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This is a question School Sports Day

At some point in the distant past, someone at my school had built a large concrete tank behind the sheds and called it a swimming pool. Proud of this, they had a "Swimming Sports Day" in which everyone had to participate, even those who couldn't swim (they got to walk across the shallow end of the tank).

This would probably have been OK if the pool hadn't turned a deep opaque green the night before due to lack of maintainance. Even the school sports stars didn't want to go near the gloopy mess in the pool. We were practically pushed in. I'm sure some of the younger kids never surfaced again and the non-swimmers looked petrified.

Tell us your sports day horrors.

(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 11:13)
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third leg
Remember the three-legged race?

Aged about 15 I got tied to the best looking girl in the year for an inter-school sports day. She gave me a jolly stern talking to about tactics and technique, and sure enough we crossed the finishing line first. She was tremendously excited. Unfortunately, so was I.

I don't know what came over me. It must have been the combination of bondage, balmy summer weather, her severe but enthusiastic will to win, or the electricity generated by our thighs pumping together in white-clad wonder.

Whatever. My dad still has a picture of me being presented with my winner's rosette, huge grin plastered on my face, a beautiful girl on my leg and a stonking boner to boot. Cheers!
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 16:45, Reply)
Early eighties eductation-reforms-gone-mad sports day they introduced "technology" into an event.
They had a selection of balls and a selection of bats. You chose a ball and a bat and hit it as far as you could. First contestant picks up the golf ball and tennis racket and spangs it clear out of the school sportsfield and a few hundred yards down the street.

The final contestant was left with a hockey stick and a medicine ball.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 13:06, Reply)
Ah....the swimming gala...
...at Upper School.
In which various pimply herberts competed for glory in the piss infested, nadger redducing over chlorinated puddle that was Sudbury Upper School's pool.

Anyway, we would have been around 15.
I was too piss poor a swimmer to be let near the events but my mate Eddie was.
Finest back stroker the year.
first up in the afternoon were the girl's events. 10 o so events featuring the finest physical specimens of teenage femalehood that the school could offer. IN SWIMSUITS.

Then the boy's events started. First up - backstroke. Most of the lads competing had wisely opted to wear swimming cossies in the 'baggy shorts'. Not Ed.
He was wearing skin tight Speedo's.
So the whole YEAR could see his erection straining at his speedos.

The backstroke event started.
Then had to be restarted as all competitors bar one collapsed laughing at some wag shouting 'that's not fair Eddie's using a rudder!'.

For weeks after he was know as 'rudder'.
Even to this day, 15 years later he still is occasionally addressed as Rudder.
Mind you not by me.
He gets violent if you do that.
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 19:13, Reply)
It was a perfect day: a throbbing sun beat down but a stiff breeze lifted the fringes of the sixth-form girls' skirts.
The air was thick with the heady waft of fresh-cut grass. An ice-cream van parked up beside the tennis/netball/hockey/football/bulldogs court was selling off all its Orange and Lemon Sparkles for 10p each because there were so many smiling parents and red-faced, sticky-chinned (behave!) children to cater to. Groups of lithe, lanky girls wearing bust-enhancing sashes fanned themselves with entry forms and exercise books, while squint-eyed boys lolled flushing and bed-haired in the acrid white dust that lined the pockmarked footy pitches. Year 8s swung from the crossbars, year 9s tried to knock them off with rubber coits. Teachers pretended to scold them, but they too were really more concerned with loosening their ties, slipping off their brogues and grabbing a lolly with their respective forms. Every now and then a lazy bee would streak by, too chuffed with the wholesome spectacle to bother stinging anyone.

And then some monger chucked a javelin before the whistle and it went through this speccy kid's neck. Fucked everything right up, but it did make the front page of the Sheffield Star. The word 'HORROR' was involved, as I recall.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 17:42, Reply)
Gentlemen, we can rebuild him . . . we have the technology.
On my first sports day at Primary School, I came up with the fantastic tactic of running like the fastest man I knew. Unfortunately that man was "Steve Austin, Astronaut - A man barely alive" or
the Six Million Dollar Man, who ran so fast that they had to show him running in slow motion. To my five year old mind though, I knew if I ran in slow motion I would leave everyone standing...

