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This is a question Sporting Woe

In which we ask a bunch of pasty-faced shut-ins about their exploits on the sports field. How bad was it for you?

Thanks to scarpe for the suggestion.

(, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 13:40)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Boer War on the hockey field
I grew up in Durban in the predominately English-speaking province of (then) Natal, South Africa. I went to a very small all-girls private school. If there is anyone reading this from Durban we were the ones with the green uniforms and big white panama hats...

Like all schools we sport was an important part of our lives. Our first teams hockey, netball etc were reasonably good but given the fact that there were less than 300 of us (in the WHOLE SCHOOL) the depth of talent was quite shallow ie below first team level we were the sporting equivelent of monkeys with typewriters trying to write Shakespeare.

I was on the third (sometimes second) hockey team. It was mandatory - you HAD to play - even if you were tiny like me. I played left back. Our collective fear was playing the Afrikaans schools. They were huge so had an enormous depth of talent. Their third team players could have quite easily made it on to our first team. Also, Afrikaaners are predominately of Dutch origin who as any fule kno are the tallest people in Europe. These girls were fucking IMMENSE - boobs and EVERYTHING.

Not only that they played dirty and nothing gave them greater pleasure than fucking up a bunch of prissy english-speaking private school girls.

I will never forget the feeling of intense fear - standing in position while this herd of fucking Amazons charged towards me. I would actually try and defend and was ruthlessly body-checked. After one particuarly brusing encounter Daddy had a little chat with the hockey coach and I was exempted from further participation...
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 15:27, Reply)
I'm very bad at football. Always have been. It's a terrible curse for a young boy to bear, and the source of much amusement for my friends at school as well as the source of much bullying from my enemies at school.

At University, I feel in with a group of lads who loved watching football. We spent our evenings drinking and smoking and were in far too poor a physical state to be much good at it but such was their love of the beautiful game that they decided to enter a team in the University football league.

Sadly for them, it was a very sporty institution indeed. In their first outing they were thrashed 20 nil, and the opposition gave them three cheers for even bothering to turn up and play. Undeterred they ploughed on. In the next game, it turned out they were a man short.

They asked me to play. I explained that it wasn't a good idea, but they insisted. And so, several years after I thought I'd played football for the last time, I took to the field once again.

I don't recall the score. But the next time they were a player down, bad as they themselves were as a team, they played with ten men rather than have me play again.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 15:18, Reply)
Massive Ouchies.
Be gentle. Long time lurker, first time poster.

Like a lot of people on here I went to a school that insisted that everyone played rugby. Not a public school, just a grammar school mind you. That was fine by me because i'd been playing the sport since the tender age of four and had even represented my county at under 11 level.

There are several woes from my beloved sport that I could speak of on here, not least the time when a fat Scottish kid called hamish (I wont capitalise his name because he doesn't deserve to be treated as a proper noun) managed to dislocate my knee so badly that my kneecap was roaming free like an adventurous tramp. It was all OK though because the lovely NHS gave me MASSIVE DRUGS and sewed everything back together good and proper.

The time in question was when I was in the upper 6th form playing for the first team in the daily mail cup(again the daily mail don't deserve capital letters). This is the national schools competition and we had done very well. We had come through a difficult quarter final which we had to play twice because the first game got called off with ten minutes left because of heavy snow! I was playing the fine position of open side flanker. For those who don't know it is my job to annoy the opposition team as much as is humanly possible. I liked my position and I played it well, hardly a game went by when someone didn't want to punch me in the face. I didn't mind though because I had a very hard head (or so I thought!)

We were set to play the team who were undoubtedly favourites. They had sailed through all previous rounds and were expected to brush us aside easily on their way to the final. Their team contained no less than 9 England schoolboy internationals and they were all huge. The odds were stacked against us but what we lacked in size we made up for in confidence.

So the game starts and all is going well, we are holding them back in their own half and playing some good rugby. We scored a try which got the 3,000 strong crowd behind us and we were starting to think that this was going to be easy. Then the other team woke up as if they had been playing with us like a cat plays with a half dead mouse. We managed to hold off the pressure until just before half time when they scored a try and brought the scores level. The came out for the second half like they had been told that their dads would get get bum raped if they gave up any more points.

Ten minutes into the second half one of their bigger players got tackled and I was immediately there to pick up the ball. To this day I wish that I had had a chance to look around before I stood bolt upright because the next thing I knew I was waking up on the floor with cartoon birds circling above my head.

