How the Matildas turned me into a delusional social soccer player: Mel Buttle

Playing sport may be fun for many but there is a lie that they tell us all – and we’re silly enough to believe them.

One long, lazy Queensland afternoon back in my formative years, I stumbled across a Superman movie on one of the five channels that was available then.

I was captivated, the pace at which I was smashing a bowl of Cheezels definitely slowed down. The credits had barely started to roll, and I’d already dug out a red coat of Mum’s, tied it around my neck, and even added some plastic shopping bags on my arms for extra lift. The preparation was complete, I made a beeline for the retaining wall in our back yard.

I remember thinking, to kick off proceedings I’ll just fly to the back fence for now.

I leapt outwards and upwards off said wall.

A split second later, I landed on the ground with a thump, my shins burned and tingled with excruciating pain. I was miffed. Surely after watching all that Superman I’d be able to fly – for a little while, at least.

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It’s that very same delusional thinking I’ve still not successfully outgrown that underpinned my decision to join a social soccer team.

Did you used to play, Mel? Nope. Oh, so you love running and want to learn to play? No again.

I’d been lured into this social soccer, or should I say football, by two main forces.

Firstly, I have a heartbeat so I’ve been inspired by the Matildas. Their relentless commitment to training and fitness at the exclusion of all other Toblerones is admirable.

That bit’s not for me, though, what is for me, is wearing matching tracksuits, drinking smoothies and being beloved by a nation.

Secondly, I signed up because all the girls on the team promised it would be fun, and I was foolish enough to believe them.

Mel Buttle fell for the ‘lie’ about having fun playing soccer.

Before the game in the group chat, everyone talked themselves down and said they’re “going to take it easy and just enjoy being back having a kick”. However, once we got in the change room on the night, I could feel a weird, competitive vibe. People were warming up, rubbing Deep Heat on their calves and even drinking water.

It reminded me of high school cross country, and the girl who swore she was going to walk is now suddenly whizzing by you at top speed.

Surely my teammates’ years of playing experience and knowledge of the rules is no match for me memorising all the Matildas’ names, following them on Instagram, and even buying a Chelsea jersey, as a nod to Sam Kerr.

I’m an ageing millennial so, with soccer, like anything else, I’m more than happy to start anywhere other than the bottom and work my way up.

I introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Mel, last time I played I was in Year 5,” I say, while scanning the room, wondering if there are any toilets with doors available.

“Where do you usually play?” Goggsy asks me. “I’ll go wherever we need someone,” I reply.

I wanted to say that I’d like to be put somewhere with limited running, and no chance of a ball to the teeth.

Also, no one seems to go by their name here. There’s Ape, Goggsy, Kloppy, Bones and Wally.

Goggsy puts me at left wing. I run more in the first half of the game than I have in my 20s and 30s combined. I chase down opposition players like a dog after a car, not really sure what I’ll do if I catch them.

The Matildas. Picture: Will Russell/Getty Images

Any notion that this would just be a bit of a casual muck around rapidly ceased not long after kick-off. Everyone is trying hard, apologising for mistakes and saying things like “good pressure, girls”.

Despite our efforts and my complete lack of understanding of the offside rule, throw-ins and corners, we go down 1-0.

I think I was more of a hindrance than a help to the girls but, as much as I got in their way, I think for at least some of the time, statistically I must’ve been in the opposition’s way too?

“How’d we pull up, girls?” Ape asked in the group chat. “My legs haven’t hurt this much since I fell off a retaining wall,” I reply.

  @melindabuttle

Originally published as How the Matildas turned me into a delusional social soccer player: Mel Buttle