I didn't. I came last, but I recall I still got a lollipop from a sympathetic but slightly smirking teacher.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 12:34, Reply)
Skive
Spent sports day in the upper sixth having a shag in the woods above the field. I came last.
(, Tue 4 Apr 2006, 18:48, Reply)
horrendous pants
our school had a deeply unsexy 70's swimming pool and changing rooms, where the girls' cubicles cleverly backed onto the boys'. there is nothing like wrestling tights onto wet legs only to look up and see a row of about 15 boys grinning at your 11 year old chest (which looked exactly like theirs).

anyway, one day the archaic lighting system was down and we had to change in the dark. freed from the perving of the adolescent boys, it was still horribly difficult getting changed in the dark. laura sinclair, one of the girls in my class, part time fool and dithering champion for the uk, kept blundering into my cubicle. i kept throwing her out.

after the lesson, i returned to my black hole of calcutta cubicle and found laura's blouse and skirt on my floor. i gave them to her and got changed. on the way out, i saw one of my white socks from trampolining under the bench. i picked it up and stuffed it into my bag.

as we were all putting our shoes on, we could hear shouting from the cubicle. eventually the girls' teacher, a butch bull dyke who could model for prison barbers with hip measurements in treble figures, pounded out.

"has anybody seen laura sinclair's knickers?" she asked wearily and disbelievingly.

for a moment, i laughed with everyone else. then i froze as i remembered the "sock" i had found. i fought a battle with my conscience and, sadly for my reputation, lost. i opened my bag and pulled out laura sinclair's knickers.

"er - i have," i said feebly, handing them to the bull dyke. she just looked at me. then she said heavily,

"rachel, i'm very worried about you." and lumbered off with the pants [probably to spend many a happy lunch hour sniffing them].

it was totally horrendous.
(, Tue 4 Apr 2006, 16:19, Reply)
Not Sports Day
But school sport nonetheless.

I went to a comprehensive where football and rugby were the big sports. The highlight of the sports year was the annual match against one of the posh public schools in Newcastle and this one year, even thought I wasn't playing, I was determined to help my school win over the posh bastards - by any means.

So on the day of the match I snuck into the opposing teams changing rooms and doctored the grease they plaster themselves with.

(Explanation - It's bloody cold where I come from during the winter so the rugger lads used to have tubs of thick grease that they'd use to give their bare skin some protection form the cold.)

Anyway, I mixed the grease in the tubs with some muscle liniment called "Firey Jack". It's a kind of deep-heat treatment for muscle strains and, after a few minutes, burns like hell.....

So the opposing team eventually arrived, got changed and slathered themselves liberally with my concoction. Then they ran onto the pitch and the match started - and quickly descended into chaos!

At first they just looked uneasy. Then started rubbing themselves. Then, when they realised that something was up with the whole team, panic set in.

The guy I can remember the best was one of their props. He'd ripped his shorts off and was frantically rubbing his groin and moaning:

"Me plums, Christ me plums are on fire..."

And so the match was abandoned. The culprit was quickly caught (Grassing bastards!) and I was hauled in front of the headmaster for a severe beating and threatened with expulsion.

It was worth it though just to see that posh kid screaming about his plums.......

Cheers
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 11:27, Reply)
Run, Forest, Run............!!!
There was much controversy at our School house team sports day back in the early 1980's when they decided to introduce the 'Special Achievers Race', which basically meant that the school 'tards all had a chance of doing something worthwhile in the sports day.

This was really opposed by Mark, our ultra-competitive House Team captain, who viewed this with immense disgust, thinking that our resident House team spanner who I will name 'Derren' will cock-up our reasonable chances of walking away with a few medals.

Anyway, day of said race, the 'spakka 200m' was due to be the last race (so they could get a special round of applause at the end). Derren hadn't bothered bringing his PE kit - not one piece of it! Therefore, in front of the whole School, parents, governors etc., he had to run in the cliched vest, underpants and his shoes...which just happened to be a pair of grubby glam-rock style platform boots that would have been out of fashion in 1976, never mind the North Of England in the early '80s!

"Captain Fanastic" Mark was fuming!! We really thought he was going to explode as his face was bright red (more than normal - he was a proper ginge!). We were within a few points of winning the sports day, all hopes of victory resting in the platformed shoes of our resident spazmo in his vest and undies. We were doomed....

Race starts, and he's off like a feckin' whippet!! And we mean storming. We'd seen nothing like it every jaw dropped, he was running like his life depended on it. Hardly able to even stand in his platform shoes, his skinny legs and arms all over the place, but was winning by a country mile! Okay, strictly he should have been disqualified for going into other lanes, but not even the most pedantic schoolmaster was going to fault this effort.