Eye witnesses described how a gentleman who is now an England international had tackled me around my chest with some serious force whilst I was standing directly in front of one of my team mates who was already crouched for the impending ruck. Physics fans will understand that in this kind of scenario, my head was on a direct collision course with the solid ground.

Once the cartoon birds had stopped circling I tried to stand up so that I could carry on the game. Rugby players don't let a small amount of unconsciousness stop them. The only thing that stopped me from moving was that my legs had decided that they weren't going to move. Panic and shock set in and a lovely physio lady ran onto the pitch to try and calm me down but I was absolutely bricking it. It took them a full eight minutes, EIGHT F**KING MINUTES, to find a spine board to carry me from the pitch. As I was being carried away I was treated to a standing ovation from the crowd which for reasons I will never understand set me off crying like an absolute baby.

I was taken to hospital in the ambulance with its sirens on full blast which is quite a cool feeling if you discount the paralysis. I was prodded and poked and x-rayed and probed and it was decided that the paralysis was only a temporary measure that my body had imposed on me because of the blunt trauma that my spine had received.

A few days later things were back to normal and I was thanking my lucky stars that I was back on my feet. You will never appreciate your legs more than you will after you have lost the use of them for a short time.

My team lost the game 24-7 were knocked out of the cup. I didn't play rugby again for a further 8 years, deciding that it was unwise to carry on with the sport that almost confined me to the Hawking brigade. That was until last weekend when I played again and was kicking myself for having left it so long. I love rugby.

Length, about four days before I was back to normal.

tl;dr - rugby is fun even if it does try to paralyze you.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 15:05, 3 replies)
Sporting accidents and life lessons
Regular readers will know that over the years I've charted the progress of my twin sons on here with stories of them setting fire to the chimney, wrecking a fire extinguisher at a toddler group, drawing crude pictures in the sand on the beach, and more recently their stepfather (currently going by the moniker Bicycle Repairman) has gleefully recounted Nugget #1's prowess in farting competitions.
Sadly this story is also about Nugget #1 and a sporting injury. Those of a delicate disposition may wish to look away now....

Nugget #1 is a talented sportsman - I strongly suspect that he was swapped at birth as I have no sporting abilities. At primary school he was put onto the Gifted and Talented register for sport (praying that it's the only register he ends up on...). I was very proud and have always encouraged him to try new sports. He and his brother have played rugby for our local team since they were five years old running around the tiny pitch all chasing the ball like a sugar-high flock of seagulls.
By the time they had reached the heady hights of Year Six - the final year of primary school - Nugget #1 played in various teams for the school and of course practised during break times with his class mates.

One Friday lunchtime an ad hoc game of football was taking place in the school field as usual. By all accounts Nugget #1 was set to score the winning goal but was fouled by a large boy who I shall call Fat Bob (his name was actually George, but Fat Bob sounds better). Nugget #1 hit the ground and Fat Bob stuck the boot in; aiming for the small but important family jewels, but actually making contact with his pasta filled belly. According to the teachers Nugget didn't get up but curled up on the ground and cried. When they finally moved him inside he was pale, tearful and in a great deal of pain. They telephoned me and as luck would have it I was at home that afternoon. I dashed up the school, bundled him into the car and was set to drive to A&E. "But Mum, I need to go to the loo!"

Okay, a quick detour home and then to A&E.

We got home, he limped upstairs looking sorry for himself. Five minutes later he hadn't come back downstairs. "Are you okay?" I called. The only reply was a whimper....oh dear. Finally he emerged, "Are you okay?" I asked again.
"My bottom is bleeding"
Good god! He's got internal bleeding! He's ruptured his spleen! He's perforated his bowel! It's lupus!!
"Quick! In the car NOW!"

Five minutes later we were parked up outside A&E some ten miles away. I took him in and explained briefly to the receptionist that he'd been injured in a football match, now had rectal bleeding, and I'd left the car in the drop off zone. No problem, they ushered us straight into the Important Bit with all the beeping machines, medical staff running about calling out for things 'stat', and an unmistakeable aroma of vomit, urine and NHS cuts.

