So here we are, in the eye of a sporting hurricane. We’ve had Euro 2016 and the Copa América for those of a round-ball bent, the Olympic Games have handed the baton over to the Paralympics in Rio, Australia’s cricketers are still on tour in Sri Lanka, the Wallabies’ Rugby Championship bid continues, the Diamonds have recently secured another netball title, and we are at the business end of the NRL and AFL seasons.
All this sporting excellence is eye-watering (except the Wallabies, where the tears aren’t due to excellence), with many loyalties divided as people struggle to choose where to focus their attention. But the real heroes are being overlooked. It’s time to celebrate the lifeblood of sport: those of us who aren’t very good at it.
We’re the people who turn up, week in week out, only to have our spirits crushed by those who are fated to become the sporting elite. We’re not destined for greatness. Most of us can only dream of mediocrity. When I dream, it is of not making an utter fool of myself the next time I take to the court (I play wheelchair basketball and tennis).
Without those of us who thrash around helplessly (but always with enthusiasm), the talent could not shine and tomorrow’s heroes would never be identified. This became glaringly apparent to me back in 2010. A tennis coach friend of mine organised a match for me at the National Tennis Centre in London because he thought I might write about my opponent, but he refused to say any more.
Of course I turned up, for I can rarely resist a game, although curiosity also played a role. When my opponent arrived I was stunned. He was just 12 years old. Still, I was happy to have the odds in my favour for a change, and threw myself into the match determined to crush his young spirit.
The opening few games went smoothly, with me taking virtually every point, and the child beyond the net looking more and more flushed. But when he started to swear under his breath and his mother admonished him from the sidelines, the tide began to turn. This was becoming uncomfortable, and I eased off a little. Big mistake. I lost the match by two sets to love.
Some people would have been embarrassed about losing to an opponent 30 years their junior. But self-pity is not my strong suit, so instead I viewed my role as critical in the development of a major talent of the future (I may have cried a little in the car park).
Of course you will have guessed the nature of the punchline by now: my opponent that day was Alfie Hewitt, winner of the wheelchair tennis doubles title at this year’s Wimbledon. And just like any great champion, he reached the pinnacle of his sport by beating people. Not just his opponents on the grass of SW19, but the others before them, right down to the “grass roots”.
It’s also worth remembering that in most sports, the mediocre players do most of the heavy lifting; we are the admins, the umpires, the transport, the fundraisers, the support team. We are the evangelists, the people who spread the word and encourage others to have a go and to consider sport as something that they participate in rather than just being something they watch. There are lots of us, and we do it because we love it. A survey in 2010 revealed that 2.3 million people in Australia volunteer their time to sport.
The debate over the importance of competitive sport for children has been running for years. Should everyone get a medal just for trying? Or are we setting kids up for disappointment when they are thrown into the “real world”?
The answer is simple: the elite should be celebrated for their achievements and encouraged to excel. But we should also recognise the real heroes: those who keep losing, but come back week in, week out, because they love it. For the majority of us, that IS the real world.
Those of you who are about to lose, we salute you.