Last 50m of the race, we were all at the finishing line, noise from the assembled masses building to a crescendo...and he was speeding up! The sight of Derren running towards us with his arms waving like a drowning man, tongue flapping to one side, and demented smile on his face, will stay with me forever!! What made it even funnier was "Captain Fantastic" Mark, lost in the moment, screaming at the top of his voice "RUN, RUN, FASTER YA SPAKKY CNUT, FASTER C'MONNNNN!!!!!" punching the air, face almost purple, veins popping from the side of his ginger nut. Screaming so loud that obviously every person with half a mile could hear his words of...erm....'encouragement'!

He crossed the winning line with time to spare, and just kept running around the track again in a mad lap of hounour. All of us trying to catch him to celebrate as he ran off. He won us the sports day, and we were going to carry him shoulder-high with our trophy as an honour, but when we did catch up with him, the excitement occasion had overcome him and he was erm....damp to say the least!
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 12:16, Reply)
Can't believe I forgot this one...
I shat on Richard's back in a piggy back race.
(, Mon 3 Apr 2006, 8:31, Reply)
Streaker!
Quite unusually for such a low key event as a primary school sports day, one year we had a streaker.

Seats were set up alongside the one running track on our field, with pretty much every "sport" being running, occassionally with obstacles such as putting a rubber hoop on your head whilst running, or pretending you cared about recieving a sticker after running - all very enthralling. We were luckily given a respite from our boredom however, as some plucky young lad from one of the houses whose back gardens were seperated from the field by a solitary fence. Cue much chaos as hundreds of little kids stand laughing whilst naked child ran in a frenzy all oer the field and down the track with a grin of pure joy on his face. His mothers efforts to stop this entailed her jogging all of 10 metres before stopping and realising that her 20-a-day tar lungs couldn't handle it, thus resulting in the streaking lasting an above average 20 minutes.

The only slightly worrying part was the few parents who decided to video it, perhaps to take to their Glitter inspired nonce dungeon.
(, Sun 2 Apr 2006, 21:05, Reply)
Damning with faint praise
At primary school, Sports Day was a veritable dream for the sticker fanatic. Every race you participated in, you were awarded with a little bit of sticky paper joy. These encompassed many aspects of the praise spectrum, from "First!" to "Brilliant!" to "Champion!".

The only ones I ever got? "Good Effort" and "I Tried Hard". They might as well have made me a hat saying "CHUBBY BUT ENTHUSIASTIC: Please take pity". Sigh.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 11:39, Reply)
Discus
The discus landed a good few metres beyond those of my fellow competitors. I was victorious!

I was mobbed from all sides by women and gays. They grasped at my nether regions. Some of the younger pupils nibbled at my loose skin with their milk teeth, causing me to emit a satisfied cooing sound.

This went on for some time. Even the teachers got in on the action. Mrs. Hall, the maths teacher, was delighted to find that I had successfully managed to erect a perpendicular, while Mrs. Watson, my science teacher, was keener than ever to take me for a biology practical. The IT teacher taught me to transfer my floppy to a hard drive and I tried to plug my joystick into her GUI interface. The head of Geography, Mr. Clarke, showed me the warmth of his gulf stream as he deposited his smooth sediment in my estuary. The trainee Music teacher fingered my flute assuredly while at the same time beating a steady rhythm. Finally, Ms. Harper, the English teacher, was lost for words as I spoffed a sticky stream of silky silver spunk from my spongy, scarlet sword, splashing her smooth, sensual spheres with steaming semen.

The Headmaster was so impressed by my wonderful display of athleticism and sportsmanship that he demanded I show him how I could handle a javelin. I was more than happy to oblige, and took great care to demonstrate the best way to keep the end up and maintain a smooth line while ensuring a good length.
(, Mon 3 Apr 2006, 10:41, Reply)
Old Enough to Know Better
Not my sport's day, you understand......my son's.

The ridiculous father's race. By the time in the afternoon this came around I had consumed a couple of bottles of chilled wine in relaxed and pleasant surroundings. Absolutely NO WAY was I going to be involved in that sort of thing, thank you very much.