Nugget was lying on an examination bed, curtain drawn around, nurses came and took blood, palpated his stomach, asked about the accident, and generally did nursing things. He looked wan, fragile, and all of his eleven years. Eventually a young female doctor appeared, she repeated most of the nurses' questions and examination, and then looked over at me with concern in her face. "I'll need to get the consultant to have a look at him. I think he needs to have an internal examination done."
I nodded, dumbly. She left to find the consultant.

Nugget looked up at me and asked what an internal examination was....
"Erm...well. Er. The doctor needs to check that everything in your tummy is okay...and, erm...the best way to do that is...by, erm...putting their finger gently..erm...into your bum."
"It's okay! They need to make sure that you're not bleeding internally. They need to make sure you're going to be fine. It won't hurt."

I'm a parent. We lie.

A few minutes passed and the news sunk in. "Will it be the lady doctor?"
"I don't know"
A mixture of emotions crossed Nugget's face; anxiety, repulsion, embarrassment, fear. However, nothing had prepared him for the shock when the curtain was drawn back to reveal the consultant. Although I was sitting down I don't think I was far off in my estimation that he was about 6'5", skin the colour of polished ebony, and an accent which placed him somewhere from Central Africa. He introduced himself to us both and calmly explained that he needed to carry out this internal examination. Nugget looked at me in terror - he didn't understand the consultant's accent, so I explained it all again to him and reassurred him I'd be there holding his hands.

The consultant told him to lay on his side and draw his knees upto his chest. I told him to hold my hands tightly and keep looking at me.

"Gloves please"
The nurse handed the consultant a large pair of rubber examination gloves which he pulled on over the longest fingers I've ever seen.
"Jelly please"
The nurse squeezed KY jelly onto his long gloved fingers. I attempted to keep my face neutral.
"Okay Nugget, this is going to be a little uncomfortable, but it'll be over quickly. Just relax."
I repeated it all in a soothing voice.

Then I waited. Nugget waited.
Nugget looked perplexed.
Nugget looked apprehensive.
Nugget looked horrified.
Nugget's eyes came out on stalks.
Nugget's mouth opened in a silent scream.
Nugget's hands clamped on mine.

And then it was over.

The consultant looked up at me, "It's all okay. Once we get the blood test results back, if they're clear you can go home. No lasting damage."

An hour later we were in the car driving home. Nugget looked stoicly out of the window and said tersely, "That African doctor had bloody long fingers"

We try not to talk about it anymore.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 14:23, 14 replies)
Tennis celebration fail.
In summer our netball and hockey fields were transformed into tennis courts. Finally a sport I quite enjoyed and for the first time ever I was excited about buying sports equipment. I remember choosing an awesome jet black racquet, it was wooden and heavy but it did the job.

I would be undefeatable!

Turns out I was as crap at tennis as I was at pretty much any other sport* so lost pretty much every game I ever played. I can't remember who I was playing against on this one occasion but as they had defeated me so soundly they felt a Tennis Pro style celebration was required.

Dropping his tennis bat and running towards the net I had the ideal view to witness him leaping across the divide, catching his foot on the top of the net and face-planting into the tarmac surface.


* Apart from Volleyball. For a short-arse kid I was ace at that.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 14:19, Reply)
We must have been about 13 when some bright spark of a PE teacher decided to arrange a boys vs. girls hockey match.

It did not end well.

The girls outclassed us in experience, skill, strength, size and aggression. Conceding goals to a girl hurts. Sticks hurt. Falling on a plastic pitch hurts. Short penalties aimed at the balls really really hurt. The score of the match was obviously in their favour, but what mattered more to them were the scores that were settled. We were outclassed, and every tackle, bruise and goal proved it.

Needless to say, a rematch was never considered. In fact I don't recall ever picking up a hockey stick again. But since that day, I've always had a thing about hockey girls ... the athletic physique ... the short skirts ... the niggling recollection of utter utter physical humiliation.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 14:14, Reply)

I never understood tactics and team mentality/skill in sports – I’d play football and keep getting told to stay back in defence (as it was my position), but I was never going to score so I’d just run up to the top of the field and stay near the opposition goal. It made perfect sense to me.

Take Golf – I just wanted to whack the ball as hard as I could – which is why I cut get a ball to the green within 2-3 shots – but then spend 10 shots trying to putt the bloody thing.

I’d apply this logic to any sport – if it involves a ball – its just about hitting/kicking/smacking it as far as humanly possible.

