Bonus Sprint

There are some times in life when a single opportunity arises that must be taken without a second thought.

I am not talking about a life or death situation, that one in a million chance to leap to escape from certain death or imminent captivity, nothing as life changing as that. I am more in the realms of where you know that you are very good at something but yet there is one individual who is always, always better. You do not like it but have to settle for second place every time. The lyrics of the song "David Watts" by the Kinks and later covered by The Jam include a few sentiments to help set the scene for my own confrontation with one John Morris.

I paraphrase a little bit from the song "He is the head boy at the school, He is the captain of the team," plus "he was an Oxbridge candidate being academically gifted, taller than the rest of us, probably first to get a car in school, had a fit girlfriend and popular with all".

I can already feel that you empathise with me because every school, workplace and experiences in everyday life throws up a John Morris character.

I did not want, unlike the Ray Davies lyrics, to be like or emulate David-Watts-John-Morris but simply win at something. On a warm day in June such an opportunity arose.

It was sports day. The school was relaxed with little attempt by staff and pupils to do anything serious in learning terms during the morning session. The groundsmen had worked wonders with the playing surface transforming it from the Somme to somewhere nearer a useable ploughed field. The white lines of the almost oval running track and a separate, straight sprint course had been freshly painted with reasonable accuracy. I expect that given the luxury of an aerial view the markings will have resembled something rather rude.

Younger boys at the school or those on detention were busy setting out chairs for staff and visitors either civic dignatories or the few parents who usually and reluctantly turned up. I was nervously awaiting the afternoon's 100m sprint event because I felt on good form having secretly trained in the evenings and at weekends on the nearby Westwood Pasture. For once I did not get annoyed if Sheba the dog disappeared into the undergrowth yapping at imaginary rabbits because I was 'in the zone' and a few more laps of the old chalk pit would not hurt my regime. However, all that preparation and suffering would only guarantee me another second place behind John Morris, the Alan Wells sprint monster of the Grammar School.

At morning break I went down to the hovel that was the sixth form common room. Those not in the Oxbridge tutorial group or elevated to Prefect status, which was the majority of the survivors to A level grade had battled for a room in the school for a retreat, recreation and social interaction. We were allowed to use an old abandoned cloakroom earmarked for demolition to make way for a  new sports hall, when funds permitted. The knowledge of its impending destruction prompted us to commence the dismantling and gradually conditions in that space became rank and insanitary. Risking life and possible hepatitis or similar ailments I popped into the common room and by rumour and hearsay I got to know that John Morris's mother had called the school office to say that he was ill and would not be attending lessons today.

 I could barely hide my excitement at this fortuitous news. The scheduled but chaotic history lesson between break and lunch was a blur to me. I was on home dinners and at the long awaited bell I dodged through the north side gate and set off across the lower part of the Westwood, across the Walkington Road, carefully avoiding the splattered cow pats and any potential ankle spraining divots and holes and arrived at the house. In a display of rare singlemindedness I asked my mother in calm tones if she had seen my running spikes. I had acquired a second hand and rather antique pair to give the impression of being serious about athletics. They had been difficult to get used to at first but now formed an integral part of my athleticism.

I am not sure if I ate any lunch but announced to my mother and home-dining siblings that I had a very good chance to win something in the absence, through illness of ,my nemesis, John Morris. My mother, always considerate and thoughtful for others did not give away any emotion at the news but I can well imagine that after my return to school for the sports afternoon she may have leapt up and down and shouted
 " yyyyyeeeeesssssssss". My mother was my sprinting inspiration with her sparkling and all conquering bare foot victories in successive mums races in the days when parental ,and indeed any, competiton was a part of a sports day.

Anyway, I ran well and won the 100m and I seem to remember the 200m as well and proudly received the certificates from the Headmaster. He was not sure who I was not being in his Oxbridge tutorial group and not at all or faintly resembling the tall, imposing, academically gifted and much admired John Morris. I would later in the academic year shock the Head by announcing that I was applying to a Polytechnic to study a vocational course. I had to explain to him that these were places of academia a bit like a University. I did not gloat on my victory, sorry,  victories and to his credit John Morris did not comment in any demeaning way about what could be seen as a default result. The final line of the David Watts song really did apply.... "for he is of pure and noble breed". I have no idea whatsoever what he is doing now.