It was my eldest’s first sports day this week, and not to brag (I am bragging), but against talented opponents (six randomly picked five-year-olds), she stormed to gold in the sack race.
Cheered? You should have heard me. In fact, come to think of it, you may have heard me. I’m afraid I am, it turns out, that dad. Well, why not? All the other parents may give sideways looks – aye, and my partner too – but come on now, how often do you find out your kid is basically Flo-Jo in a gunny bag?
It was grand, the race.
I can talk you through it if you want me to. I’ll stick the video up on YouTube or something later so you can watch it for yourself. It’s sporting drama of the highest order. You know when that Italian geezer came from nowhere to win the Olympic 100 metres in 2021? I mean, modesty prevents me from comparing a 30-metre reception class dash to that but for sure, others might see a passing resemblance…
I’m watching the footage again now – of my little one, I mean, not of Marcell Jacobs. She doesn’t make a promising start. When the gun (the whistle) goes, she’s mid-conversation with the girl in the lane next to her. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure her teacher Mrs Hurst has to shout at them both to start jumping.
No matter. Once she’s off, she’s really off; steady but not incendiary at first; finding her rhythm, moving up the field; into fourth, third; someone’s fallen! She’s second! She’s eating up the ground now; focus, power, precision; she’s like a kangaroo out there! She’s neck and neck with first; an epic battle unfolding before our eyes; the crowd sucks in its breath (it doesn’t), and they’re both over the line. Who’s won? There’s nothing in it! Is there photo-finish technology at this school? There’s not (why not?!).
Wait a sec, the officials – AKA: two year-six girls – are running over with the stickers. They’re giving gold to our little one. I have a suspicion they might have picked her because the other kid has already won the egg-and-spoon, but either way, their word is final. They’ve called it. Our little one’s won. She’s only gone and won. Where’s the podium? There isn’t one. All the same, what a magnific…
There’s a pull on my T-shirt. My partner hisses at me to sit down. So, I do.
I get my phone out. I’m looking up where the 2036 Olympics might be held. I’m spluttering outrage at what I’m reading: how can something like skateboarding be an Olympic event but the sack race isn’t? Sort it out, International Olympic Committee!
Never mind.
Gold is still gold. Needless to say, whatever the neighbours (or social services) might think, all those hours I spent training her in the back garden were clearly worth it. Yeah, I know, one time it was raining, but that wouldn’t have stopped Daley Thompson getting out there on Christmas Day, would it now?
I’m jesting, of course. Except, also, I’m sort of not – because I was pretty chuffed when I first heard she’d be racing other kids.
I was reading the other week about how competitive sports days are a dying creature. Fifty-seven per cent of schools are said to hold non-competitive versions these days. The idea is that, if no one wins, no one loses and no one ends up feeling excluded or getting upset.
Which seems reasonable enough for a cohort of five-year-olds.
Except, I don’t know, doesn’t competition – kept friendly, fun and essentially inconsequential – have benefits even at that age? Doesn’t it teach resilience, respect, fair play and the value of hard work? Not to get too Joseph Conrad about it, but doesn’t it, ultimately, help kids embrace the fact that life, quite often, is one crushing defeat after another anyway so *thumbs up* enjoy it for what it is?
Instead of shielding children from competition because they might not win, shouldn’t we be teaching them that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with losing as long as they’ve given their all and they’ve enjoyed it?
I should know, I reckon. After the sack race comes the hurdles.
I’m rubbing my hands; imagining a double; if she gets two gold stickers, I’m saying to the dad next to me, maybe I’ll have her T-shirt framed and hung in the hall.
Alas. In a field of five, our little one – how do I put this tactfully? – she finishes almost in the top four. But as she ambles across the line with a smile on her face, I couldn’t be prouder. Who needs an Olympian in the family anyway?