Fast forward 10 years. I’m stood in the ‘nets’ at a local cricket pitch dressed head to toe in the finest protective clothing a batsman can wear. I worked in a restaurant with several mates and the chef was really into his cricket – he suggested we all head down to the nets one afternoon for a bit of leather on willow fun. ‘Who’s first with the bat?’. I promptly stepped forward thinking ‘I’ll show this lot how to hit a ball (reflecting on my rounder’s successes many years before). It took about 20 mins to get all the gear on whilst my mates questioned my cricketing ability. I shrugged them off – what do they know?

So there I was in the nets, 17 years old, 9 stone. (10 stone including the padding) staring straight at my 30 year old, 18 stone, very good fast bowling chef.

At this time its worth noting that my previous cricket experience involved a £5 beach cricket set with a coloured tennis ball. This was a proper ball.

It left the chefs hands at roughly 400 mph, in that split second, I panicked and seeing the speed of the red missile, made no attempt to use the bat and did what man had done for many years when faced with danger. I twisted my body ‘side on’ in a kind of upright foetal position and yelped. The ball made contact with the ground and bounced straight into my (boney) thigh. It felt like non fatal ammunition. My leg was dead, I’m rolling on the floor in agony. Meanwhile the ball is retrieved and thrown back to the chef ready for his 2nd delivery, that was enough for me. I limped off saying stuff about ‘not being ready’ and ‘sun glare’…

Annoyingly, had I just stood still and let my protective clothing do its job, I’d have been fine.

Length? Just the regulation distance…
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 14:08, Reply)
My sporting
woe happened in 2006 when my team (Reading) were promoted to the top flight with a record breaking 106 points, which still stands today. These events are always great for a town for many reasons but for me it was switching on MOTD and seeing my team do battle with some of the biggest clubs in the world and beating some of them. First MOTD of the season and I tune in, now most of the pundits thought we were going to be up against it for that season and they had a point but one thatched headed naysayer refused to even talk about us and dismissed our chances with a mere flick of his hand. Hmmm I thought what have we ever done to upset Mark Lawrenson? It was a mystery and the mystery deepened as the season went on, even with success coming our way he still refused to give us any kind of credit, even with the likes of Hansen et al singing our praises about what we had acheieved on a shoe string budget

So in my hunt to solve this mystery I went online, as I often do and entered Lawrenson and Reading into Google, what it came up with was a great story from the 70's that pretty much solved the mystery for me. Now every club has their legends and one of our legends that people still talk about to this day was a guy called Robin Friday, think George Best, Paul Gascoigne and Tony Adams rolled into one and even then it's not the half of it, the guy was an animal but insanely talented, on many a match day he could be found in the pubs and dragged out so they could get him on by half time, that's how good he was, he could get pissed out of his face and still turn a game on its head, as he often did....Anyway one year we faced Brighton in a cup game and guess who their centre half was?...Yep you guessed it, no less than Mark Lawrenson, who even back then was known for his fierce tackling and had been tasked with the job of marking our very own Robin Friday, after about 4 or 5 scything tackles Friday had decided he'd had enough and turned around and kicked Lawrenson straight in his moustache cladded face. Even though football was fairly fierce in those days it was still enough to get him a straight red card....Now you would have thought that this was enough to piss Lawrenson off to hold a grudge for many years but it wasn't this. Robin Friday in his ultimate wisdom went to the away dressing room, found Lawrenson's kit back and proceeded to turn one out in his kit bag!!!!! For that alone he will always be a legend in my eyes. Being a Reading lad I also know his daughter (lovely girl) but I’d never bring him up, as he died at 38 of a heart attack before she even knew him, sadly beer wasn’t his only vice.

I’ve only mentioned one story here but there are loads. Cardiff fans will also remember Friday as one of their legends as well –
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 13:31, 4 replies)
Staff vs 6th form Rugby.
Good old Birkenhead Institute.
Every year end there would be a friendly match between staff and first xv. Most of the staff regarded the game as a grand old jape, an enjoyable run around, followed by a convivial evening at local hostelry to say farewell to those pupils who were leaving. We boys felt much the same. An opportunity to get one over on the teachers, but also the thrill of going to the pub as adults and on equal terms with the grown ups.

The year I left, though, Mr Croker had other ideas.
Croker was one of the games teachers and he clearly liked the idea of winding us all up. So, before the game, as we were getting ready, Mr Croker strolls into our changing room and starts the routine.
"We'll go easy on you, lads, don't worry"
"Just let us know if we are tackling too hard"
"We will stop at 100, promise, give you a go"
"the ambulance is here"
All the old Billy Bollocks.

