were meant to mark out of play. We played with so much guts, you'd probably be surprised that we actually managed to drag ourselves off the turf without having to be carried off. Last year we won all four of our college matches, which topped off five years of high school hockey nicely.

The van ride back to New Plymouth was generally loud for about 30 minutes until we were completely shattered from hopping off the turf, straight to the school for lunch, then into the van for the ride home. We'd sing. Then crash. Sound asleep for most of the ride home.

Now I just look back over my shoulder with longing.