Running,Jumping, Throwing and Watching

Like most sports, I wasn’t built for athletics. Whether needing to run fast, jump high or hurl heavy objects long distances, I was pretty low down the queue. At primary school I would dread Sports Day. This was the one day in the calendar when children could show off in public and in particular to their parents. Great, if you could sprint or balance a mean beanbag. However, if like me your main contribution to your ‘house’ was housepoints gleaned from maths tests or story writing, then your achievements were tucked away in private. The only stage that mattered would be the school field one balmy afternoon in June or July, and it was one from which I was usually either absent or cowering amidst the supporting cast.

In those days, there were no efforts to democratise Sports Day, to ensure everybody ‘won’ something. It was strictly meritocratic. One year, when I was seven or eight, I had a really great chance of success. In the wheelbarrow race, I had the sturdy David Burcham to hold my legs and in practice we were clearly the pair to beat. However, on the big occasion his grip faltered and the favourites were beaten. It still rankles that, in my entire school career, primary and secondary, my sole Sports Day certificate was that third place in the wheelbarrow race. For some reason, I’ve never included it in my CV.

In the fourth year at Mayflower Comprehensive, I decided to take extreme and calculating measures. What event would be so unpopular that I could almost guarantee a top three finish? Ah, triple jump! So what if I couldn’t sprint; I knew the basic technique so, provided I didn’t ‘foul’, glory must surely be mine. OK, so the event wasn’t scheduled for Sports Day proper but beggars couldn’t be choosers. When I turned up at the pit one cool summer lunchtime, imagine my disappointment when I found that I was one of four competitors. Four! I would have to hop, step and jump further than someone else to finally achieve my long-held ambition. Needless to say, I failed. I barely reached the sand. I had to be satisfied with nine ‘A’ grade O levels but I’d happily have sacrificed one of those ‘A’s for an athletics certificate bearing my name. Such is life…..

For all my lack of personal prowess, I was always a keen viewer of TV athletics broadcasts. My earliest memory is of the 1968 Olympics, when David Hemery broke the 400 metres hurdles world record, Bob Beamon produced an almost impossible long jump distance and Dick Fosbury changed the high jump forever, although not at school, where attempting the ‘Fosbury Flop’ would result in at best a severe neck injury. ‘Health and safety’ was not a term bandied about in the sixties but I didn’t need a Government Act to tell me that landing head first in an inch of damp sand was not recommended practice. In any case, I never bothered even trying to ‘scissor jump over the bar. My mantra was: queue with the others, deliberately knock it off, shrug and wait for something I could at least attempt without embarrassment. Mr, Fosbury, you can keep your event.

I shall be returning to the Olympic Games in a separate chapter but throughout my childhood and indeed much of my adult life, Athletics provided an important part of my summer viewing. The BBC devoted countless hours to the sport, broadcasting every ‘meet’ or championships that mattered, from the wholly domestic to the multinational ones lasting a weekend or entire week. It wasn’t only during the summer either. I remember watching Grandstand’s coverage of the national indoor ‘champs’ in the late winter. I was enthralled by the thump-thump-thump of athletes pounding their feet around the banked bends and, in the 60 metre sprints, crashing into and, if I was really lucky, somersaulting over, the padded barriers at the end of the straight. It was always held at RAF Cosford. I never questioned why it had to be held in a big, echoing barn at an air force base somewhere in the Midlands. It was just the way it was.

Year after year, I would know many of the ‘3As’ title holders and the winner of the Emsley Carr Mile. It all sounds quaint now. What’s a ‘mile’?! The ‘3As’ referred to the AAA, short for the UK governing body, Amateur Athletics Association. Yes, it was an entirely amateur sport. In theory, no participant could accept appearance or prize money, a situation which continued to exist at the Olympics until the IOC accepted the inevitable and ripped up the rule book in time for the 1992 Games.

I remember watching the BBC multi-sport game show ‘Superstars’ in the Seventies. Athletes, especially hurdlers and pole vaulters, were often excellent all-rounders. One year, John Sherwood, who took bronze behind Hemery in Mexico, won the UK ‘Superstars’ final. To accept the title and prize, however paltry, he had to renounce his amateur status and retire from competitive athletics. Back then, it wasn’t a decision to take lightly.

Of course, for many people, amateurism was really ‘shamateurism’. The best athletes were paid ‘under the counter’ or by more sophisticated subterfuge. The Soviet Bloc competitors were all officially eligible thanks to a degree of government support. So too, were the top Americans. It’s just that they couldn’t admit it. Nobody believed the likes of Carl Lewis or Flo-Jo were paid no fees to run anywhere in the world and I’m sure the same was true of Britain’s biggest stars like Daley Thompson or Linford Christie.

As a spectator, it didn’t really matter. As long as the best competed against each other, who cared? Why should only public schoolboys and girls, their training and travel costs subsidised by rich parents, be able to win medals? It also didn’t bother me that I was a useless athlete; I could still appreciate the drama of the sport as television entertainment. Some of my favourite all-time sporting memories have involved extraordinary races, momentous duels in field events, records being smashed, and legendary rivalries played out for my entertainment.

Football - my playing non-career!