Thing is, the daft cunt pulls a muscle as he is running out onto the pitch and misses both the game and the pub afterwards.

the end.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 13:27, Reply)
Girls and Martial Arts
Draconacticus's post about girls in martial arts brought back several painful memories from the years.

I regularly get beaten up by girls.

I have been studying a variety of martial arts for the last 6 years, mainly Wing Chun, but also TKD and a bit of Eskrima. Despite training alongside professional fighters, bouncers, police, soldiers and the like, I have come to the conclusion that the people you should be afraid of when training are girls. The smaller, the more you should be afraid of them. Especially if they're new.

Girls, especially more petite girls, have an inbuilt viciousness the likes of which you cannot train. In Wing Chun, as it is a means of self defence not a sport, we teach people to strike in more vulnerable areas - eyes, throat, kidneys, floating rib.....groin.....

Whenever we explain that to new girls, their eyes always light up at the last point, and we instantly know the rest of the evening is going to be spent getting kicked fiercely in the balls. It's like the go-to answer to anything:

Being grabbed from behind - Heel kick to the balls.

Being grabbed from the front - kick to the balls.

Bear hug - knee or shin to the balls.

Rear naked choke - Punch in the balls.

Standing there minding my own business - Kick to the balls...

On top of which, the smaller the girl, the harder they think they can hit you and you can take it. This is sort of true, but when when you spend hours and hours teaching people how to punch effectively, size stops mattering as much and it just fucking hurts anyway. I genuinely nearly had my arm broken once by a girl who was about 4'7 after I taught her how to do an arm bar. I explained very carefully that if you do it with enough force, you can break or severely damage someone's arm regardless of how big they are, so do it carefully.

She immediately put as much force into it as she could, and I could feel my elbow joint wrench as she did it. if I hadn't moved with it, she would have seriously fucked my arm up.

I asked her why she did it with so much force. She replied "Well, you're about six foot..."

"What did I JUST say!!!"

So yeah, girls are dangerous. Much more dangerous than men.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 13:26, 17 replies)
Martial arts or marital arts?
Reading Robotnik's post I have a similar tale of women and the martial arts.

Back in my university days I used to do tae kwon-do (not the wanky olympic one where you bounce up and down for ten minutes before deciding it might be time to do something, but the ITF style that is more kickboxing orientated). Tae kwon-do has a very heavy emphasis on kicking and most fights start out as a bit of a range war with legs and it's pretty common to find excellent kickers fall to pieces as you get within boxing range.

One of the girls at the club had a reputation for 'panic kicking'. When ever she was sparring and you got within punching range she'd freak out and execute a hasty snap kick catching you square in the pods.

A few of us were at the bar with one of the senior black belts after a training session and were pointing out how unfair it was evolution put the most sensitive part of us in the most kickable of places. He took a swig of his pint, winked at us and said, "Don't forget lads, the tits are a legitamate scoring area."

I'm not sure if he was still talking about sparring at this point, but he was correct either way. Still, 12 years on and I have moved on to kickboxing, but I still can't bring myself to punch a woman in the boobies no matter how often I get kicked in the conkers.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 12:34, 2 replies)
If a group of b3ta members got together to play sport
would the fact that everyone on b3ta gets picked last cause a paradox?
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 12:14, 2 replies)
My trilogy on injury
Injury 1 Hockey

Innocently 'jogging' around a hockey pitch I stumbled over my own feet after scoring a goal, managed to go over on my ankle, but jogged it off. Then, as I wasn't really expecting the ball, heard a shout of "heads up!" which was silly coz the ball actually went along the floor and smashed into my ankle (somehow it got through the defence of my hockey shinpad with built in ankle protectors). Breaking it. Cue Hospital.

Injury 2 Inter-form Football, High School, Year 11.

Innocently being a goalkeeper, I was doing ok, the scores were 1-1 and we were against one of the better teams. They then got a penalty. Which I saved. With my right wrist that I flung out in some kind of self defence. It got a hair line fracture. It hurt. The plus side of this one was that when my arm was in a cast, people wanted to sign it. The best one being a girl from my form who wrote 'hope you have it off soon'. not sure if this was just out of sympathy though...

Injury 3 Some years later, still attempting 5 a side football.

