A Club Meeting
It’s the first meet of the season and things are not looking good. Darren, our sole hope for the 100m, 200m, 400m long jump, triple jump, hurdles and pole vault, is out injured.
‘I don’t know how it happened,’ he tells us, hobbling up the finishing straight. ‘I jogged trough the park to warm up and something just went. It’s never happened before.’
In the three years I had been with our club this had never happened. According to legend Darren hadn’t missed a meet since his twenty-fifth birthday, two decades previously and running without him just didn’t seem possible. I did the 5k and the 1500, Tim did the 800, Aaron did the high jump, Mike did the discus and shot put and James did the steeplechase and Darren did everything else. We didn’t always show up – I ran marathons and Mike was frequently in jail - but we knew he would cover for us. He was always there. Always.
James immediately saw that we had a problem. As an ex international 400m runner his day – for The Falkland islands – he tended to assume the position of captain if such a thing was ever required, Darren being usually too busy, and he bought us together in a team huddle.
‘Right chaps. You can see what’s happened here and don’t worry. We had a similar situation to this back in the Commonwealths in 74.’
He pulled out a pair of running shoes from inside a carrier bag and began to place small strips of paper inside it.
‘And this is how we solved it.’
He stepped back and presented the shoe to Mike.
‘What, lots?’ asked the twenty stone former bodyguard.
‘Yep,’ said James. ‘It didn’t do us any harm. I reached the final of the pole vault in Edmonton that year.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Mike, reaching into the shoe. ‘That wasn’t even an event back in...oh fuck, hurdles. You got to having a laugh.’
‘We need the points,’ James advised. ‘I dint care if you take twenty minutes, if you cross that line we get a point. And need I remind you that last year we escaped relegation by just...’
‘ONE POINT,’ we chorused.
Our club has been in division two of the Surrey league since 1963 and last year was the closest we’d ever come to being relegated to division 3. We were officially the worst ever team in our history and were very proud of our achievement.
‘And what is Surrey athletics all about?’ continued James.
‘COMPETING,’ we said.
‘Exactly.’
This was the only way athletics at this level could survive. In fact sometimes I was amazed it did at all. The Surrey league was one of the top competitions in the country, where the likes of Martin Rooney, Jason Livingstone and Gary Staines had plied their trade in recent years, and yet the track meets, of which there were only five a season, felt more like boozy pub cricket matches on the village green. Teams gathered under sun awnings, families sat munching sandwiches, children played in the long jump pit and once every few minutes a race took place. There would normally be two or three athletes who were streaks ahead of the rest, a big bunch in the middle doing their best and some very old, very young or very overweight stragglers. No-one quite understood how the scoring worked, no-one trusted the stopwatches of the race officials and sometimes no-one noticed some of the events at all. We turned up, sat around chatting for a while, did our event and then went home.
But yet the league continues, and next year will celebrate its 113th birthday. How does it work? How does it keep going?
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mike, gasping for air after running a creditable 24 second hurdles for 8th, and last, place. ‘I ain’t been running from black guys that big since Strangeways in 85. Jesus Christ, what are you trying to do me you...’
It continues because of people like Mike, people like James and particularly people like Darren – competitors, athletes, every last one of them.
‘If that leg isn’t better by next week, I’m going to buy you one down at Blackbush market,’ Mike continued.
Darren looked back at him and then hobbled down the straight with grimace.
‘I’m going to see if I can stretch it to the relay,’ he yelled. ‘It might have cleared up by then.’
After the first meet of the season, my club are sitting in second to last place in the league, after Blackheath’s minibus broke down on the way to the venue. A proud history is set to continue.
‘I don’t know how it happened,’ he tells us, hobbling up the finishing straight. ‘I jogged trough the park to warm up and something just went. It’s never happened before.’
In the three years I had been with our club this had never happened. According to legend Darren hadn’t missed a meet since his twenty-fifth birthday, two decades previously and running without him just didn’t seem possible. I did the 5k and the 1500, Tim did the 800, Aaron did the high jump, Mike did the discus and shot put and James did the steeplechase and Darren did everything else. We didn’t always show up – I ran marathons and Mike was frequently in jail - but we knew he would cover for us. He was always there. Always.
James immediately saw that we had a problem. As an ex international 400m runner his day – for The Falkland islands – he tended to assume the position of captain if such a thing was ever required, Darren being usually too busy, and he bought us together in a team huddle.
‘Right chaps. You can see what’s happened here and don’t worry. We had a similar situation to this back in the Commonwealths in 74.’
He pulled out a pair of running shoes from inside a carrier bag and began to place small strips of paper inside it.
‘And this is how we solved it.’
He stepped back and presented the shoe to Mike.
‘What, lots?’ asked the twenty stone former bodyguard.
‘Yep,’ said James. ‘It didn’t do us any harm. I reached the final of the pole vault in Edmonton that year.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Mike, reaching into the shoe. ‘That wasn’t even an event back in...oh fuck, hurdles. You got to having a laugh.’
‘We need the points,’ James advised. ‘I dint care if you take twenty minutes, if you cross that line we get a point. And need I remind you that last year we escaped relegation by just...’
‘ONE POINT,’ we chorused.
Our club has been in division two of the Surrey league since 1963 and last year was the closest we’d ever come to being relegated to division 3. We were officially the worst ever team in our history and were very proud of our achievement.
‘And what is Surrey athletics all about?’ continued James.
‘COMPETING,’ we said.
‘Exactly.’
This was the only way athletics at this level could survive. In fact sometimes I was amazed it did at all. The Surrey league was one of the top competitions in the country, where the likes of Martin Rooney, Jason Livingstone and Gary Staines had plied their trade in recent years, and yet the track meets, of which there were only five a season, felt more like boozy pub cricket matches on the village green. Teams gathered under sun awnings, families sat munching sandwiches, children played in the long jump pit and once every few minutes a race took place. There would normally be two or three athletes who were streaks ahead of the rest, a big bunch in the middle doing their best and some very old, very young or very overweight stragglers. No-one quite understood how the scoring worked, no-one trusted the stopwatches of the race officials and sometimes no-one noticed some of the events at all. We turned up, sat around chatting for a while, did our event and then went home.
But yet the league continues, and next year will celebrate its 113th birthday. How does it work? How does it keep going?
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mike, gasping for air after running a creditable 24 second hurdles for 8th, and last, place. ‘I ain’t been running from black guys that big since Strangeways in 85. Jesus Christ, what are you trying to do me you...’
It continues because of people like Mike, people like James and particularly people like Darren – competitors, athletes, every last one of them.
‘If that leg isn’t better by next week, I’m going to buy you one down at Blackbush market,’ Mike continued.
Darren looked back at him and then hobbled down the straight with grimace.
‘I’m going to see if I can stretch it to the relay,’ he yelled. ‘It might have cleared up by then.’
After the first meet of the season, my club are sitting in second to last place in the league, after Blackheath’s minibus broke down on the way to the venue. A proud history is set to continue.
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