Jonny McCambridge: Learning a lesson from the children on sports day at school

What if he gets overwhelmed by all the noise and commotion? What if he gets upset because he's not one of the best? What if the trauma makes him hate taking part in competitive games? What if people laugh at him? What if he comes last? What if...?

Perhaps my fears are influenced by my own experiences as a primary school child. The sense of failure I felt because I never came close to winning a medal on sports day. Back then, in a harsher time, the faster kids were lauded and celebrated while those of us who finished closer to the back were made to feel we were in some way deficient. I’ve mostly avoided participating in competitive sport since.

Maybe there is another factor at play which also makes me a bit queasy. My son is currently being prepared for the transfer test later this year. A lot of what is happening at the moment seems to involve testing the kids, finding their strengths and weaknesses, ranking them, getting them ready for the larger and longer race that is life.

Whatever troubled thoughts are going through my head, happily, they seem to be exclusive to me. While I’m fretting, it becomes clear that my son is excited about sports day, looking forward to a morning spent outside of the classroom. When I quiz him about his prospects, he tells me over and over that it doesn’t matter where you finish, as long as you have fun.

The sun is strengthening and burning off the morning haze as we arrive at the school field. The smell of freshly cut grass intoxicates the senses. The painted white lines on the bumpy grass track are close to straight. The headmaster is excitedly speaking into a microphone, setting out the timetable for the day. There are plenty of parents here and a large queue begins to form at the little van which sells coffees and buns. It occurs to me that I haven’t done this in a few years; there was one sports day lost to Covid, one to the weather, another to my work commitments. I nibble nervously at the edge of a fingernail as I exchange awkward small-talk with another daddy.

The children are led out to the field by their teacher and I quickly spot my son, looking smaller in the crowd than he seemed when I had dropped him at the gates an hour earlier. My wife and I are frantically waving until he sees us and jumps to his feet, giving us an enthusiastic little thumbs-up. The races begin and I feel a little shot of anxiety. I keep asking my wife, “Do you think he'll be ok?” over and over until she's forced to pretend that she can't hear me. I worry that, at the first sign of adversity, I'll invade the track like Derek Redmond's father.

(For the uninitiated, Derek Redmond was a 400m runner who was fancied to win a medal at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. However, in the semi-final he collapsed midway through the race after tearing his hamstring. Although he was in agonising pain the athlete, determined to complete his Olympic journey, climbed off the track and attempted to finish the race on one leg. His father, who was watching in the crowd, burst through security and onto the track, gathered his inconsolable son in his arms, and supported him all the way to the finish line while the crowd cheered. I challenge any parent to watch the YouTube clip without letting a little tear escape).

The races continue. My son is nowhere near the front. While he is not last, he is close to the back in most of them. Despite this, I am encouraged to see that he is smiling and laughing with his friends between events. Near the end of the day his team finishes runner-up in a relay race which involves passing a football down a line. My boy is beaming with pride when he is presented with a second-place sticker. While there is a smattering of encouraging applause and cheering from the parents, the loudest shouting comes from the children sitting on chairs at the edge of the field watching their friends and classmates compete. I start to notice a pattern.

While there is warm applause for the winners, the real enthusiasm is reserved for the kids who are struggling near the back of the races. They get the loudest cheers of the day and have their names chanted over and over as they cross the finish line. During one egg-and-spoon race there is a small boy who simply cannot balance the ball on his spoon. The noise and encouragement grows as he unsteadily makes his way down the track, dropping the ball over and over.

Hours later I pick my son up from the school gates. He proudly shows me his second-place sticker. It is also his birthday today and I tell him we can go for ice-cream. He chatters excitedly about the day as we walk down the street.

“Daddy,” he begins. “The best thing about sports day is that we get to cheer for all the kids in the other races, especially the ones who are in last place.”

‘And is that something that the teacher tells you to do?’ I ask. He looks momentarily confused. ”No daddy, it’s just something that we do.”

As parents we are there to teach and nurture our children. But sometimes we can learn from them as well.