Should've know better really, but I started off in goal, then moved out to roam around and look busy. With nobody around I controversially decided to change direction and run to where maybe the ball might be. I obviously didn't give myself much knowledge of this shocking tactic as the sudden movement caused me to pull a nerve in my lower spine.
What was more annoying as the game went on, was that my lift home carried on playing. For 40 more minutes. With me stood at the side like a boy that'd wet his pants in asda coz he'd lost his mum. He eventually got me into his car, then out of it and into A&E. Some very strong painkillers and lots of tutting from the nurses and doctors later and I was allowed home.

My at the time pregnant wife had to then take my shoes off for me as I couldn't bend down. She wasn't best pleased.

(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 12:09, Reply)
Fatal Injury in Motor Sport
The first competitive section of a local rally was just on the eastern side of the bridge across Gavial Creek. First car away was young Wayne driving the "Opera House" so called because it cost almost as much as Sydney's pride & joy.

The starter counted back from ten seconds. Wanye rrrrrrevvvvvved the motor, ready to drop the clutch. Just as the count reached one, a cane toad appeared, hopping across the dirt track.

At "Go" the result was almost inevitable. When the dust cleared, very little of the toad was visible.

"That'll learn 'im" said the bushie in the battered felt hat.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 11:21, Reply)
School sports...
...were not my cup of tea.
Sarky old git of a teacher notices this and writes "Shows no interest" on my report.
Got my own back though.
The following year he had to write "Fails to attend".

(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 10:57, 2 replies)
School sports day circa 1993….

I wasn’t sport phobic by any means – I enjoyed most games and being rather lean gave me a speed advantage when required. I enjoyed football, but was (still am) utterly crap at it. But I digress…

In the weeks leading up to the sports day, I had a cold or something so decided a few days r&r at home would sort me out. Upon returning to school I leant that the entries to the sporting events had been decided by ‘the boys at the back of the class’. I was a bit disappointed as I would have liked to have tried one or 2 events, but I soon learned that I needn’t have worried, as I had been entered in pretty much all the track events. The ‘boys’ had covered themselves by entering themselves in the 5 a side and throwing events, then knowing that the fat kids wouldn’t stand a chance on the track, my name kept coming forward as each of the events was ticked off.

So yes, I did the 100m, 200m, 400m & 1500m one after the other.

I still have it etched in my minds eye as the gun went for the start of the 400m, the other 4 runners went off like greyhounds, I started like I was at the back of the London Marathon. They had finished as I was nearing the 200m mark. I was exhausted. I limped across the finish line in the same way that people run when they’ve just missed their bus – not that anyone had noticed as people had started to get ready for the long jump.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 10:55, Reply)
A tenuous one at best
Several years ago, a group of friends and I decided that we faniced a trip to the ice skating rink. Do not ask why we thought this was a good idea - I hadn't set foot on ice since I was little, and have the no sense of spacial awareness, balance or co-ordination and anyone who knows me knows that.
But here we were, ice skating and I was surprising myself with how well I was doing (in retrospect I probably looked like a mong on day-release). So chuffed was I with my new found "Torville and Dean" like ability, I forgot that old saying of how pride always comes before a fall.
Fear not this isn't a "I went on some ice and fell on my butt" story - if only - what happened was that I got on a fair lick of speed, lost control and went hacking into the board that serves as a wall to the ice rink. I hit shoulder first and it fucking hurt.

Some nice officals dragged my sorry, damp ass off the rink so as not to hinder other skaters; my mates point and laugh. I don't think much of the accident and figure painkillers will do the trick. They don't, should has now got a pulse and looks somewhat puffier than the other one.
I go home, winge to my parents and get no sympathy and go to bed. Mum was not happy when I stagger into the bedroom at 4am saying that my shoulder hurts too much to sleep. I am told to "get some bloody paracetomol(?) then and fuck off".

In the morning we make a trip down to A&E as I am still moaning about the shoulder. They x-ray it, and it turns out I dislocated a joint in my collar bone. The doctor asks how I did it and looks surprised when I tell him - apparently this kind of injury is most commonly seen in people who play contact sports like rugby. Shoulder was in a sling for 2 weeks and I still get mocked about it.

TL:DR - Ice skating is as dangerous as rugby apparently.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 10:40, Reply)
Men are doomed
I attended boxing for 3-4 years, just for the exercise, i was never in a proper boxing match. I only sparred, but sometimes with proper licensed amateur boxers.

