These 'memories' were jogged by me thinking as I watched (on TV) the Rio Olympics (2016). What Olympic sports have I been involved with or tried at one time or another?
Let's start in the pool. Living in central Africa and with access to the marvellous swimming pool (and diving boards) at the Luanshya Club (no doubt provided by the copper mining company Rio Tinto Zinc), I was quite a good swimmer - and a diver (from the spring board and the first level of the high boards), so on returning to Scotland and going to a school where they had a swimming pool (George Watson's Boys College) when I was 10, I was a 'natural' - but it didn't last long as began to pile on 'puppy fat' (a natural occurence or due to the more indoor lifestyle and my fondness for all the wrong food - chip butties, fish and chips, suet puddings, jelly pieces (ie Bread and jam), and anything sweet).
Then there was cycling. Like almost all kids, I had a bike. There were 'family- road trips (cycling from Pathhead to the coast - and back - usually North Berwick: so quite a distance, 30-40 miles); later cycling to school in Dalkeith (not very often) or to visit friends who lived at or near Blackshiels (again about a 5 mile ride). There was also playing at being at the speedway - usually with village friends down in the nearby woods - what we'd call mountain biking today - only with standard bikes, BMX days etc. being way in the future.
Athletics. It was compulsory at school - so I tried long jump, hop, skip and jump, the high jump (straddle jump only), throwing the discus and javelin, putting the shot, and running (including hurdles): all of which were a bit of a disaster for me. I was no good at the sprints either - so I made 'long distance' my 'speciality' - but even there I was at best second rate, but I tried.
I recall as a fourteen year old trying out for the senior event, the mile, against older opposition, including 6th formers aged 18. I kept up with the pack for the first two of the four laps, but then started to fall behind and was 'lapped' early in the last lap, but valiantly pushed on - greatly embarrassed by Mr 'Fatso' Watson 'calling' the race on the loudspeaker system and shouting encouragement to me, 'Come on, Edmonds! Don't give up!' As if I had any intention of 'giving up'!
Mind you, I could scarcely put one foot in front of the other so I can see know where he was coming from, but at the time I just kept wishing he would shut up so that spectators could ignore me and look at other events like the on-going jumping and so forth. But no, Mr Watson kept the attention on me and encouraged the spectators to applaud me over the line. Perhaps some did, but the blood was pounding in my ears and my lungs seemed to be about to burst and my legs were beginning to feel not only a dead weight, but wobbly with it. After that, Athletics for me, except during compulsory PE, became a spectator sport.
As for boxing and wrestling (or even judo), participated in forms of these 'sports' but only when challenged - to a play-ground or after school fight that is. Boxing would start upright and exchanging blows that vaguely resembled something of the Queensberry rules of pugilism, but soon descended - literally and figuratively - into wrestling/judo - grappling with another trying to pin him down. I had some success with the latter. I recall being challenged to a 'fight' at Ormiston Primary School and managed to get the challenger down and then I pushed his head against the railings - it must have looked like I was trying to push his head through the railings - and he was in some discomfort/pain and 'gave up.' Now whether or not he would have resumed the attack on me when I released my hold on his head, I know not, because at that moment the Janie (janitor) arrived to 'break up' the fight. So I was the undisputed victor - and I was never challenged again at that school.
Being challenged to a fight - and often more than one fight - was obviously a rite of passage or an initiation for new boys at school in those days. As explained elsewhere, I attended many primary schools. My primary school days began and ended at 'independent' schools, both of which by coincidence had maroon uniforms - Harris Academy, Dundee, and George Watson's Boys College, Edinburgh. In between, I had a few years at Luanshya primary school and then about a dozen two-week attendances at various schools through England and Scotland while my father took on locums at various chemist shops in various towns. Then there was half a year at Ormiston Primary School, followed by a term at Pathhead Primary School, before finishing with three years at Watson's.
I was never challenged to a fight at Harris Academy or, to my best recollection, at Luanshya, nor at Watson's, but particularly at the Scottish schools it seemed de rigeur for lads to challenge the new boy - especially one with what they thought was a Sassenach (English) accent, mistaking my Rhodesian clipped tomes for English. I recall returning many times from school at Pathhead with a blood nose and skinned knees. There were two lads in particular who went out of their way to challenge me - Rob McNiven and James (I'm sure it was 'James' not 'Jim' or any other name) McQueenie. There was an Andy, too - or was it Andy McQueenie?