Five minutes later I was walking towards the start line fuelled with fatherly devotion ('please win the race, dad. We know you can') and the recently alcohol fuelled and wifely inspired competitive spirit ('reckons he's won it five years on the trot and this year's a walkover'). Off with the shoes and barging on the start line.

Gun goes and I'm off like a rocket. Carl Lewis eat your heart out. And I'm ahead. At half way. And still ahead. After 60 metres. And then it all went wrong. The grass track started to slope gently downhill at this point and so I started to, as they say in the athletics trade, 'over rotate'. For the last 30 metres or so I career along with windmill arms and legs, losing control of my balance until the inevitable crash came - scattering the judges behind the finish line and demolishing the front three rows of chairs after it.

Having beaten all the dads it turns out I was beaten by some 17 year old brother of a kid at the school. Apparently at this stage I was pulled off the chief judge, yelling that I wanted to see the winner's child's birth certificate, and give me the winner's medal, please, if you don't mind (in a colloquial fashion).

I was confined to the car for the next year's sports day.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 21:48, Reply)
For the high jump.
Not being particularly athletically inclined at school I was, for some reason, put into the high-jump competition.

All well and good thinks I - some minor humiliation as I exit the competition early on. I was rather worried though about the school equipment though - the high-jump bar was of a rather solid steel construction and looked a lot like scaffolding.

I run up. I attempt the 'scissors' technique that pre-dates the fosbury flop. I cock up and execute a rather fine flying kick.

Bruce Lee himself would have been proud as I made contact with the bar, kicking it sideways into the side of one of the guys standing beside it (waiting to reset the jump for the next person). He screams in pain. And then screams some more as the support pole for the high-jump falls onto his head.

Oh well. Never got made to do that again.
(, Mon 3 Apr 2006, 11:28, Reply)
Spikes
During my 5th (and final) year at school, I was a pretty good runner and made the final of the 200M.

However, during the heats, two other runners tied, so the teachers decided that they could both run in the final. Bad mistake, as this of course meant that there were not enough lanes for the runners and poor old me pulled the short straw and had to run outside the last lane.

Now, as we were all fit and serious 5th years and running for the County heats we were allowed to wear spikes. See where this is going yet?

Well the 200M final was the most popular for spectators as the 100M was held in the middle of the 400M track so no-one could get close. So most of the school had turned out and was lined up on the final straight with the 1st and 2nd years sitting down at the front, cos they were little.

BANG - like a whippet I was out of the blocks knowing that I had to lead from the front, and the guy on my inside was my best mate and biggest threat for 'gold'. I could hear him thudding just behind and inside left. The track straightens out and I know all I have to do is keep ahead and I would win. We pounded down the last 50M shoulder to shoulder, all I had my eyes on was the finish line and we both dived for it stooping to win. We both 'ran through' as you are supposed to do and slowed down and slapped each other on the back saying well done, with the rest of the runners trailing in our wake. The only thing was that we did not know who had won so we looked round at the finish line teachers who held the tape / stopwatch etc but they had dropped everything and were joining other teachers at the front row of spectators.

It was only when we walked back I found out that I had 'spiked' four 1st years through various parts of their fingers / hands cos the silly twats had been leaning forward to see the race. Oopps! I never felt a thing and I was too busy concentrating on the race.

They put the race down as a dead heat so we both made County, where we were both spanked out of sight.
(, Mon 3 Apr 2006, 8:55, Reply)
My school wasn't posh enough to have a sports day
but we did have compulsory PE three times a week...except for me. I broke my ankle and thus got out of PE for over a year. This was hellish in winter (freezing arse off standing by the football pitch having to make small talk with the teacher) but rather pleasant in summer (lounging around beside the tennis courts sunbathing when everybody else was getting all sweaty wielding those nasty plastic tennis rackets).

One such summer day there were three of us not doing PE. Me (the aforementioned ankle), Jonathan ("forgotten" PE kit) and Weed (broken arm).

Weed was not his real name, but that's what everybody called him, so much so that I'm buggered if I can remember what his real name was. Even the teachers called him Weed.

Aaaaanyway, we were chatting about this and that, and Jonathan suddenly turned to Weed and said, "Weed, have you started your periods yet?"

Both Weed and I guffawed and WTFed until Jon surreptitiously winked at me...

