The school sports day,
a yearly ritual in which evolved
over the years from spoons and eggs,
hard boiled, once glued, often dropped
on the dangerous gravel or if fortunate perhaps
dog littered grass,
sometimes obliterated
and tears and tantrums flowing soon after
as someone never finished the course, to
complex games
of hierarchical displays of ever growing
hormone driven adulthood.
If wet, held indoors
or simply delayed a day or two,
to frustrated parents dismay
and then the crushing pain of unprepared running,
shouting encouragement from the sidelines, batons being exchanged
like silk cigarettes up and down behind the hastily built
spectator area.
Teachers holding heads high in pride
or being deep in despair which would follow through
to the following year in the
vain hope
that the twenty
pound bet would one day come their way. The Queen smiling
through the other side of the coin which is tossed to decide
lane order.
Spoons and Eggs, 100 yard dash, high jump
in which the head catches the couldn’t care less student
puffing and dragging on the last fag of the hour
or at least before the fastest kid
wins the race.
The javelin, a shot too far
Long Jump, thoughts of
Lynn Davies and Daley Thompson
crowding my head as I struggle to make a sizeable mark.
The audience only really interested when it is their child
performing in the gladiator style punishment ring.
The cheers and the ever increasing catcalls,
flow as freely as the parents supposed home-made tea,
small hipflasks of beer or stronger
as they tell their own that no matter what they are
proud
of them
whilst secretly hoping to get one over on the man sat next
to his wife whose keen daughter, running so fast, is the apple of his eye.
Running in the mile, running through mire it seems
As I push myself round four laps trying to be the next Steve Ovett.
Trained hard, played hard, finished second,
my heart busting at the seams harder than when I outran all
just the once, even the great and powerful Peanut.
At least my running was better than my diving
in that other great sports event, the yearly swim, at least
though I went and did it.
From first sports day in which we played on the grass
or concrete and rubbed our friends noses
far too close to the remains of some after-thought left
by the Dalmation that used to get a thousand kids
petting it each home time, to the mental anguish, the frustration,
the overall feeling of once in five years being the absolute
best in your year as you cross the line
first.
The school sports day
was there to remind you
of the pecking order, of watching your best pal wheeze
and chuff his guts up round a 400 yard course
as you keep a tight hold of his cigarette which smoulders and burns against your thumb and finger.
Of cheering on the girl you fancied, even though she cheered
on for another,
of keeping score on your deadliest rival
who once all this was over
you would share stories of races won and lost
over a carefully hidden pint in The Fox, catching the eye of the teacher
who made twenty pounds on the back of your efforts
and who buys you another piece of teenage black gold as a thank you.
The school sports day
excruciating, embarrassing, excellent, just the once
a winner, doesn’t matter that it never happened again
as I recall never having my nose too close to the
remains of the dog’s dinner, never being the one to try
gluing my spoon to the egg
of holding a lit cigarette for my friend as he threw up over the
brand new sports coat
which had been dropped from the top row of seats,
of watching the girl throw better than I remember
Tessa Sanderson doing
and throughout wondering just how the teachers knew on which
one of us to bet.
Ian D. Hall