Harry Pearson
Last week I attended one of the jewels in the sporting calendar, the village first- school sports day. It was a sunny afternoon, the attendance was good and all the children got a chance to take part. As the afternoon progressed I watched kindly mums wink at six-year-olds who had just finished last in that ultimate test of poise and speed, the beanbag-on-the-head race; while grey-haired grandads exhorted nervous competitors in the year-three skipping event not to worry, “It’s only a bit of fun.”
To many the scene might have seemed heartwarming. To those of us forced by professional considerations to cast a coldly objective eye over things, however, it was simply another occasion to shake our heads in despair.
Bluntly, we are throwing good money after bad in coaching British children because it is plainly British parents who are the most in need of training. How is a nation of fair-minded easy-going individuals such as those I observed ever going to breed a generation of champions? Where was the ill- natured triumphalism, the single-mindedness, the I-don’t-care- what-you-want-this-is-what-you-need
brutality? And why was I the only father present carrying a banner reading “Eat My Daughter’s Dust, Pondlife”? When will Britain learn that we cannot produce our own Mary Pierces unless we produce a few Jim Pierces to yell at them first?
The whole happy-go-lucky malaise that grips British sport was neatly summed up for me by the behaviour of one of the entrants in the parents’ sack race. As he stood on the start line it was plain that the depth of the sack he had been handed meant he would have to bend double to grip the top of it, thus severely restricting his ability to bounce. I don’t think we need to ask how Damir Dokic would have reacted in such a situation. Yet did the man hurl abuse at the head teacher over the unfair advantage that had been handed to his shorter competitors? Did he lie across the middle of the track and refuse to budge until a longer sack was found? Of course not. He simply did his best and finished third.
Even then he might have redeemed himself by venting his frustration on a passing dinner lady. Instead he joked with the woman who plays piano for music and movement. In similar circumstances I doubt if you would have got a wisecrack out of Stefano Capriati.
With this sort of sloppy, uncaring example being set to our youngsters, is there any wonder we are the softest touch on the international sporting scene? Or that attempts to gain that little professional edge by the surreptitious use of
chewing gum during the year-four egg-and- spoon race were so conspicuous by their absence?
As it stands at the moment it is plain to me that British parents simply lack the required streak of obsessive madness (or “fully focused competitive attitude” as we sportswriters prefer to call it) necessary to power the production line of winners our nation expects and demands.
Fifteen minutes after the last event had finished my daughter emerged beaming delightedly from the school entrance, a red plastic star hanging from a ribbon around her neck. “I got this for trying so hard,” she squeaked proudly.
Other British parents might have allowed themselves a fond smile, or swallowed back an emotional lump in the throat. Luckily I am made of sterner stuff.
Violently I ripped the plastic star from its ribbon and hurled it over a hedge. “You get nothing for coming second and even less for coming second-last in the nursery-section 50m hopping race, babycakes,” I yelled. “You’re four years old. From now on you take care of business or change your act.” And with that I turned on my heel and marched away.
My daughter has been crying intermittently ever since. But in the long term I know both she and the British public will be grateful to me.