You know, Irene Van Dyke is thirty-nine. At the top, she’s had her turn. Surely it’s now time for her to go. Everyone says so. She’s past it, they say. And how could they not be in the know.

Fans, armchair critics, bloggers, media alike, there we all were, watching her for all these years plying her trade. Experts the lot of us, we are. Dutifully we followed the rise and rise of the South African born 6ft3” superstar. First as she made her way playing for her Country of birth, then for her adopted Country, New Zealand.

She’s one of us now. So much so that no one would dare question her kiwiness. Oh yeah, we loved her all right. We still do. But, you know, she’s thirty-nine now. At the top, she’s had her turn. Surely it’s now time for her to go. Everyone says so. She’s past it, they say. And how could they not be in the know.

She was for so long the high priestess of netballing sharpshooters. A gunslinger of the highest order. If you had Irene in your team, losing was rarely contemplated.

How could it be? After all, the lady with the winning personality and outrageous netballing talent regularly shot with a ninety-five percent success rate. No one else ever got near her. She had them beat every time.

At such a decrepit age, how could anyone possibly compete at an international level? Surely the old girl should be put out to pasture quick smart. We all saw her in her prime. Back in her heyday of the mid to late nineties, gliding in and out of the shooting circle with a graceful ease with which only a youngster achieve. Her speed once in the circle was that of lightning fast reflexes and speed faster than a bullet. She had no peer.

But, then, you know, she’s thirty-nine now. At the top, she’s had her turn. Surely it’s now time for her to go. Everyone says so. She’s past it, they say. And how could they not be in the know.

Then she came to little ol New Zealand. Pretty much, she went straight into the Silver ferns. They even improved her game there for a while. Many of us thought it was not possible for Van Dyke to take her game to new heights. But she proved us all wrong. We didn’t mind admitting that. For many sportspeople successfully succeed in performing at the highest level in their early thirties.

So, we thought the mistress of the hoops would go on for a few years before calling it quits. Surely she would know when her best before date was.

We trusted her. And this is how she repays us: by playing on until she is thirty-nine.

And what’s more, she has publically contemplated going on until the next World Champs. Outrageous. The nerve of that woman.

What will she come up with next? Maybe that she actually enjoys the camaraderie of being a member of a team, and that she finds the challenge of top class sport intoxicating. How dare she. Lock her up this very instance. This kind of shocking behaviour in our fine Country just will not do.

For, you know, Irene’s thirty-nine now. At the top, she’s had her turn. Surely it’s now time for her to go. Everyone says so. She’s past it, they say. And how could they not be in the know.

Hey, it’s not like she could possibly know how her own body is holding up to the rigours of top flight Netball. She should just ask the rest of us. We know what’s best for Irene. I mean, all that tough physical exertion that she goes through day after day- she couldn’t possibly understand how her body is coping. Not to mention how difficult it must be for her to ascertain how she is withstanding the mental strain of international Netball.

Just ask us Irene, we know what’s best for you. Full of helpful advice, we are.

And, anyone, just show us one example of a sportsman or woman that has ever played past their early thirties.

Ah ha, I knew it, you can’t, can you?

There was the great Richard Hadlee; retired by thirty. Don’t you dare suggest Barbara Kendall, either; retired by thirty, too.

See, nobody does it. So why should Irene? Much better that she goes with the flow, fits in with the expectations of societal norms. And lest we forget; there is certainly no room in today’s world for the individual selfishly living life in a way that she enjoys and makes her feel contented.

For, you know, Irene’s thirty-nine now. At the top, she’s had her turn. Surely it’s now time for her to go. Everyone says so. She’s past it, they say. And how could they not be in the know.

Thirty-nine. Get that? Thirty-nine. Yep, that’s right, thirty-nine. And there was Irene last week, at the World Champs, lumbering around in her old age trying to keep up with the youthfulness of her opposition.

And did she succeed? Well, hell no. She shot 34 from 35. That’s a miserable ninety-seven percent success rate.

With that kind of wayward shooting she may as well give the game away.

Just think how much better off the Silver Ferns would have been without Irene.