It was a Saturday morning in early February, and the netball courts at the local sports complex were already buzzing with noise. Our team, the Falcons, was playing against the top side in the division, and we knew we had to start strong. I was centre, responsible for directing the first passes and calling the set plays. We had practised a specific hand signal the week before — a quick tap on the shoulder meant I would lead a drive into the goal circle. As the umpire blew the whistle to start the quarter, I glanced towards the sideline where my best friend was sitting with an ice pack on her ankle. That split second of distraction was all it took.

When I turned back to the court, my teammate Mia was already tapping her shoulder impatiently. I saw the signal too late. Instead of driving forward, I hesitated, and the pass went to the opposition. In a fast-flowing game, that moment of confusion cost us. The other team scored off the turnover, and I felt a hot flush of embarrassment spread across my face. I could hear our coach yelling from the sideline, but her words were lost in the noise of the crowd. I tried to refocus, but the damage was done. We spent the rest of the quarter playing catch-up, and the scoreboard showed a four-goal gap by the first break.

During the huddle, my teammates didn't say much, but the silence was heavier than any argument. Mia just looked at me and said, 'You missed the tap.' I nodded, not trusting my voice. The match continued, and we fought hard, but we lost by two goals. Walking off the court, I felt like I had let everyone down. The worst part was that I knew I could have seen the signal if I hadn't been distracted. My friend on the sideline was fine — she had just twisted her ankle — but my mind had wandered when it needed to be sharp.

We spent the rest of the quarter playing catch-up, and the scoreboard showed a four-goal gap by the first break.

After the game, Coach Davis called me aside. She wasn't angry, but her voice was calm and direct. She said, 'In netball, every signal matters. On the court, you have to be present. Not ninety-nine per cent — one hundred per cent.' She didn't mention my friend or the sideline. She didn't have to. I knew exactly what she meant. Her words stayed with me as I packed my bag and walked to the car with Mum. I didn't say much on the drive home. I was replaying the moment in my head, wishing I could rewind and just keep my eyes on the court.

That night, I lay in bed thinking about all the signals I might have missed in my life — not just in sport. The way my brother's voice went flat when he was upset, the subtle signs my teacher gave before a test, even the small clues my friends dropped when they needed help. I realised that being distracted was a habit I needed to break. It wasn't just about netball; it was about paying attention to the world around me. The next morning, I wrote a list in my notebook: 'Watch the court, listen to the tone, notice the little things.'

The lesson from that Saturday has stayed with me for years. I still play netball, but now I make sure I am fully in the moment during games. I also try to carry that awareness into conversations and schoolwork. Missing that one signal taught me that being present is a choice. It's not always easy, especially when life gets busy or noisy, but I have learned that the cost of looking away can be higher than I expect. Sometimes the smallest cues carry the biggest messages, and the best way to catch them is to keep my eyes and ears open, ready for the next tap on the shoulder.