Including female ones.

And they were the worst. They were smaller and a lot faster. Weight matters in boxing, but they compensated for it with sheer dedication and speed. Also quite a few of the studied to become doctors, and even one of them to become a priest. The absolute highlight was when i got my nose smashed in by one of them because i "didn't move my head away fast enough" as the coach (in boxing you are not using faggot words like "Sensei") berated me. Yes, essentially i was beaten up by a girl!

I tell you, men already lost.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 10:39, 10 replies)
Wrong event
In my yoof, I was a fairly decent middle-distance runner. The 1500m and cross-country were my events. In fact, I came third in the north-west cross country regional, and only missed out on competing the national because we were on holiday when it was taking place.

So, when it was school sports day rolled around, what even did our house sports captain (I went to a posh, public school with houses and the like) put me in for? The 200m.

So I go to him and point out that I don't do sprinting, I do middle-distance. He responds with "I don't give a fuck, I've said you're doing the 200m". I say "just swap me with whoever is doing the 1500m" he says "I've already done the list". Looking down the list, I realised he's just gone through the house alphabetically and put everyone's name next to an event. I've ended up doing the 200m by virtue of my surname starting with a letter near the start of the alphabet.

I point out the idiocy of this and he responds with "just do it or I'll fucking deck you"

Fine, I'm doing the 200m.

So the time comes around for me to run the 200m. I find which lane I'm in and set about stretching and warming up, so I don't injure myself in the upcomiing sprint. We are under starters orders, I crouch on the line.

The gun goes off and off I walk.

Yup: walk. I did the 200m at a nice, casual stroll, waving to my classmates as they cheer me on. Near the finish line is my house captain, who has the redest face I've ever seen as he's screaming "RUN! RUN! STOP MESSING ABOUT" so I stroll the rest of the way and finally finished in a little under 2 minutes, making sure I dipped as I cross the line.

I got a detention for that one. It still makes me smile when I think of it now.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 10:22, 4 replies)
Joy for the boys. Not so much for the girls
The entrance to our sports changing rooms were directly opposite the girls and on the frequent occasion when our PE teachers were late we'd have to queue outside as the doors were always kept locked.

It was on more than one occasion if you positioned yourself right you'd get a glimpse of the girls either in the buff or in their underwear as someone opened their changing room doors. This would usually result in screams from the girls and leery cackles from the boys but nothing was ever done to rectify this blatant invasion of privacy.

It was one of the rare plus points to School sports. At least for the boys.

Oh yea. And that just reminded me of the time the school fire alarm went off and a handfull of girls ended up standing in the sports field wrapped in nothing but towels. That was a bit mean.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 9:11, 4 replies)
climbing bars thing?
ok, i was about 14, it was a shitty day, raining, or something.
i don't remeber why but my pe class was in the gym that day and the pe teacher had decided we'd play pirates, or something.
this meant racing in pairs around a large sports hall, across diferrent aparatus, up and down ropes, etc, all without touching the floor.
i don't remember who i was racing against but as we entered the final leg, the climbing bars that were up one wall of the gym (do they have a name?) i was behind, but not by much.
so, in my infinite wisdom and my unhealthy desire of not losing, i decided to jump from a not inconsiderable height.

i did win, but at the cost of a horribly sprained ankle and looking like an utter twat
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 8:46, Reply)
Discipline is key
Way back in the late 80’s I attended a karate grading where one young lad was taking his red belt (the one before black in my style). Now he’s the only one being graded for that belt, so he’s on his own, standing before Master Loke and two other instructors. Parents and the rest of the class are sitting around the edge of his sports hall.

He has to demonstrate a jumping kick. Three forwards, turn three back and then turn again. He chose a jumping roundhouse kick, possibly one of the hardest as you have to twist your body in the air and get it back again lest you land on your side.

Only he didn’t. Down he went, screaming in agony, with what looked suspiciously like a dislocated hip.

The respect and discipline in the class meant that even his parents just sat there, frozen in fear but unwilling to interfere in the grading. Master Loke calmly got up, held onto the boys foot, pushed his knee to his chest then THWACK as he pulled the leg and relocated it. He then sat back down and motioned for the boy to continue. All without a word spoken in the whole room.