Me: Yeah Weed, haven't you started your periods yet?
Weed: Boys don't have periods!
Jon: They do...haven't you started yours yet?
Weed: No...
Me: Really?
Weed: When are you supposed to start?
Jon: When you're about eleven or twelve, if I hadn't started by now I'd be a bit worried
Weed: So, like, what happens?
Jon: It's horrible, all blood starts coming out your knob and stuff
Me: Haven't you started yet?
Weed: Oh, I just remembered, I HAVE started my periods!

Happy days...
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 15:25, Reply)
Get off me, Mums!
I went to a not a particularly posh school, but posh enough to have inter-house events and Arabs. Every year, I'd look forward to the inter-house rugby sevens tournament - probably my favourite day of the whole calender.

I thought nothing could make this event any better until a lanky streak of piss called Ahmed, who rather fancied himself, got laid out in an almighty head on tackle, not to get up.

That was pleasurable enough to watch, but not nearly as good as the sight of around five of his mums running on to the pitch waving their hands and making funny noises.

Better still, one of them peeled off from their ululating formation to chase the guy who'd tackled him.

Cherry on the cake was our loathsome geography teacher finally coming good, and screaming in the sheepish looking father's face to 'Get those bloody banshees under control and off my bloody pitch!', before adding that his son is too soft as it is.

I think he went gay after that.

Happy days.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 15:46, Reply)
...and then the dog shit landed in her hair.
One sunny day, at a Roman Catholic school near Birmingham, the entire school was to be found outside. Everybody was positioned on the far bank to watch the action, and I noticed that there was some horrid dry dog shit near to where I was sitting. - of course, it needed moving.

So I kicked it.

The dry shit soared through the air with grace and ease, but unforunately seemed to be going in the direction of a girl in my class. I held my breath, and then the dog shit landed in her hair.

She picked the hard poo from her hair, and then realised exactly what had just happened. She screamed, and told a teacher that I had thrown the shit at her.

I was summoned to my head of year, who had told me that her friends had reported seeing me pick up the excrement and throw it purposely at her (god damn lying cunts). Luckily, the head of year was an extremely nice guy - he told me that he would call another person to his office, and ask for their report of the events.

He told the truth, the girls were told off, and I was told to be careful when kicking away dried dog poo.

Later on, I came 4th in the 100 meters.

THE END
(, Wed 5 Apr 2006, 6:59, Reply)
Triple Jump
I ran, I jumped ... and landed on my face ... without even reaching the bloody sandpit! Clearly the shame and humiliations in front of the school chums was painful BUT the real emotional scars were provided when I rolled over to check the reaction of my monstrous PE teacher only to be greeted with a clear line of sight straight up his almost obscenely short shorts which provided young Undercovers with a view of his strange and massively distended balls
(, Wed 5 Apr 2006, 1:12, Reply)
Crivens jings an' help me bowb!
Back in the days of little responsibility, I worked for a summer school teaching English language. This was held at Fettes, a rather posh, large public school (thats a school you pay a LOT for, to you non Brits) in Edinburgh. Tony Blair went there. As did many other important people, I'm told. (not me though, I went to a pissy high school beside a rough estate) But I digress. This school had a swimming pool and the staff decided, upon one lonley boring night when the students were off doing naughty things elewhere, to go swimming, and whence there, to have a swimming competition. The director of the school was a very lovley Scottish lady by the name of Jerry, with a marvelous sense of humour, but had rather let herself go the past 20 years and become a large jolly lady. She decided to challenge one of the young, spritly staff members, an 18 year old student weighing in at slighty under 10 stone. "you're fuckn' on" cries he, for Jerry, as mentioned, is far from having an athletic build. A wager is placed, and witnessed by myself. The princly sum of a tenner was at stake. 2 lengths of the pool was the distance, there and back again to quoth the Hobbit. They line up. Jerry has a slight smirk on her face. Young lad starting to look worried. The race begins: and Jerry is fucking gone - I mean gone, takes off like a rocket, NOTHING is stopping her, save running out of water. By the time she reaches the end of 1 length, she's got nearly a quater of the pool in the lead. By the time she wins, and wins she does, young lad has barely turned around at the far end. Turns out Jerry used to swim for Scotland and despite size, has enough speed left in her to whip the arse of 18 year old men.Fair bloody play like.
(, Mon 3 Apr 2006, 15:06, Reply)
Swimming Sports Day
Having passed his eighteenth summer, my friend Matt felt that he could damn well decide to do with his afternoon; as opposed to attending the mandatory Swimming Sports Day.

