Sports day, primary school, about 15 years ago.
At a guess. That would put me at 6, an age suitable so as not to feel embarrassed about this story. Probably closer to 10.

Being that long ago, I have few recollections, but this bit sticks out in my memory like a jagged spear in my side, going septic.

The sack race. Perhaps the most highly regarded race of a primary schools’ sports day, it is infinitely more interesting than the 100m dash, just involving running, and a million miles better than the egg and spoon race, just involving walking (and eggs). The sack race combines stamina, agility, and the ability to hop in a sporting piece of inspiration.

I might be slightly over-playing it. Suffice to say I quite liked the sack race.

I was never the fastest runner or anything like that in my school. I had a bloody good eye and a strong arm so I would go on to hold throwing records at my schools for the next 10 years, and enjoyed cricket et al. But I wasn’t slight and sleek, I was a bit chubby and frankly just not that aerodynamic. So when I stepped up to the line, sweaty hands clenched around the lip of my sack as tight as I could muster, I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. I remember 2 competitors – Luke – a decent friend, but not a sporting hero. Frankly I even fancied MY chances against him. The other, Craig, I wasn’t quite so confident. He was a renowned runner, and excelled at most things sporting. He had taken home many a ‘1st place’ rosette while I stumbled back with a scraped knee and a ‘Great effort’ bow pinned to my polo shirt.

Still, despite my poor odds against such a specimen of athletic prowess, I was ready to go. The parents were loving the sack race, if possible, even more than me. I was charged and ready, and I looked down the line of chanting parents – my lane being closest to them – to see my mum and Luke’s mum cheering with everyone else, anticipating the whistle. I fixed my eyes on them and heard the blast. I was off, working my legs as hard as I could. The line of parents cheering right into my face was disconcerting at best, but once I had gained some speed, they blurred into insignificance as the finish line beckoned.

I chanced a look over my shoulder and saw them all – Luke was well out of the running, slowly jumping in his sack, making little to no progress, his little face gurning in concentration. Craig on the other hand, he was fucking close - but most importantly, still behind me. I returned my view to the front, and stepped it up a notch. Going as far as I could with each jump, not wasting any energy. I passed my mum, gave her a quick, nervous look as she screamed, and returned my eyes to the finish. It was a matter of meters now.

I could feel Craig baring down on me from behind, his springy legs and less than ample frame working to his advantage. I, on the other hand, was fucking knackered. I had pushed so hard, but I wasn’t about the lose this without a fight. I carried on my stupendous efforts, already hearing the chanting of my name as I was borne aloft and carried inside the school for squash and biscuits. Until I felt that horribly ungainly feeling – you know where you’re running like a bat out of hell, but your legs lose rhythm and can’t keep up with your speed any more? Imagine that, in a sack.

I just had no chance. My hands were gripped eternally to the sack, my legs were tangled amongst each other, and there was nothing else left but to let it happen. I felt, hard, onto the cracked earth. The distance left to the line was such that when I fell, my head was basically touching the line. Not quite there, but one more step and I would be through the tape. I looked up through dusty vision and saw Craig hopping over the line. I saw the disappointment etched on my mums’ face. I tried getting up, but it was useless. The sack was now physically attached to my legs. I flailed on the floor as everyone else passed through, Luke hopping over last. Until I got up, disentangled myself from the sack, and crossed over the line, holding back the tears. My one chance to show everyone, and Craig in particular, that I did have an ounce of athleticism. I was hurt, humiliated, and not only did I not get to be borne aloft into the school for juice, I didn’t even have a fucking Second Place rosette. I got my usual ‘Great Job!’ sticker, not even worthy of my scorn.

You might chose to think of this as an over-embellished attempt at humour. But honestly, that was one of the most heart-breaking days of my young life.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 16:49, 2 replies)

change the names
and you have written my story - all but the mum's face becaucse mine was always too busy to come
I clicked
(whiskas loved by 8 out of 10 cats, Mon 23 Nov 2009, 18:46, closed)

I know the pain only too well
have a click
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Mon 23 Nov 2009, 22:05, closed)