Sports day, as it was cheerfully referred to by teachers when I was at school, was, for me, better described by the term torture week.
In junior school/elementary we were herded onto the fields to receive the exciting news that trials would begin for Sports Day. Cheers would be heard from a great distance as I stared across the fields to the road which led to … well anywhere but school.
Friends would discuss their hopes of making the long jump finals, or the sprint, or the high jump etc. I kept my silence. The mere thought of being told to run/jump/leap/perform made my rebellious side emerge. Why did the school require me to undertake these events? No parent would be cheering me on. My older brother was excused from all physical activity (other than managing to undertake strenuous play at break time) due to his health. If there was to be a sporting family member my older siblings had rejected the requisite genes during cell division. So why did any one think a skinny 5’ kid from the same family could possibly have any desire to dash around a track?
By Grade 3 I had realised that the yelling, threats of punishment and general head shaking could not force me to put effort into the trials. So I slowly jogged in races, ran past the hurdles, ran under the high jump bar, did an impression of an elephant attempting long jump until my name was crossed off the lists. The report stated “Unwilling to participate” which delighted me even as my parents informed me of the dire consequences of not being a team player.
In winter I played hockey and summer tennis. I even managed to be a member of a hockey team for two seasons. Upon reflection I suspect there were only enough players for two teams so perhaps my brief spell as a sports person was not quite a measure of my skill set. Tennis was fun because I could chat, hit wild shots, and generally irritate the coach in the manner that only kids can do.
Grade Six sports day was looming. My heart sank. As determined as I was to avoid being other than a supporter of my friends I found myself at the start of the hurdles race. For my age I was tall. I knew I could run well because my friends rarely caught me but that was fun. This was most certainly not fun. The starter gun fired. I jogged. The field surged ahead of me. Game plan in place I grinned at the teacher in charge.
A stupid move. Most teachers knew me well enough to shrug and look away. Not this time. The new teacher assumed I was challenging him. So he yelled. Then he jogged beside me as he informed me that hurdles were the easiest things to jump and only little kids were scared of them. I did not waste a sideways glance at him as I ran past all the hurdles. The last to finish I knew my work was done. The hurdle races would be sans me.
To my horror the voice of the teacher summoned me back to the starting line. I was instructed to run with the next batch of kids. Stunned by the audacity of the man I lined up and repeated my slow jog as I avoided all the hurdles.
After a rest period I was told to try again with the top runners from the previous events. How clearly I recall staring at the insane teacher as I considered how dangerous he might be to my well drawn plan of non-participation. Obviously one of us was going to cave in but, I narrowed my eyes, it would not be me.
As I began my jog with my slow pace the maniac was again beside me.
“Just try!” He urged.
I was thoroughly angered by his persistence. So I did the only thing that came into my mind.
I sailed over every hurdle and completed the race ahead of a few runners.
To my surprise there was applause. Some one cheered me. Stunned I looked back at the hurdles. I who had never been able to play leap frog due to a lack of coordination had successfully hurdled. Clearly it was a mistake never to be repeated.
In order to prove it I continued the hurdles try out. The universe is a strange place for the hurdles were easy for me to clear. Apparently by not over thinking the skills needed to get over them, mainly due to anger towards the teacher, I had succeeded.
Sports day saw me in a race. I was placed. I felt a sense of accomplishment even though no one in my family witnessed my achievement.
The following year I was ready to hurdle my way to victory. Determined to win in my last year at the school I kept my enthusiasm to myself. A growth spurt had added inches to my height. Yes!
On a damp Friday break time I was playing French Skipping with my friends. Skilled at the game I had been in for awhile and wanted to stop. Instead of doing the sensible thing by simply stopping I opted to miss the elastics and be out.
One of my friend’s stared at me as I lay on the muddy ground. Her eyes widened as she pointed at my legs before fainting. In excruciating pain I attempted to get up. The number of people around me had rapidly increased as Beatrix fainted. Two teachers appeared. They assumed the unconscious girl was the reason for the mob. All I knew was that part of what had been a perfectly sound knee now jutted out in a most peculiar way. General panic prevailed upon which I shall draw a curtain.
For decades since that day my knees have been an issue. Orthopedic surgeons have asked me what sports I have played as they stare at X-rays. Now they just shrug while pondering my pain threshold. I have been extremely fortunate in not having far worse knee issues than the ones I have had so I count my blessings.
Sitting on the bathroom floor last week after a heavy landing, and I think a partial patella dislocation that return to its anatomically correct location once I straightened my leg, I took deep breaths. Hips okay. Arm okay. Wrist sore but not broken. Ankle sore but intact. Legs okay.
At eleven a planned fall ended my brief hurdling career. I never had the courage to try it after surgery. In advancing age I walk carefully and the family joke is that as I can no longer run they are safe from any attacks if we have to run to escape. I smile but inside of me there is an eleven year old who still wants to leap over hurdles and win that ever elusive race. I just don’t share that with anyone.
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