Turned up next day with excuse note in hand. "Matthias did not attend Swimming Sports Day because Matthias did not feel like it. Signed: Matthias".

So it turns out you're not allowed to write your own excuse notes, even if you're legally entitled to vote and drink beer. Who would have thought.
(, Sat 1 Apr 2006, 3:20, Reply)
Swimming Carnival
When I was 15, the hottest girl in our class was also academically brilliant and a natural sports star. She played netball, soccer, tennis and basketball in adult teams competetively, as well as swimming in the under 18 state squad. She was also the snobbiest bitch I have ever met, partly due to her parent's wealth, ( they owned a real estate business and several wineries) and partly because she knew she was so much better than everyone else.
So when it was the interschool swimming carnival, naturally she entered and won every event.

It still amuses me today when I think of her at the closing ceremony, medals around neck, standing smugly on the victory dias in her sleek Speedo costume, in front of hundreds of people, with the national anthem playing and her blissfully unaware of the menstrual blood trickling down her leg.
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 1:30, Reply)
Somebody asked me to take part
in a charity marathon run the other day.

I had to say no because I am so unfit.

But then they told me it was for the disabled and I thought, hang on a minute, I could actually win that.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 18:45, Reply)
Diarrhea :(
My first sports day at high school. I was about 12. I was spectating, as I was rubbish at all sports and not deemed worthy of the team.

Unfortunately, I was beset by two problems - 1. I had diarrhea, and 2. I didn't know my way to the toilets. It was a huge comprehensive school and I had only been there a few weeks. The sports field was miles away from the rest of the school and I had no idea about the 'geography' of the place.

When I finally found my way there, I was absolutely bursting - seeing stars, gritting my teeth etc etc. The only toilet I could find was marked "Staff". I hobbled in, trying to keep my guts from exploding all over the place. I failed. Orange skitters squirted out of me before I had time to get my knickers down. I tried to aim for the toilet bowl, but only succeeded in pebble-dashing the floor, the toilet seat, the wall...

In a fit of panic, I tried to clean myself up as much as possible, but didn't dare risk being caught, so sped out of the stinking hellhole I had created without cleaning the cubicle.

I will never forget the sickened look on the janitor's face when I guiltily crept passed the scene of the crime, after the sports day had finished. He was attempting to clean the filth and looked as though he had been put off his tea for a week.

Gossip was heated for weeks, as both teachers and pupils alike speculated as to which teacher had been so disgustingly 'caught short'...
(, Wed 5 Apr 2006, 18:16, Reply)
Hockey for fucks sake.
Hockey, the only field sport for which the blood crazed neanderthals we had for Teachers in this area would allow me to keep my glasses on.

The only sport in which I could actualy distinguish friend from foe and have a rough clue as to which direction I should be be facing. The only sport in which you get to carry a hitting stick as part of the game*

I enjoyed hockey, I enjoyed the running about, the bloodcurdling yells and the cries of "Fuck! leg it lads!" from the opposing team as I bore down on their now unprotected goal.

So picture the scene. Yours truely, howling like a crazed timber wolf, hair streaming out behind me** and a rapidly parting sea of blue shirts infront as I anticipate another excellent scoring moment to add to my otherwise pitiful memories of school sport.

What follows is an odd tumbling sensation and a groggy awakening to a sea of faces looking down on me around a circle of blue, blue sky.
"Right, game's over for you Duke E. get yer kit on and go home" says the hulking form of the games master.
"Ok" says I, not thinking too clearly and feeling distinctly odd.
Get kit on, shamble slowly home pausing only to throw up a couple of times and fall over once or twice. Mother takes one look at the state of me and calls 999.

Docs diagnose concussion, followed swiftly by Cracked SkullTM. Spent a slightly dubious time in hospital having lights shone in my eyes every 20 minutes or so by nurses and wondering why I wasn't allowed to stand up.
An eventual return to school to find us one games master down and his name stricken from the register.

Turns out that one of the other players, seeing me in my usual berserker run for goal had run up behind me, raised his stick and cracked me full force across the side of the head.

When questioned as to why he'd done this, the reply "dunno sir, just sorta felt like it" was taken to be justification enough...


