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t’s my son’s inaugural sports day and, for the most part, it has been an absolute delight. One minor downside, however, is the sweltering heat. We are completely exposed in an open sports field, without any shade. Surprisingly, the other parents don’t seem as bothered by the scorching temperatures as I am. While they join me in complaining about the oppressive, intense heat, their grievances are expressed akin to the annoyance of losing a hat or missing a garbage pickup.
On the other hand, I am on the verge of succumbing to the heat and attempting to stay stoic about the situation with minimal success. Sensing my strained smile, my paper-white complexion, and my repetitive exclamation of “It’s too hot, I might die,” they offer me solace, water, and sunscreen. I make an effort to refocus on the ongoing events.
Regrettably, my son has encountered a rough start. His introduction to competitive sports has been more challenging than anticipated. At the starting line of his first event, a 100m dash with a bean bag atop his head, he burst into tears when the bean bag fell off. Immediately, he was escorted to the sidelines for reassurance. We had been instructed not to interrupt the proceedings or console our children between events, with his teacher signaling to uphold this rule. Although it makes perfect sense, I can’t help but feel helpless and foolish, especially since I was filming the whole ordeal and probably appeared emotionless, resembling a military commander rehearsing a speech in my mind, commanding him to toughen up.
He quickly positioned himself for another race, a sprint which he managed to finish but not without crying throughout the entire ordeal. With the incredible support of his teachers, he gradually settled as we cheered him on.
Finally, the moment arrives for the last relay race. As he occupies the fourth or fifth position, I keep my eyes locked on him as his moment in the spotlight approaches. His tears have dried, and there is an air of endurance and serenity on his face. When his teammate hands him the baton, he launches forward with unmatched enthusiasm. It’s a sight to behold as he runs in a truly unique manner: his elbows pressed tightly against his sides, his legs barely lifting off the ground, and his knees barely bending, resembling a stiff-legged Super Mario carrying two newspapers under his arms.
There is almost nothing else on this planet that I adore more than witnessing his uneven yet determined stride, and now it is on full display. Aware of the challenges he faced earlier, my fellow parents take a break from fanning me with library cards and swimming leaflets to join me in cheering. When he passes the baton amidst applause, he is so caught up in the moment that his teachers have to restrain him from embarking on another lap.
He beams at me, his arms raised triumphantly. And as the shining medal reflects the sunlight directly into my face while it is placed around his neck, I realize that the glare no longer bothers me much 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
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
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