Those of you following this evolution of
my story, and with some knowledge of boy’s schools, will note that I have not
yet mentioned sport. I am sure the reason for this is that I was not awfully
good, and not awfully enthusiastic. It was to be much later in my life that I
discovered sailing, and then the challenges of training to run a marathon, and
subsequently many years of training in various disciplines of Karate. But those
are stories for later.
So, there was an expectation that all
boys at Chatham House would play some form of sport. In winter this was either
rugby union or hockey, and in summer, we were expected to learn how to play
cricket and take up some form of athletics. Of course this was built into the
house system, with teams playing against one another for house points. But
there was obviously a staff scouting system to build teams to play for the school
against other schools.
One of my problems was that I was of only
average height, and somewhat hefty (and at times fat) for my height. In fact my
friend Alan nicknamed me ‘Tub’, and he has continued to use that affectionate
term until the present day. Everyone else used the nickname ‘Ged’ (my first
three initials, of course) right through to themed 1970s.
Outside of school I certainly walked
fair distances (and never complained). I also cycled whenever opportunity arose,
and enjoyed developing the skill. But I could not run. I just did not have the
fitness, and found every excuse to get out of athletic activity. I did, however,
learn to play rugby, my skills being confined to being part of the scrum –
where my weight could be used to good effect. To actually catch the ball and
travel rapidly down the field to score a try, did not seem to be in my nature.
I preferred to pass the ball as soon as I could and follow everyone else. I was
taught the correct way to tackle, and do not remember ever getting seriously
hurt. In fact I remember a certain pleasure in applying the skill to tackle as
low as possible, bringing someone down to be piled on by the rest of the pack.
But I always preferred someone else to pick up the ball.
I can remember playing on Saturday
mornings in house competition, but I don’t remember ever being good enough to
be chosen to play in a team against another school. Of course there were other
discomforts. Rugby, historically, has always been a winter sport. In Britain
this meant either bitterly cold with a patina of ice crystals on what passed
for grass across the pitch until the sun was high enough in the sky to melt it
all. Alternatively it was frequently pouring with rain, our efforts stirring up
muddy puddles in which we later could fall.
Early on a Saturday morning, I would
travel to Hawtrey’s Field by bus in a reasonably pristine condition, change
into rugby kit and boots in a cold change room and join the others to ‘warm up’
before beginning. There was always a sprinkling of hardy parents and other
supporters courageous enough to stand on the touchline and cheer or jeer.
Sadly, I can only remember one occasion when my parents attended, thank
goodness. My father had been a much better sportsman than I was, had played
hockey for the Air Force at some point in his career, had excelled at Javelin,
and had medals to prove it. But he tended to be of the ‘jeering parent’
variety, and I remember being seriously crestfallen at the end of that single
experience. I was happy to survive on my own, thank you.
Of course after the game we had to
complete the ritual with cold showers, and ribald comments from both sides
alike. The muddy gear and boots had to be scraped clean as far as possible and
then packed into the sports bag for transport home, where my long suffering
mother never seemed to have a problem washing off the mud for the following
week.
It was the same with hockey; the same
kind of weather, the same fields, the same bunch of schoolboys, the same cold
showers. The only difference was that I did gain a modicum of skill playing on
grass, began to understand the rules, and did not seem to have much fear of
that hard little white ball. I still could not run all that well, and
eventually the team solved that by putting me in goal – where, all wrapped up
in special gear, I seemed to be large enough to stop the odd shot at goal. The
Firsts was reserved for a group of stars which included the unbelievably talented
Wilson brothers – who later went on to Oxford, both gaining Hockey Blues. But I
did end up playing several games as the goalie for the school in the Seconds or
Thirds. Despite the odd goal scored against us, and the fact it is always the
goalie’s fault of course, I still remember these events from my life as adding
to my self-esteem.
In the athletics season, in what passed
for summer in Ramsgate, I always tried to take on the role of team coordinator.
That is, I did not compete. I was there to make sure others got to the right
event at the right time, and look after all the coats and other gear. I did not
compete because I could not find an event at which I could excel. I could not
run fast over a short distance. I did not seem to have the legs or the breath
to run over a longer distance – fast or not. I did not appear to have to
coordination or the requisite strength for javelin, shot putt or discus. I
could not jump any kind of distance at long jump – I was lucky to make the sand
pit, however long my run up.
And my efforts to learn to high jump,
about aged thirteen, ended in disaster. We were practicing under supervision of
a master. The bar was set at about three feet high. We had been shown, and
practiced, how to do a Western Roll over the bar onto the soft matting (the
Fosbury flop method was light years into the future). So I did my approach run
up, went through the bar, and somehow managed to get my arm pointing backwards
for the landing. A small fracture of the trochlea of my left humerus was to
mean 6 weeks in plaster with a sling, somewhat to everyone else’s amusement at
the story. The worst part of that was that I had been taking lessons toward
achieving my Bronze Medal at lifesaving, with only one week to go. The fracture
meant that I missed the test, and never did achieve my lifesaving ambitions.
The other consequence was that I was
forced to miss a swimming championship at school. This was a great pity. I
might not have been able to run, I was obviously hopeless at jumping, I could
not throw objects very far, I did not excel at team sports like rugby and
hockey, but actually I had begun to show promise at swimming. It is often the
case, is it not, that at least at the amateur level of swimming competition, a
competitor with a bit of flab has surprising buoyancy, and can often do well?
Well, I was carrying a bit of flab at that stage, did have buoyancy, and had
got into the habit of winning races at the school trials at the heated baths in
Broadstairs. But with an arm in a sling, it was all not to be.
So what do you do when you are not good
at sport? You either find some other sport that suits your physique and
mentality, or you become a Library Monitor!
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