It’s my son’s first sports day and it’s been, mostly, wonderful. One drawback is that it’s been hatefully hot and we find ourselves entirely without shade in an open sports field. No one seems as bothered by the heat as me. Sure, the other parents do join me in bemoaning the bracing, spotlight heat screaming at us like a comically powerful sci-fi death ray. But their complaints are just that – complaints: delivered with all the irritation of a lost hat or a missed bin collection.
I, on the other hand, am very near death and trying to be stoical about it all, with very little success. Perhaps sensing my pinched smile, my faxpaper-pale skin, or the fact I keep saying, ‘It’s too hot, I will probably die,’ they offer me consolation, water and sun cream, and I do my best to focus on the events at hand.
Unfortunately, the other main drawback is that he’s had a rocky start. His introduction to competitive athletics has been more of a gauntlet than we hoped. At the starting line for his first event, to do a 100m with bean bag perched on his head, he burst into tears when said bean bag fell off, and was quickly shepherded to the sideline for reassurance. We’d been instructed not to interrupt proceedings to sit with or console them between events, and I received hand signals from his teacher that this measure was to remain in place. It’s a perfectly sensible rule, but I couldn’t help feeling impotent and stupid, not least since I was filming the entire thing and must have looked like an emotionless field marshall, rehearsing a speech for him to ‘toughen up’ in my head.
Soon he took his place in another race, a sprint he did complete, but only while crying the entire time. With more kindness from his incredible teachers, he settled as we cheered him on.
And then comes the final relay. He’s fourth or fifth in sequence and I don’t take my eye off him as his time in the spotlight approaches. His tears have dried and there is a look on his face of forbearance and calm. As his donor hands him the baton, he takes off with motoring zeal. It’s a sight to behold, as he runs like no human being you’ve ever seen: elbows clamped by his sides, legs rising only a few millimetres off the ground; his knees barely lifting at all, giving him the stiff gait of Super Mario, albeit a version of Super Mario balancing two newspapers under his arms.
There is almost nothing on earth I love more than his jagged, halting gambol, and it is now in full flow. Aware of what’s gone before, my fellow parents pause from fanning me with library cards and swimming leaflets, to cheer along with me. He passes his baton to applause, so seized by the moment he has to be restrained by his teachers from taking off for another lap.
He gleams at me, his arms aloft. And as a medal reflects the sunshine directly into my face when it is placed around his neck, I find I don’t much mind the glare at all.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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