*Cricket doesn't count, too much standing still, not enough screaming.
**Good good, look at you man, you look like a hippy, worse, you look like an art student! You're a disgrace to the school Duke E. What are you ? A disgrace to the school sir...
(, Tue 4 Apr 2006, 13:46, Reply)
a few tales
i'm a big bloke, not fat, but i've always been tall and built like a brick-shithouse. people assume i like sport, i don't.

first year of highschool, sports days are compulsory, so i had to compete in about 4 different running events, starting with the 800m in order not to tire ourselves by sprinting first.

we were told it wouldn't matter where we came, or how long, it was getting into the spirit of the sports that mattered.

i walked. and since i chose to complete the whole 800m rather than stop after half a lap when everyone else did, no one else was able to run an event. i was then told i didn't have to compete in the other events. this ingenuity rubbed off onto some of the other lazy bums, and forced a rethink of the compulsory nature of the games.

sometime later, we had a hurdles event, but rather than the usual hurdles you see on proper hurdling, these ones were designed to swing open like a gate if hit, so as not to maim children while they did this for "fun". after being told that it was time that mattered, not how few hurdles you hit, i just ran full pelt (for me) through all the hurdles. teachers were not impressed.

the next year the school had an Events day, which had all the usual running and jumping, but also had 3-legged-races and so on for those of us who didn't feel like running (ie: me). so i devised a plan and paired up with a much smaller girl, and despite everyone laughing at the fact that she was a good 2 foot shorter than me, we won. i picked her up and jogged over the line myself, rather than stumble like you're supposed to.

the next year, the rules we changed that 2 feet had to be on the ground at all times. so i picked her up and skidded my way to first place, never once picking up my feet.

then there was the semester we played some form of Rugby. like i said, brick-shithouse me used to get the ball and saunter to the endzone, regardless of how many people were hanging off me. that was fun. i also broke a guys collarbone when he got the ball, turned around and ran full pelt into me and bounced off.
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 6:05, Reply)
loads!
Got serveral stories, but then one that really makes me piss my self is the story of an unlikely victory, then to be snatched away through sheer thickoness!

My friend who shall be named Nick for it is his name, was in the 800 meters.
on the gun he pelts off at high speed and is well in the lead by 300, as he comes up to the line the bell rings! He triumpfently punches the air and shouts ''YES!'' and stops, at this point I point out 800 meters is 2 laps of the track as I amble past.
Looking around barley being able to live through being so knackered, everyone else passes him and he continues to come last!

To the great laughter of teachers and pupils.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 13:15, Reply)
My House Team needed me!
It was sports day. I was 16 years old. I was a spectator. The team captain had run up to me and told me they needed someone to run the 100 meters. I was a terrible sprinter and would surely lose but the House team would get 1 point for fielding someone in the event.

I thought back to previous sports days and House matches when I had so desperately wanted to compete but had been dropped for better or more popular individuals. It was time to stand up and be counted, the House needed me, my peers needed me, this was my moment…to tell everyone to go fuck themselves, fuck you, fuck the house, fuck sports day, you can all go suck a fuck and die horribly being fucked you fucks.

It builds character.
(, Thu 30 Mar 2006, 12:28, Reply)
Sports Horror? My One Moment of Sporting Glory!
My moment of gym-based glory came not on sports day but in a PE lesson.
Now physical feats of speed or endurance are not my thing. PE teacher never did learn my name. Not a bad thing. I'm more of a brainy type. Of course this means I had my fair share of bullying but I like to think it was jealousy based. I can see some of you are nodding and some want to punch me already.

Aged 12, at a selective boys grammar school, I'm trying to make my mark with a new load of 30 class mates. PE class warms up with the usual running around exercises until Sir sets one particular task.
"Everyone in the middle of the gym, now run and touch every wall and return to the centre"
This is the cue for every boy to immediately scatter to the middle of the nearest wall before turning around and running fast as their little spindly legs could carry them to the middle of the opposite wall (some unfortunately meeting another boy coming the other way) before returning to the middle of the gym, turning 90 degrees (or pi/2, as I like to think of it) and repeating with the last two opposite walls.

Now I really don’t like to do more than I have to; one of life’s natural slackers perhaps. I thought for a moment and proceeded to jog sedately to the corner of the gym where I touched two walls at once, ambled to the opposite corner, touched the last two walls and returned leisurely to the centre of the gym arriving way before the speediest of my peers.

I had singled myself out to staff and pupils alike as too-bloody-clever-for-his-own-good.
(, Fri 31 Mar 2006, 16:53, Reply)

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