Sports Day and the AAA Athletics Awards

There was a time not so long ago, when shorts were actually short, and for two hours each week, even in the depths of mid-winter, you and your classmates would be frogmarched to the local playing fields or the outdoor netball courts for your games lesson.

I say lesson, but in reality it was an extended endurance contest exposing you to weather conditions that would put Antarctica to shame. Football pitches were often located in the middle of rain-lashed fields with no windbreak foliage to speak of, and netball courts were formed of red, often-frozen gravel which would give you a skin graft if you fell on it, and permanent stains on your PE kit that your twin-tub washer had no chance of removing.

The weather was sometimes so bad that you could only see about 10-metres in any direction. Freezing fog combined with ice and snow obscured pitch markings, and some pupils would mistake the goal line for the half way line and dribble the ball beyond the pitch boundary and disappear into the mist. The ground was often frozen solid, and Injuries were common with teachers treating even the most serious cases with wet sponges or words of disappointment. All feeling in the hands and feet was non-existent, and if you were hit in the thigh or face by the ball, reality would pause, and a cry of pain would begin somewhere in the clouds, make its way through the atmosphere and eventually exit your mouth.

Games lessons were only enjoyable if you were the athletic type. TV programmes such as We are the Champions and Superstars had many convinced that they were Olympic medal material, but there was one day each year which would demonstrate that they weren't. Sports Day.

We Are The Champions

Superstars

In high school, the three-legged and egg and spoon races of primary school had been replaced by proper events. Schools had 400m running tracks, sandpits, hurdles, javelins and shot puts. Some schools also had something called the 'Triple A' Athletics Award Scheme (Amateur Athletics Association), which similar to the decathlon or heptathlon, would award you points and subsequently certificates based on how well you did in the various events. Certificates worked on a star system, with elite athletes obtaining the maximum 5-star award, and the early-adopter smokers and too many sausage dinner eaters usually achieving 1-star. I was a steady 3-star athlete, but my ranking would come under serious scrutiny in 1989.

In our school, for Sports Day pupils were divided into a house system. We were a bit ahead of Hogwarts and our houses were named after the saints: Plessington, Campion, More and Fisher. I was in Campion, and although I was a reasonably fast runner, there were always those exceptional pupils, both boys and girls, who were streets ahead of the rest of us. There was one gangly chap in my class who could long jump 6-metres when he was only 15-years’ old, and a girl who could literally lap you in the 1500m race. These elite athletes were usually left to their own devices whilst the rest of us battled it out to determine who the fastest loser was going to be. 

Now if, like me, you weren't in the top two for any event, then you'd have to wait until the best athletes had been selected, and then argue amongst yourselves about who was going to do the rest. It was like standing in the line for playground football. Whoever's ball it was got to pick their players first, which were usually the best players or their best friend at the time. If you weren't either of those two things, then you'd be picked last along with the guy with the limp and the thick glasses, and might ultimately end up in goal.

As Sports Day approached, my lack of debating skills had landed me in the 400m race in lane six. My favourite events were the 200m and the Triple Jump, but I was nowhere near as good as the other guys who got the top spots in those.

When the big day arrived, the camaraderie between houses was fantastic. People who wouldn’t ordinarily speak to each other had developed a temporary, special affinity. Once the 400m race was announced, I confidently strutted my way towards the start line. There was a little bit of a crowd congregated along the home straight, so the stakes were higher than usual. If you've never ran a 400m race, then the staggered starting positions can often give you a false sense of confidence. In lane six it seems like you’re 20-metres ahead of the rest of the competitors before the race has even begun.

Now in the crowd that day was a girl who'd developed an unprovoked liking for me, but I didn’t feel the same way about her. It wouldn't surprise me if she turned out to be a stunner later on in life, but at the time she was loud, in your face, and didn’t look like any of the girls I’d seen in Smash Hits magazine. Ordinarily I dreaded walking past her in the school corridor because she’d often shout something embarrassing like, "Awe, here's my husband,” before ruffling my hair with her peculiarly large hands. On this occasion however, I thought to myself that it would look great if I powered to victory in front of my greatest (only) admirer. At age 14 I’d take any kudos. Even Bros and Jason Donovan had to take the rough with the smooth occasionally.

By way of training and preparation, although I hadn’t actually practised the 400m, I had watched Sebastian Coe and Steve Cram on the television, and what they did didn’t seem like that much of a struggle. After breaking world records they still had sufficient energy to do a lap of honour, and that was after 800m and 1500m, so 400m couldn't be that strenuous, surely?

Steve Cram and Sebastian Coe

Well, I was about to find out that there’s a reason you're put in lane six in a 400m race, and it isn’t because of your fast qualifying time. As the starting gun fired, I got up to speed quickly and powered my way around the first bend. As the track levelled out into the back straight, my initial 20-metre imaginary lead immediately vanished as four lads appeared out of nowhere, expelled a range of grunting noises, and tore off into the distance. After what seemed like at least another 10-minutes, I steam-rolled into the home strait (at about the same speed as a steamroller) with what definitely felt like a stitch coming on. With the finish line in sight, I suddenly became aware that there was still another competitor in the race and they were eating into my lead. It was the lad with the limp and the thick glasses who normally played in goal, and the mother of all battles ensued between us for the coveted second-to-last place.

Eyes wide and arms pumping, I managed to maintain a slight lead down the home straight before launching myself at the finish line to woefully sympathetic applause. With my legs buckling like a new-born horse’s, and the girl with a crush on me and the big hands yelling, "Well done husband, I love you!” I looked around expectantly for the hero ribbon the PE teachers would normally hold across the finishing line to greet the race winner. But alas, it was nowhere to be seen.

Did your school have a house system, and which athletics event were you best at?