The Rediscovery of Joy: How a Rookie Floorball Match Taught Me to Play Again
There’s something profoundly liberating about doing something you’re terrible at. I mean, truly awful. Like, laughably bad. That’s exactly where I found myself on a balmy Perth evening, standing in a gymnasium with a floorball stick in hand, feeling like a fish out of water—or more accurately, a labrador chasing its own tail. But here’s the thing: it was one of the most joyful experiences I’ve had in years.
Let me back up. As a working mother of three, my life had become a Sisyphean grind of lunchboxes, laundry, and bedtime routines that seemed to stretch into eternity. Fun? What was that? Between work deadlines, toddler tantrums, and the constant mental load of keeping everything afloat, I’d forgotten what it felt like to simply play. And then, floorball happened.
The Allure of the Pointless
What makes this particularly fascinating is how floorball, a sport I’d never heard of until my daughter started playing, became my gateway to rediscovering joy. Floorball is like hockey’s laid-back cousin—played indoors, with knee-high boards and a ball that zips around like it’s in a pinball machine. Watching my daughter’s games, I was struck by how much fun the girls were having. Their laughter, their energy, their sheer delight in the chaos of the game—it was infectious.
Personally, I think what many people don’t realize is how much we adults need that kind of pointlessness in our lives. For years, I’d been measuring my time in six-minute increments, squeezing productivity out of every moment. Floorball, with its lack of structure and my complete lack of skill, was the antithesis of that. It was gloriously, beautifully pointless.
The Rookie Experience: A Masterclass in Humility
Our first match was a disaster. I mean, epic. We showed up with no sticks, pyjama-clad kids in tow, and a collective lack of strategy that would make a kindergarten soccer team look like professionals. We tripped over our own feet, stole the ball from our teammates, and managed to score a goal for the opposing team. At one point, our goalie leapt over the ball in enthusiasm—only to kick it into our own net.
One thing that immediately stands out is how humbling it was. Here I was, a grown woman with a career and three kids, feeling like a complete novice. But what this really suggests is that humility is a gift. It reminds us that we don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it. In fact, sometimes being bad at something is what makes it so freeing.
The Physicality of Joy
A detail that I find especially interesting is how floorball reconnected me with my body. As I chased the ball, panting and sweating, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years. My mind, usually cluttered with worries about climate change, interest rates, and microplastics, was suddenly focused on the burn in my legs, the ache in my arms, and the furious thudding of my heart. It was a reminder that my body wasn’t just a vehicle for productivity—it was a source of joy.
If you take a step back and think about it, this is something we often lose as adults. We disconnect from our physical selves, prioritizing mental tasks over physical experiences. Floorball forced me to be present, to feel, to exist in the moment. And that, I think, is why it was so transformative.
The Power of Community
Another aspect that’s often overlooked is the communal nature of team sports. Assembling our ragtag team of mothers and colleagues was no small feat, but it was worth every awkward recruitment conversation. There’s something deeply bonding about failing spectacularly together. When one of my teammates joked about her pelvic floor giving out mid-game, we all laughed—not just because it was funny, but because it was real.
From my perspective, this is what’s missing in so many adult lives: a sense of shared experience, of being part of something that doesn’t require perfection. We’re so used to curating our lives, presenting polished versions of ourselves, that we forget the beauty of imperfection. Floorball gave us permission to be messy, to laugh at ourselves, to simply be.
The Long Game
Our team still languishes at the bottom of the ladder. We rarely train, and our matches are more comedy than competition. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve started practicing in my backyard, stealing moments between dinner and bedtime to hit the ball against the deck. Through the windows, I see my kids, their voices muffled by the double-glazed glass, and I feel a sense of balance I haven’t had in years.
What this really suggests is that joy doesn’t have to be grand or time-consuming. It can be found in the smallest moments—the scrape of a stick, the thunk of a ball, the trill of crickets in the evening air. Floorball taught me that play isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. And in a world that constantly demands our productivity, that’s a lesson worth holding onto.
Final Thoughts
Looking back at the photo from our first game, I see flushed faces, sweaty hair, and radiant smiles. We look like women who’ve had fun—real, unfiltered, unapologetic fun. And that, I think, is the ultimate takeaway. Life doesn’t have to be a relentless grind. Sometimes, all it takes is a ball, a stick, and the willingness to be terrible at something.
So, here’s my challenge to you: find your floorball. Find that thing that’s pointless, that’s messy, that reminds you what it feels like to play. Because in a world that’s constantly asking you to be more, do more, achieve more, sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply enjoy more.