There must be few sports as basic as football. The clue’s in the name; all you need is a foot and a ball. I daresay I, like millions of boys before and since, was introduced to the pastime before I could walk. The sphere in question may have been made of fluffy fur, leather or plastic, perhaps a toy small enough for me to hold in a pushchair or a beach ball bigger than I was. With Dad in attendance, having some form of kickabout was an intrinsic part of my childhood for as long as I can remember – and beyond.

 I was very fortunate in that I grew up in a bungalow boasting a long lawn with ample grass on which to fashion a makeshift football – or indeed cricket - pitch. As I matured from, in school parlance, infant to junior, I took advantage of the ‘triangle’, a sizeable expanse of land in the middle of our small village estate where the local boys could recreate Cup Finals or play ‘three and in’, whereby after scoring three goals, you’d have to take in turn in goal. There were two trees at each end of the triangular greensward which served as single goalposts, the pairs completed – in time-honoured fashion - by discarded jumpers or anoraks. Shades of the Fast Show's Ron Manager - "Jumpers for goalposts. Isn't it? Mmmmm"!

The Ingrave school playground or, in the summer months, a small patch of grass adjacent to the climbing frame and swings, also witnessed some earnest games at lunchtimes. On such occasions I could develop not only rudimentary skills but also the all-important notion of teamwork. One winter - I’d have been about eight - I participated in weekly school football practice under the tutelage of Mr Peacock. I realised I was, if not one of the, quickest, strongest or most skilful in my age group, then at least one of the more useful all-rounders. I could spot a pass, perhaps manage to dribble past a defender or two and even score a goal or two. Then, for some reason I have forgotten, or conveniently buried in the deepest dungeon of my memory bank, I missed a few Friday sessions. Wary of incurring Mr Peacock’s wrath, I was too scared to venture back. When I noticed who Mr P picked for the school team, I realised with a rueful sigh: that should have been me.

When I moved to Billericay at the age of nine, I found myself in one of the largest junior schools in Essex. I was nowhere near the standard required to play for Buttsbury Juniors. I’d blown it. I never represented this or any subsequent school at football. My ‘career’ was over before it had started.

It didn’t kill off my enthusiasm for the sport, though. I still wrung enjoyment of playing football, even on the coldest, muddiest mornings or hottest summer lunch breaks at school, and Dad and I would play in our quiet cul-de-sac of Marks Close, in the park on a beach or with one or both football-mad uncles. Catherine was considerably less enamoured of the game and my football-related ill-fortune was magnified by the fact that all six of my cousins were also girls.

In my teens, I was fortuitously granted a belated opportunity to be part of a genuine team, albeit six-a-side. Some boys in neighbouring streets had found themselves a player short and the captain, whose father taught at school with mine, must have in desperation thought of the small ginger kid in Marks Close. So began my Crescent Crushers era.

My introduction to Crusher-hood was mixed. I found that the player I was replacing, because his family were leaving the area, was amazing. He had talent. I didn’t. How could I fill his boots? As things turned out, whilst none of us were particularly good individual players, we somehow gelled as a team. Although I couldn’t tackle to save my life, and would be left for dead by any opponent with a modicum of pace, I turned into a half-decent goal-scoring midfielder: Essex’s answer to Michel Platini or Johan Neeskens. Well, maybe not quite in that class.

We were one of the better sides in our scratch league and even triumphed in a cup final. Though one was promised, I never received my medal. Not that I’m bitter, or anything. Not much! Oddly, the end of the association came in the wake of another Cup tie we won. Drawn against a team of kids a few years younger, it was a ludicrous mismatch. Even I was taller than all our opponents. The factor which led me to leave was our striker’s over-eager determination to leave stud marks on anyone who came close, taking our team name a bit too literally. I felt ashamed being in the same side. Walking away in my boots I knew it was over. I felt – well, crushed. While I bathed in the warm waters of euphoric victory, the sporting pacifist in me was never far from the surface. Unlike Mr Mourinho and his acolytes, I have no desire to ‘win ugly’; I‘d rather not play at all.

At university I hardly participated in any sport, not really fitting in with the boozy football ‘set’. However, a few years later I joined my local Rotaract club. Amongst many other activities, they had a monthly sports hall booking for five-a-side, so I dabbled in some semi-competitive footie for a while. I quickly discovered that I was somewhat out of my depth. At Billericay we had some pretty decent players. At first I was fit enough at least to run around for almost an hour although I was rubbish on the ball. Later on, my engine would swiftly splutter and conk out within minutes. In my thirties, should a game of football appear on the calendar all I could do was channel my Dad’s genes and try my luck in goal. I was less of a liability between the posts and, armed with a rudimentary positioning sense, I might even make a save or two.

So, in terms of Mike Smith on the pitch, that was that. Of course, I have always followed the sport by reading, watching, listening and know I can slip into almost any footie-based conversation without causing myself cringeworthy embarrassment. Just because I believe winning isn’t everything doesn’t mean I’m unable to feel passion for the ‘beautiful game’. It’s not essential to be a partisan supporter. Sometimes you have to sit back and simply admire a pass, a save, a shot, a team performance, even if it’s your team on the receiving end. Read on for my reminiscences of favourite teams, matches, tournaments, players and managers, as well as those who have  driven me up the wall with fury or frustration. Given a certain event in Russia, it seems appropriate to begin with the Mondial, la Coupe de Monde,.... the World Cup.