I confess to being ‘hungover’ for school Sports Day. My own fault. I shouldn’t have gone to ballet the night before; it always ends in carnage.
Things descended into chaos at The Red Lion pub, when Leggy-Linda put on her pointe shoes and clambered onto a table, and Reggie (the manager) gave her another verbal warning. She tried to throw a pointe shoe at him but missed, and later calmed down with a packet of pork scratchings. It was Linda’s third 42nd birthday, so she was making the most of it.
I messaged Bendy-Brenda the next morning, thinking that she would be suffering too. Turned out she was fine, having sprinkled an Alka-Seltzer over her sourdough toastie and free-danced to vintage Will Smith under a cold shower.
A couple of hours later, I rolled onto the school field as my husband set-up the picnic mat in amongst the forest of folding chairs.
Everyone here clearly had the same thought when getting dressed this morning: sun’s out, guns out. Some summery, others sporty and geared up for the parents’ races. My ‘Eat My Dust’ top was in the wash after ballet, but I couldn’t do the mums’ race anyway (having sustained a yoga injury performing the ‘Corpse Pose’).
A mum nearby professed she had no intention of competing, which was thrown into doubt when a Nike Juniper shoe fell out of her tote bag. Small comfort that she would have to hitch her dress into her pants to run, which would hopefully balloon and ruin her streamlining.
The school loudspeaker was wheeled out from the broom cupboard. “Testing, testing,” the long-haired IT guy muttered, the mic in one hand and a fidget spinner in the other. Why do we say such dull things when trialling a microphone? It’s like having the rare opportunity to do graffiti, and only writing ‘hi’.
A grandparent said they might as well ‘put the damn thing away’, as no one ever understood what the commentator was saying anyway. He could be reeling off a shopping list for all we knew.
So yes, it’s the usual crowd, including the ones who have a spot in the second row yet still stand up for the races and block everyone else’s view, and the adults who think sun cream is for wimps (these become glaringly obvious during the course of the morning).
The PE teachers are in their element. Sports Day is their blaze of glory, and they are firmly in charge. Even the headteacher stays out of their way. Never challenge PE teachers, especially when they’re en masse. Strutting about with purpose, they call out instructions (half of which are lost in the wind) and then slow run from the starting blocks to the finish line as if auditioning for ‘Baywatch’.
Suddenly a silence fell across the gathering. I looked up from the picnic mat to see what was going on, and there he was: the famous new PE teacher.
Debonair, divorced (so the hearsay went) and sporting a cowboy Stetson, he strolled confidently across the race track. Apparently he was running late after a paramotoring session, on top of which he had to calm his horse which was tied up behind the portable library. Teachers aren’t usually allowed pets at school, but the trust had made an exception on the basis that the horse could improve emotional well-being (and on condition that the number of children kicked or trodden on was kept to a minimum).
He glided across the field carrying a large grey-white paper roll, his lanyard flapping provocatively with each stride. My fellow ballerinas ogled over him as they stretched, belched and sweated out tequila shots.
(Turns out he had been tasked with finding a replacement option for the finish line ribbon which had accidentally been destroyed in the Nativity Play. In the end they opted for trusty school-grade industrial toilet paper.)
Eventually the children were paraded out wearing a mishmash of PE kit, a telltale sign that the school year will soon end (as parents have run out of steam/money/interest). Family members and friends waved wildly to make sure their child saw them (as you can pretty much go home once this box is ticked).
The children all dread today, given that only a couple in each class actually enjoy competitive running. We spend their formative years telling them that they are enough as they are, then pit them against each other in physical challenges in front of an audience. They might as well rename the event Darwin Day and open with: “May the odds be ever in your favour.”
First up is the obstacle race (as if life isn’t tough enough already). To begin, the children must collect three bean bags (these are placed one metre apart, but they can’t get them all at once because that would be an efficient use of time), then do a circus trick with a Hula Hoop, tyre jumps, a balancing act, then hurdles, a horizontal ladder, snake pit, climbing wall, and finally the mud trail. And then the child in front decides to look around and lose their leading spot (to the only other child who has made it this far).
“Why do they still persist with this?” I asked my husband, who also witnessed our child looking sorrowful as their class was grouped into height order in preparation. “I’m sure the government debated the merits of Sports Day, and concluded that it was damaging.”
“That’s true,” he said, “although Parliament actually ended up voting in favour of continuing.”
“Why?” I asked, as my husband picked some dry grass off my face (after a picnic mat power nap).
“The Education Board didn’t know what else to do with the bean bags.”
Seven races in, spectators are getting restless. At 9:33, one dad turned to his partner and said: “any idea what we can have for lunch?” [They have eggs and ham, apparently. Lots of ham.]
“Do they have to use the whistle at the start of every race?” I asked my husband, my head pounding. “Can’t they just softly whisper ‘go’?” He shook his head dismissively, in an ‘I told you’ kind of way. He’d always said the ballet group was a bad influence, particularly since the second trip to A&E.
The PTA members are living their best life, having been let loose with a refreshments stand and a petty cash tin. They swoosh about selling cakes and beverages, throwing the f-word into every conversation (“fundraising”). They are forever grateful for your support, but woe betide those who forget to bring a reusable thermos.
Whipping out a can of pre-mixed Bloody Mary, Leggy-Linda told them to stuff the thermos. She received a disapproving glance from the PTA-King, to which Linda defiantly stated no one said she couldn’t bring alcohol and told him to ‘go polish the tea urn’.
A toddler played that his picnic blanket was an island, and built towers using cheese stacks.
“Can we go home now?” he eventually asked his mother, who handed over her smartphone.
A perfectly-proportioned trainee teacher with tanned legs and flowing beach-blond hair ran encouragingly with each group. Each time she passed, the female spectators seethed with jealously, sucked in their tummies and cuffed their partners on the back of the head for admiring her. Leggy-Linda reached for her pointe shoe again, and waited for a good shot.
Parents filmed the ‘egg and spoon race’ on their phones, even though no one will ever watch that video in a million years. If the human race is wiped out and curious aliens visit planet Earth and find the footage, they still won’t watch it.
A few children fell and received first aid (i.e. a damp, blue, hand-towel to hold against the wound). The school office then sent an automated text message to emergency contacts, telling them their child had suffered an injury but might be OK in the grand scheme of things.
Towards the end it clouded over briefly, and the Prepared People were delighted because it was the perfect opportunity to show everyone that they had remembered to bring a Mac. Then the wind picked up, causing the PTA major panic over the flimsy paper tablecloths, napkins and handwritten price lists, so they quickly held a vote and elected to rush about weighing everything down with blueberry muffins.
And yet again, to everyone’s surprise, I managed to come away with a winning sticker! Given that most spectators leave well before the relay race (so-called because when they announce there’s yet another one, the audience sighs ‘really?’), the school now reward those who demonstrate sufficient stamina and resilience to stick around until the very end. Apparently I cinched this year’s prize by even staying to watch the later afternoon’s races.
(No one needs to know that I was asleep the whole time.)