The Games We Played, Or, Grim Memories Of The Rugby Field
Peter Douglas writes.
Grim by name and grim by nature, Mr. Grimshaw, our games
master, seemed aptly named.
Unless you were good at rugby, Mr. Grimshaw, was not very interested in you. He had
his favourites, and these pupils were encouraged by the PE teachers, and they
all nudged and kidded around with each other and talked of scrums and teams and
passes that we normal (or less able) ones knew nothing about and cared perhaps
less. The rest of us got no encouragement at all – in fact, quite the opposite.
On the rugby field, the slow and the un-athletic were put down and humiliated;
in PE, those who were inept at rope-climbing or chin-ups were mocked.
 Along with many of my fellow pupils, my approach to
organised games was one of startling ineptitude, hatred, and a complete absence
of Team Spirit. As no effort was made to change this, this is how it remained.
If we non-Olympians made any effort at all in games, it was just to be average
and not to be noticed. If you were too useless, you stood out and suffered for
that reason.
For the reluctant and the lame, the games periods were
miserable and uncomfortable experiences, made worse by the attitude of the
teachers. It was very unpleasant at the time, and, from a distance of over 40
years now, I am amazed at their terrible attitude to education. They appeared
to see their job as improving those who were already good at sports; it was not
their duty to give help and confidence to those in need of it. A far cry from
today’s teaching methods. Strangely, this seemed to be the norm in Physical
Education at the time in many schools, possibly a throwback to the old days of
the boarding schools and their harsh environment. The teachers were measured by
the success of a few, rather than the improvement of the whole school.
Grimshaw would, in a dozen ways, pick on those of us who
clearly disliked rugby and were slow to conceal the fact. We learned to be more
careful eventually and put on a show of participation if not of interest, but
the first time he played this particular trick, I for one was innocently
unprepared.
It was winter and cold, with a weak sun behind clouds. The
scuffing of many studded boots and the tumbling of stripe-shirted bodies had
partially thawed the mud that had frozen the night before, though there were
still hard places and we could see the hoary frost at the undisturbed edges of
the field. My non-athletic pals and I hated all this, but to survive in this
alien environment we made an effort at the usual stupid charade that was how we
approached the game of rugby. Our objective was to avoid getting the ball at
all costs without actually seeming to be doing so on purpose. It was a tricky
line to walk, and we were not always successful.
On this memorable day, I thought I had done a decent enough
job. I had made all the right moves and received no bruises, being just close
enough to the action to be part of the stinking melee of bodies without actually
getting hurt or touching the ball. Then out of the blue Grimshaw’s harsh
whistle sounded and he halted the game. Now what? Never anything good. It was
nowhere near the end of the period. He motioned and barked, gathering the teams
together, and we just knew something unpleasant was about to happen.
At Grimshaw’s instruction we formed a panting line, chests
heaving, breath clouding the air. He had a nasty look on his face. He was
annoyed at something and yet seemed to be experiencing the pleasure of
anticipation. That boded no good for us. He strutted up and down the line as
if carrying out a military inspection. Then he stood back and bellowed, his
smooth Welsh accent at odds with his abrasive words:
“Who hasn’t got dirty knees, then?”
Of course, it was obvious! What an idiot! Anyone with
white knees after half an hour of rugby was simply not giving it his all! These
wets and skivers weren’t participating fully in the game; they were avoiding
rather than seeking the ball! And we were easily identified; it was too late
then to reach down for a handful of muck.
“Right, you, yes Douglas! Come here! Someone give him the
ball!” Grimshaw shouted. I stepped forward, my lilywhite knees shaking now.
One of the sporty types smiled as he threw me the ball. It thudded into my
chest, but I caught it before it hit the ground. It was hard and slippery with
cold mud. Holding the ball was such an unusual experience for me! Grimshaw
told me to step forward, and I obeyed, my stomach feeling sick at attracting so
much attention on a rugby field. The two teams were still lined up ten or so
feet in front of me, the keen rugger types sniggering, others, fellow-sufferers,
looking sympathetic but relieved to be out of the spotlight. Some distance
behind them arose the white “H” of the posts and the roofs of the town beyond,
where people were going about their business and none knew of or cared about my
pain.
 “See if you can get through and make a try!” Grimshaw
ordered. Well of course, it was impossible, and that was the whole point.
There was no way that I could break through the line, and even my fellow
shirkers had to make a show of stopping me. I forged ahead and was quickly
felled and at the bottom of a writhing heap of bodies and kicking legs, a
spontaneous loose scrum, the taste of mud and broken grass in my mouth and the
feel of its cold wetness along my flanks. The pile gradually grew lighter and I
was released, my shirt and shorts caked with frigid muck and no longer with
white knees, or anything else.
We learned some things that day, a rarity for a games
period, and even though what we learned was altogether negative, it was
enduring. The first thing was to get your knees dirty, as soon as realistically
feasible. The second thing I learned was that I was going to dislike Grimshaw
and sports and everything he stood for, for the rest of my life.
How unfortunate. I was never a sports fan, but I did enjoy
cricket (mostly because it was a lazy game for the summer’s sun) and there might
have been the hope that this interest could have spread. But Grimshaw made sure
that would never happen. He should at the very least, allowed us all, even the
hopeless skivers, to get something positive and enjoyable out of physical
education.
The effect of this style of teaching was enduring, and to
my surprise I found that thirty years later, when I had it in mind to join a gym
and use exercise machines and weights to get in shape, I still hated even the
thought of “PE”. There was a place near where I lived called The Body Works,
and, although I did eventually join and use it, it was a very hard thing to do.
I literally walked past the door half a dozen times before entering and finally
signing up. Just the idea of all that went against something hidden and deep
and that I was scarcely aware of. It all came back, seeping from that memory
pit that those teachers had brimmed, and I recoiled from it: those changing room
smells, the grunting of fellow exercisers, the inadequacy of performance, the
indignities and the persecution on the field, the hearty locker room atmosphere.
It was the unburied ghost of Grimshaw reaching out to me from all those years
ago. Thanks a lot!
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