The tension mounts as the athlete steps up to the starting line. Ready. Steady… A sheen of sweat forms on his face. Teeth clench. Muscles flex. Go! He takes off, thundering past the cheering crowd, evoking the spirit of those that have gone before him. Steve Ovett. Sebastian Coe. That bloke out of Chariots of Fire. As he crosses the finish line, the spectators roar.
Moments later he claims his prize – a Nobbly Bobbly ice lolly and a pound that is not to be spent on anything containing E-numbers.
It’s that time of the year again – that melting pot of snot, sweat and tears that is school sports day. The junior Lows’ big event is taking place this week and I’m already practising my parental mantra of ‘it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that counts’.
There’s nothing worse than lining up to watch your child participate in a sporting endeavour and the peace being spoiled by a parent on the sideline who is acting like her wee darling is about to take part in an Olympic qualifier.
Okay, that’s normally me. I’m sorry. I go with all the intention of maintaining a modicum of calm, magnanimous serenity and end up cheering (screaming like a banshee) and commiserating (roaring with disappointment) when the front half of the human wheelbarrow goes off in the wrong direction and crashes into the toilet tent.
It doesn’t help that the Low brothers have very different attitudes to sport. My youngest has the competitive spirit of, say, mud. He couldn’t care less if he doesn’t achieve world domination in the egg and spoon race. He never reached a giddy pinnacle of success in his short football career because every time a teammate went down after a tackle, he ran over, applied first aid and attempted to put them in the recovery position until the paramedics arrived. He’s a chilled-out homebody and his only chance of athletic stardom is if the International Athletics Federation introduces the new sport of sofa-surfing.
Then there’s my other son. Usain Bolt. He has the competitive drive of a professional athlete, hates losing, and puts his heart and soul into every match and competition. He works out strategies. He trains. He pushes himself. And as long as he doesn’t get signed for a premier football team or snapped up by the next big boy band (yes, we like to keep it real in this house) then he’s aiming for Commonwealth glory in 2018.
But back at the sports day, all that junior endeavour and tension pales in the face of the most dreaded aspect of all: the parents’ race. Or, as I like to call it, ‘The annual exercise in disappointing the kids.’
There’s always at least one Flo-Jo who shows up in full running gear and custom-made trainers and spends twenty minutes limbering up and mapping out the course. Just when the rest of us are trying to find someone to hold our coffees and cursing because we’ve forgotten to wear a sports bra again (well hello, back strain), Flo-Jo is up at the starting line being coached by the sports psychologist she brought along for support.
Someone really ought to have a word and tell her that it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that counts. Although, I do reserve the right to change this viewpoint should a sport be introduced that plays to my strengths.
Ready, Steady…
Shari Low, Sofa-Surfing Champion 2010.