Albeit one feeble attempt at a kick later, he was told to sit down. He’d passed.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 8:08, 26 replies)
The Fib
If you want the ultimate sports loser story, read The Fib, by George Layton. Brilliant and evocative.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 8:08, 4 replies)
A couple of school-boy aged tales.
How I became a Gymnast
I'd played a season of rugby (union) at school and despite the fact that I was a skinny little bugger (way back when) I was actually quite solid as well as being fast & nimble. So the coach picked me as a wing for the 1st XV. I played a few games with school (more on that later) and tried out for the State Schoolboys U15's.
Second game for States and I got handed the ball - I was playing blindside, put my head down and powered up the old pegs for a good run. Straight head-first into the back of one of our props. The terms "sack of shit" & "dropped like" come to mind. I could barely move and had even more trouble breathing.
Off to the docs. and the xray I got stretchered.
1 cracked collar bone and 1 broken. Both my shoulders dropped (as they tend to when this injury occurs). The GP told me that that was the end of my contact sport career. That's how I came to be a gymnast.
DO NOT ask me how you get your arse wiped after having a shit when you have 2 immobile arms in slings and you go to an all-boys boarding school.

Get on the Bus
As I was saying - played rugby at school. We had 1 team that for some reason we always had a grudge against. For anyone who went to private boys school in Perth you'll know which school I mean when I say these guys' sporting pitches were a fucking paddock out the back of the school. Fences, cows and all!
Anyhoo... 1 game in particular we played this team at another venue and it all started off rather badly. After kickoff it kicked off & took maybe.. 60 sec. of play before it was an all out brawl. The teachers/coaches quite wisely called off the game and got both teams back onto their buses. Parked directly opposite each other.
Anything not bolted down got picked up and thrown at the other bus. The bussies (drivers) eventually got their shit together and got the buses moving but not before a few dents and broken windows.
The whole team got called up to see the headmaster. We had to all pay for the damage and forfeited that game and all our other games against that school (afaik they copped similar). That hurt cause at that stage we were top of the ladder and forfeiting meant we lost that position for the rest of the season no matter how well we played.
Still we were winning when the game got called. Fucking losers.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 7:50, 2 replies)
I once had sex on the university oval.
It was baaaaaad!
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 6:13, 4 replies)
I crashed my moped at 16...
with my foot trapped underneath the bike and being pulled along a bit by my leg.

Before this incident, i used to enjoy sport, playing rugby and basketball. Since the incident, my left foot points to the left, and if I'm to bend my leg, I kick myself on the right arsecheek...

Despite this, I never went to a doctor, and my leg has remained like this til this day. If you hadn't guessed, running feels like my hip is being dislocated, and I haven't played sports since.

Length? A bit hazy, but i was probably dragged about 5-10 metres...
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 2:54, 2 replies)
I was naff at sports. Still am, truth be known.

I went to a comprehensive attached to a leisure centre, hence we were expected to avail ourselves of the full gamut of options available to us.

Swimming, squash, basketball were all good fun.
These were our mainstays during the spring to autumn months.

Winter seemed to bring out the sadistic streak in our PE teacher mind, as every bloody winter we'd do cross country on the top field, in the snow whilst the PE teacher sat in the warm, cosy classroom.

PE Kit not being particularly conducive to keeping warm, and the propensity of the harder lads to hurl balls of ice at anyone in range made it thoroughly shit all 'round.

Found out latterly that the reason for this may have been his desire to keep his daytime dalliances with the (Susan Boyle lookalike) Art Teacher on the quiet.

In summary: PE Teachers - bastards who'd quite happily shag Susan Boyle. Not sure what stopped him during the warmer months though.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 2:52, 3 replies)
school report from PE teacher
"Ferret always turns up to Sport with a clean kit"

This was basically for Rugby, the only sport we ever seemed to play. I'm not sure if the PE teacher just had nothing better to say about me (as if was laundering my own kit) or simply didn't remember me at all because a) I was shit b) being shit, I was second-last out on the wing and so was never actually given a chance to interact with the ball and demonstrate otherwise.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 2:21, Reply)
Thai boxing
Been doing Thai boxing for a couple of years. When I started I had to spar with a black belt. I got battered, black eye, fat lip and a dead leg.Then I went to do a front kick on him and accidently kicked him in the bollocks, he went down to the floor. Haven't sparred with him since.
(, Fri 20 Apr 2012, 1:47, 9 replies)

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