Actually I don't feel bad about not taking part in sporting activities - for one thing I'm not particularity competitive. The closest I got to competing was at school sports days. In particular I remember the year I captained the Tug-of-war team for my house and won. Still immensely proud (should probably put it on my CV) and props to the other members of the team that year ("Go Crusaders!")
Of course sports days involve 'sport' in the very loosest meaning of the word due to its lexicon of non-Olympic events. Although can you imagine how great it would be if the 2012 Olympics included the likes of the three-legged race, the wheel barrow race or the hat-scarf-and-bag race. I'd certainly pay to see that...
"and here comes Eugene Bolt making a brilliant show and... Oh no! his bean-bag has fallen off his head so he'll have to go back to the last hoop! What bad luck..."
Of course the cyclical nature of the Universe, coupled with the advent of parenthood, has brought me back to the sports day and it's new connotation - the parent race! At the very first one I attended I waited with anticipation for the call to come for all dads. Now, we all know the stories associated with the parents race, how some take it a little bit too serious, even going so far as to turn up in shorts and running spikes. And given my track record I knew I'd out of the running for a medal, but my son would expect me to at least have a go.
I made my way to the line eyeing up the mix of football, rugby and cricket players lining up with a feeling of last place looming. But that didn't matter. I'd take part and that'd be all. However, once I stood shoulder to shoulder on that starting line it felt different. Also all those eager little faces watching you, each knowing in their hearts that their Dad is the greatest and will fly down the track like roadrunner. Suddenly I felt I had to go for it! The whistle blew and we were off!
Now, some have blamed what happened next on the fact that I was running in jeans that day. And possibly some might generously say that it was foul play but let me tell you the truth. As soon as we started I could feel that I'd pushed myself too far. I was over balanced by about the third stride and couldn't pull myself back. With the screams and cheers of the whole school buzzing in my ears I stumbled and suddenly saw the ground coming up to meet me. I hit the sun baked earth with my left shoulder and did a full 180 degree turn, ending up flat on my back half-way down the track.
Amazingly for me I wasn't embarrassed. Instead I totally saw the funny side and lay there laughing, delusions of speed having finally left me. Of course my poor son was upset but as I later explained even in running spikes, Lycra outfit and with a good tail wind I'd never have been first. So I stood up, bowed to the kids and moved unceremoniously back to were the parents I knew were stationed.
It was only when I got there that I started to realise that I'd banged my shoulder quite hard. Concerned friends said I'd probably pulled a muscle so should keep moving it. I tried but it became increasingly harder to do so and more painful. By the end of the afternoon I was in no doubt that I'd done some serious damage to my shoulder and a visit to the hospital confirmed that I had in fact broken it!
I therefore made school history that day for not only being the first parent to break their collarbone at such an event, but also receiving a lifetime ban from the parent race (courtesy of my wife). That was six years ago and at every sports day since when they're touting for parental-competitors I just smile and point to my shoulder.
"Try Eugene Junior's dad instead. He should put on a good show..."
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