IT HAS never happened. In all my years on these beloved islands, scattered by God into a coughing sea of sullen greys and peevish greens, my athleticism has never been admired by those judges of human flesh, who rest their own buttocks on shooting sticks in the squelching fields of competition. And I should tell you now that those years began when Britain still had an Empire and teabags were a distant dream.
Never have my nipples been the first to brush the white tape at the end of a race, where the red-robed lady mayor waits with medals of gold, silver and bronze, laid in boxes and attached to patriotic ribbons – and the winning parents purr, their eyes wet with the tears of triumph, though their nods of acknowledgement mock modesty.
And never have my ears blushed to the warm and unexpected words of the experts. “Well done, Charters. You seemed out of it as usual, but then your unmistakable, flat-footed figure loomed on the horizon – gasping for breath and wobbling. We thought you were a goner – until you tapped those reserves of inner strength for that final sprint. You should have seen Crump grimace with disbelief when you passed him. In fact, there was disbelief all round. Miracles still happen.”
But I do know, from considerable foot-rotting experience, that the true stamina, determination and courage belong not with the young boys and girls, whose trophies glow in the cabinets, but with their parents – those blue-veined stalwarts, who stand, muffled, along the whitewashed lines, drumming their wellied feet and, in gestures of supreme insincerity, clapping when the sons and daughters of other parents triumph.
But, on those fields of contest and familial rivalry, nothing moves faster than the excuse. It can barely wait for the starter’s pistol. “Well done, Oswald. Can’t take anything away from your success, but I’m afraid our Toby wasn’t really up for it today. Turbulent tummy, don’t you know. Must have been something that he ate – spent the whole night over the lavatory bowl. See you in Cleethorpes next Saturday. Hope that wicked easterly wind holds off. Don’t forget the thermoes!”
“Thermoes”, for those not accustomed to the gale-and-blizzard-bound arenas of British sporting endeavour, are the heat-squeezing undergarments favoured by the athletes, who carry out extraordinary stretching rituals in front of the spectators before each event, particularly those whose thighs are held in place by pink straps of awesome elasticity. You may, however, be more familiar with thermos flasks, essential items in the bags of parents who accompany their children to weekend sporting venues. You are encouraged to think that the tea, coffee, even soup, contained in these flasks is the same as that enjoyed at home. It isn’t. A light spicing of metal and chemicals permeates all such drinks served in the stained beakers screwed to the top of the flask. Lukewarm liquid is poured into these beakers, made of plastic so flimsy that they buckle to even the gentlest grip, causing a sticky overspill onto the gloved hand. Our son is 13, so my wife and I are veterans of sports days; football, swimming, rugby and hockey matches. From the sidelines, you learn that, to parents, all team games are really individual events. Ostensibly, their support might be general, but they really came to support their own offspring, while occasionally applauding the valiant efforts of team fellows – as a sop to diplomacy. After all, it’s your own flesh and blood out there, pounding the mud. Often, passion overwhelms the more temperate spirit. “Pass it to Nellie,” the beacon-faced mother bellows and the turf trembles. “Can’t they see her on the wing, poised to make one of her legendary assaults on goal. What a waste! Give it to Nellie next time! She’s quick for her size.”
It is the impossible job of the school’s sports master or the club’s coach, invariably dressed in a tracksuit topped with a bobble hat and an anorak of billowing blue nylon, to ensure that everyone is happy. But the degrees of enthusiasm differ greatly between the parents – some accepting defeat with equanimity while, to others, victory is everything. Yet only the philosophy of win, win, win is sure to make losers of us all, eventually. Until that day, though, we will stand on the touchline, nursing chilblains. “Run for glory – again and again,” we call, in our dreams.
LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www. liverpooldailypost.co.uk
