It’s that time of the year again when Dad’s all over the country are sweating. Not from any physical activity, but from the fear of ‘the dad’s race’.
At the first child’s sport’s day you turn up oblivious to the tradition, to the horror of child pressure and to the abject panic when the mum’s look at you as if to say ‘you’re not really a man if you deny your child…’
“Please, please, please daddy…”. How can you say no?
So you reluctantly, slowly, cowering, slouch towards the start line. It’s going to be ok there’s a couple of fatter blokes in the line up, even some older ones, you tell yourself. There’s one who’s old enough to be your dad and carrying 3 stones on you. It’s going to be fine. How hard can it be?
Then you notice. You look down and see their footwear. They are all wearing trainers. Even the old fat one is wearing the latest Nike, anti slip, go fast, shiny new, spiked, running shoes for wet grass. You glance down. It’s an important day in the child’s diary, you want to look good (in case there are MILF’s about), so you put on your best Loake’s Chelsea boots. Leather upper and sole. Elasticated sides for comfort and easy slip on and off. They complement, the nice light wool summer suit you’re casually wearing.
Time move’s slowly… The Headmaster say’s ‘’ready’’… you look across the line. It’s going to be harder than you thought… ‘’steady’’.. you look at your kids cheering you on… you take a deep breath, ‘’go’’ you push off and like wily coyote your legs spin and you go nowhere very quickly. The trousers are tight at the knee, the suit is tight across the shoulders and your arms don’t swing… You’re hardly moving forward.
The old fat (ex army PI instructor – you later find out) to your right is already 10 yards in front. You can’t catch him. You start blowing hard. Everyone else is 10 yards in front of him!
You lose. Last. By a long way. Your kids look disappointed. “Sally’s Granddad beat you!”…
The shame, humiliation and torture are too much. The first of several excuses leave your lips in seconds. “I had the wrong shoes on…My suit is too well fitted… I hadn’t warmed up properly… I have a groin strain from the Marathon I ran at the weekend…”.
It’s the next year. No problem. You make some excuse. Something came up at work. Life or Death (as if that can really happen in marketing?).
It’s the year after. You have to go. But you limp on to the field. “Oh it’s nothing, I slipped off a ladder putting some (manly) shelves up. The kids don’t remember that, but they ‘let you off this time’.
It’s the next year, shit! Err. ‘’Pulled a muscle in my back playing Squash’’.
The year after. “Sprained ankle trying to get a stranded cat that got stuck in a tree.”
And on it goes on and every year since then. And when I hear the words ‘sports day’ I perspire like a horse.
What the hell am I going to come up with this year…
The truth? “I’m old, unfit, can’t be arsed, don’t want to be embarrassed again by a 60 year old.”
Oh the horror….. the horror….
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