Anyway, the usual thing was for these lads, with others, to follow me down the Main Street from the school challenging me to a fight 'in the park' - a playground that lay beyond my father's shop - and a place I did not intend to visit in order to fight. So I'd be called 'feart' and 'a cowardy custard' until a ring of my fellow school pupils would surround me before I reached the safety of my father's shop: so it was a bit like a 'boxing ring.' One of Rob/James/Andy would demand that I 'put up my dukes,' ie, raise my fists in boxing fashion. Then there would be some 'dancing around' while the crowd of kids chanted, 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' - not so much a demand that we start to exchange blows but a kind of announcement to the world that a fight was about to get under way - almost a 'ringing of the bell' as it were.
The fight proper began, when my challenger pounced forward with a flurry of blows usually aimed at my head, forcing me to retreat - but not far, as the wall of fight supporters surged forward to push me 'away from the ropes' and into the middle of the ring to accept my pummelling. Try as I may, I never seemed to be able to land a decent blow - or if I did it seemed to hurt my knuckles and wrist more than it did the challenger. In return, I'd cop a few hard smacks in the face, often enough to start a nose bleed, before the crowd urged their hero on with advice to 'Knee him where it hurts!' - 'Gi'e him a fat lip!' - 'Put the heid on him! (Head butt) - or simply, 'Get him doon!'
The last remark had nothing to do with giving me a knock out blow, as that rarely if ever happened in such fights, but the fight ritual seemed to demand that the one defeated should be on the ground, held down by the other, who would continue to smack, punch, pinch, and even pull the hair, all the time asking, 'Gi'e up?' - an affirmative answer not guaranteeing an end to the punishment as there was usually some other demand designed to humiliate. In my own case, it was to admit that I was a Sassenach - something simply couldn't do! So there would be further slapping and punching or pushing my head into the dirt. Inevitably, tears would flow - yes because real pain had been inflicted but also because of the embarrassment - and, in my case, a kind of outrage at the unfairness of it all, the stupid name-calling by those standing around - and sometimes their cowardly and unfair kicks - as well as the shame at being beaten, ie being a loser.
The tears, of course, only made things worse. The name-calling and abuse intensified. 'Cry baby!' and other similar taunts, usually from others, both girls and boys, who would not try to take me on themselves. Eventually, and perhaps it was never more than five minutes, someone, always an adult, Mrs xx who lived opposite my father's shop, or perhaps a passer-by, would put a stop to the fight. Occasionally, it would be the challenger who, not knowing what more do, would get up, give me a last dismissive kick, and declaring me 'useless' as if to indicate he was wasting his time on someone who hadn't made a proper fight of it. Surrounded by his admiring followers, he'd go off in triumph, leaving me to pick myself up and make my home, pinching my nose to stop the blood flow.
Mind you, if I had it bad, it was nothing like the torment my younger sister was put through, hair-pulled slapped, and pushed to the ground by some very nasty little girls - a nightmare that continued for at leas a year longer than what I had to suffer as she continued at Pathhead primary school after I went off to Watsons'.
Other sports - well,they included golf this time and that has been my number one sport for the majority of my life. Although, sadly, I didn't take it up until after my father's death. He did age 56 when I was 21 - and golf was his sport - and, therefore, not looked kindly on by my mother. To play would have been regarded as a 'betrayal' of sorts!
I've also tried basketball, hockey - both at school and in later as an adult in Australia. Could not stand the sledging - and the dirty play (yes, even in basketball which I had been told was a non-contact sport). I only tried these for recreation and pleasure and could not see the point of all the hassle and bad feelings generated.
I've also played (and that's the operative word as these were all holiday activities rather than sports) beach volleyball, kayaking/canoeing, trampolining, and horse-riding (hacking). The last was more a case of the horse taking me for a ride - on one occasion at Buderim in the 1980s, my horse reached the 'turning' point and set off for the stables at the gallop - with me hanging on for dear life (and losing a rather decent bushman's hat that blew off)! Somehow I clung on - and that was as close I came to 'eventing' - but, no, I'm no horseman, and therefore full of admiration for those I watch in the jumps, cross-country event, and dressage.
I tried some pistol shooting, with Greg Smith a friend, colleague and gun enthusiast, at Bunbury for a few weeks. And at Scripue Union camps as a lad I tried archery. But, I clearly don't have the best eye and in both sports rarely hit the target.
I've also tried a bit of rowing - in two-some sculls - with Dr Richard Hutch in my early days at Emmanuel College; and in Bunbury for about three seasons in Bunbury in the late 1970s, I was a member of the Koombana Bay Sailing Club. And I also given tennis a go - just social games - but I was always keen to run down even impossible balls - and as I grew older I had a few nasty falls, including a wrist injury that continues to play up from time to time - so I gave the tennis away, a pity 'cos I think I'd enjoy playing in the cooler conditions in England, considerably more accommodating than the heat and humidity of Queensland.
So all in all, not a bad total of Olympic sports that I've had a go at - and because I'm very much at the ordinary end of things, I am full of admiration for all who compete - at whatever level.
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