It was the kids' school sports day today. My lad has always been rapid for his age and today he was winning everything. He won the 80m sprint by about 40m, and this against the boys in the year above him because he could almost walk against his class contemporaries and win. Seriously, he's like Road Runner when he gets going.
Which is all well and good, but it has consequences. How can I see him winning medal after bleeding medal, and then crash and burn in the Dad's race at the end? I'm telling you, the pressure is intense.
Now I like to think that for 40 years old, I'm not in bad shape. I run, play tennis, and used to be fairly sharp myself. So usually, winning the Dad's race isn't too arduous a task. Today though, was different. Today presented me with a real chance of glory. Glory however, can make men that pursue it look foolish in the extreme.
I was in lane 4 for the 80 metres. In Lane 3, was someone that I have to admit, I thought might give me a race. Ashley Young. I looked at him. He looked at me, and if I wasn't very much mistaken, I definitely caught a flicker of fear in his eyes; a recognition that he may have met his match. I, on the other hand, could only think of two things. 1. This was Arsenal vs Man United. 2. This was the country against the plonker who missed a penalty last week and saw the Italians knock us out. This was my chance to strike a blow for the long-suffering supporter, the taken-for-granted down trodden fan. I was running for England.
Suitably inspired, I was off like the crack from a pistol. I kid you not, at halfway, I was ahead. Fully focused. In the zone. Legs like pistons, head still. I swear the opening bars to the Chariots Of Fire music started up somewhere. Anyway, there was no-one in my peripheral vision other than my main foe on my immediate inside. But behind me. Not by much, but behind all the same. My concentration was such that after about 50m, I almost felt as if my feet were no longer touching the ground - I was literally running on air, flying, fuelled almost by some higher being lending support to my noble cause. A split second later this cruel illusion was shattered. Indeed, my feet were no longer touching the ground. But my arse was as I cruelly succumbed to the God of Fate. Spitting grass from my mouth, I rose again, but my foe had flown. What. A. Twat.
Later, my lad came over to console me. "Dad! Dad! You were winning! You were beating Ashley Young!", he shouted. "I know, Son," I said, "You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it".
"Yes", he said. "You are, but you were winning. To be honest though, Dad," he said, "I think Ashley Young was fairly confident of winning himself. He didn't look as if he was trying that hard when you fell".
Tell you what is bloody ironic. There we were, running side by side, and for once he didn't go down like he'd been shot with no tackle anywhere bloody near him! Instead, I did. What are the odds!?!
Gonna insist on a rematch next year, I think. I'll have him yet.
Not so good.
No luck for Northern Monkey (0/3) or On The Nose (0/2). The Market Examiner had another nice winner (The Nifty Fox - Musselburgh - 8/1). Winning Racing Tips had three bets including an each way double. All essentially broke even as they placed but failed to win.
Now, I can't put the actual figures up because I've used BetButler for some bets today and they haven't updated my account as yet, so it's a bit tricky. This may become a bit of a problem. What I might do when necessary is simply add the figures in the morning to the post. Just want to make reporting as accurate as possible.
Have a great weekend folks. I'm off now to try and get over my trauma. Life is just so bloody unfair at times. :(