Dear Coach Assistant

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This picture describes how happy I was when I first started playing netball. I was really good at it too. I qualified for all the rep teams outside of school and in school. I even got to go in a plane and play against countries like Fiji (I can’t remember the others) – it was exciting.

We had a really good coach and I really liked her. I loved being dropped off a little early for afternoon practice by mum because she had to go to work (split shifts). We played at the Tallebudgera indoor sports centre. People might remember it from the late 1970’s – yeah I’m giving hints about you.

Being dropped off meant I got extra time on the outside courts to myself. You learnt about this little ritual of mine didn’t you?

You were an old guy who always came along with my coach – but in a different car. The car was white. You were short, fat and had sparse white hair. I’m not sure what your relationship was with Ms C but you were always hanging around, helping her out with netballs and god knows what – I don’t remember.

I do remember that you too, started turning up earlier – just not at the exact time. You obviously didn’t want my mum to see you. There were other kids around but they were there for other sports and not so close to the netball courts. And there you were and there was me.

You acted nice to me but after Jack H, I was wary. I was only 11 or so now – but of course you know that. Kids that young do tend to think things will be different. They think that about so many things – why would filthy old men like you be any different?

I’m not sure how long it took for you to convince me to sit in the back of your car. Remember, you said you wanted to show me something? Your back seat footwells were literally full of magazines. Lots of naked people, lots of animals. It took me a few moments to realise these humans were fucking those animals.

Then your hands were on me. Inside me. I was devastated. You were just the same as him – you were just another filthy cunt. What the fuck do you think you were doing to my eleven year old self by trying to physically show me how that snake was inside that woman’s vagina? Or how those men were inside other animals?

I knew I had hurt Jack H the first time (after I couldn’t take it anymore) but this time I knew I broke one of your fingers – I heard it crack. To this day I have an almost gleeful rage when I remember that cracking sound.

Do you realise you ruined my hobby that day? Do you know you killed me a little? Do you know you instilled a violence inside me that would grow into a burning hot rage?

I wasn’t interested in netball anymore. But I was still being dropped off because I didn’t tell anyone what you had done. I often wonder how you explained your broken finger.

One day, other than risk being alone with you, I hid in a stairwell all afternoon and part of the night because I was feeling very very sick. I hid there suffering because of you. How did you feel when it turned out I had severe pneumonia and had a stay in hospital?

You damaged my future sex life, but you would have known that from the very beginning – and you didn’t care.

My parents and friends wondered why a girl who was so good at a sport simply walked away from it. The truth is I walked away from you.

How did you die? Was it painful? I fucking hope so. Because you know what?

Death becomes you.

Peace xx

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